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move!" He pointed toward the terminal.
Michael grunted assent and took a single step. That was as far as he got. Something whined past his ear - like one of Hive's wasps in some great hurry - then a duller k-chunk came from the fuselage of the Chinook behind him. He half turned his head to see a ragged, circular hole torn in the metal. The sharp report of a rifle came in that same breath. "Sniper!" he yelled.
That was when an invisible semi slammed into his chest and knocked him to the ground. He went down hard, barely able to breathe from the force of the impact. The world went dim around him momentarily and he nearly blacked out. He heard the M-16s he was carrying scratch along the concrete of the runway, dropped from stunned hands; he heard other people shouting and the familiar, bowel-churning rattle of automatic weapons fire. Hands pulled on his multiple arms, dragging him away. He shook his head and pulled away from them. "I can do it," he growled, but the effort of moving and talking hurt like a son of a bitch. He half crawled, half limped to the other side of the Chinook where the blue helmets were crouched, scanning the rooftops and windows of the terminal. He fell more than crouched. The fingers of his middle right hand probed his chest: there was a hole torn in the Kevlar-and-steel vest, right above his heart.
With the realization, the world spun around him once.
Another bullet ricocheted from the ramp, leaving a bright scratch close to Michael's head. "There!" one of the soldiers shouted, pointing to a puff of smoke from the terminal. M-16s and FAMAS chattered and stone chips flew from the building's facade. A Tigre Eurocopter attack helicopter, looking like a monstrous wasp, lifted fifty feet in the air. Weapons fire spat from the front guns of the Tigre, then stopped. A soldier waved from the chopper's open window, then drew a finger over his throat. The Tigre banked and moved away.
"Drummer Boy!" Lieutenant Bedeau was crouched next to him, his thin Gaelic face concerned. "You are okay?"
"Yeah. Okay. At least I think so." Michael used his lower hands to push himself up to a sitting position. He grimaced. "Fuck, that hurt."
"There was only one man, and he wasn't a very good sniper, luckily for you. A trained sniper would have gone for the head shot." Bedeau tapped his own forehead and grinned suddenly. He slapped DB's shoulder. "Now he's a very dead amateur."
"Good," Michael told him.
"The people of the Caliphate, they don't like you very much because of what you did to the Righteous Djinn." Bedeau said it with a faint smile. DB was damned if he knew what was so amusing about any of it.
"Yeah," Michael answered, rubbing his chest through the vest. "So I gather."
Double Helix
THE WORDS OF A TALEBEARER
ARE AS WOUNDS
Melinda M. Snodgrass
I'VE LEFT THE MOISTURE- LEACHING heat of Baghdad for the steaming heat of Kongoville. The tropical heat makes me wish I could strip off not only clothes but skin as well. What is it about the British that we seek out such dreadful climes in our pursuit of empire?
Exhaustion has left my mind feeling like a gray blank. I wasn't sure I could effectively picture one of the rooms of the palace so I gave myself more room by picking the garden. The night air is filled with the sounds of insects and frogs. I wonder if one of those deep ribbets is Buford out grazing on bugs. I giggle.
It dies when I hear the distinctive sound of a gun being cocked. Whirling I see one of the Leopards, his eyes glittering in his dark face. The gun is coming up. He recognizes me before his finger tightens on the trigger. The barrel drops, and I can feel my knees trembling with released stress. The wash of adrenaline is ebbing, taking with it the last of my energy. I grope in my pocket, pull out a Black Beauty, and toss it into my mouth. It seems monstrous passing down my throat. I have to cough before I can ask, "O霉 est John Fortune?"
He takes me.
Fortune is slumped in a large armchair, dressed only in boxers, staring blindly at the insects circling the table lamp. Sweat gleams on his bare chest, and forms drops in his sideburns. Sekhmet humps beneath the skin of his forehead like some grotesque tumor. I wonder how Curveball feels with this voyeur