| Inside Straight | |||||||
|
edited by George R. R. Martin | |||||||
| Available January 22, 2008, from Tor | |||||||
 |
 |
Read an Excerpt | |||||
|
|
About the Editor | |||||
| |||||||
|
In 1946, an alien virus that rewrites human DNA was accidentally unleashed in the skies over New York City. It killed 90 percent of those it infected. Nine percent of those who survived mutated into tragically deformed creatures. One percent gained superpowers. The Wild Cards shared-universe series, created and edited since 1987 by New York Times #1 best-selling author George R. R. Martin along with Melinda Snodgrass, is the tale of the history of the world since then — and of the heroes among that one percent. Originated in 1986, long before George R. R. Martin became a household name among fantasy readers ("The American Tolkien" — Time magazine), the Wild Cards series earned a reputation among connoisseurs for its smart reimagining of the superhero idea. Now, with Inside Straight, the Wild Cards continuity jumps forward to a new generation of major characters, entirely accessible to Martin's hundreds of thousands of new readers, with all-original stories by Martin himself, along with Daniel Abraham, Michael Cassutt and Stephen Leigh, among others. | |||||||
|
 |
 |
 |
|
|
|
EXCERPT "Jonathan Hive Sells Out!" By Daniel Abraham He looked up and down the parking lot. Great silver buses and trucks filled the place, sound equipment and shoulder-mounted cameras making their way to the secular cathedral of Ebbets Field on the backs of scrungy-looking technicians. A folding table had been set up with a tarnished coffee service and a few boxes of donuts. Several of the other prospective contestants were milling around, trying to size each other up. "Is there a question I can help you with?" the flunkie asked through a practiced smile. She was early 20s, hatchet-faced, and mean about the eye. Normal-looking people who lived in the beauty pits of Hollywood too long seemed to get that feral I'm-not-a-supermodel-but-I-might-kill-one look after a while. "Oh," Jonathan said, whipping out his own smile, "it's just … I'm a journalist. I have this blog, and I don't quite know what I can and can't talk about there. If I did get on the show, I couldn't really afford to take however many months just off." "Of course not," the flunkie said, nodding. "This is just the release for the tryouts. If you're chosen for the show, there's a whole other process." Which didn't even sort of answer Jonathan's question. He smiled wider. They'd just see which of them could nice the other to death. "That's great," he said, shaking his head. "I just had one or two tiny questions about the wording on this one?" "Sure," the flunkie said, "Anything I can help with. But it is the standard release." Meaning move it, loser, I've got a hundred more like you to get through. "I'll make it quick. I really appreciate this," Jonathan said. Meaning suck it up, jerk, I can stall you all day if I want to. The flunkie's smile set like concrete. Jonathan killed half an hour niggling at details and posing hypothetical situations. It all came down to the same thing, though. If he wanted in, he'd sign. If he refused … well, the field was full of aces who were there for the express purpose of taking his place. He kept up the tennis match of cheerful falsehood until the flunkie's smile started to chip at the edges, but in the end, he signed off. He sidled over to the coffee and donuts just long enough to confirm that he didn't want anything to do with either, and then a vaguely familiar blond guy with a clipboard rounded them up and led the way across the tarmac and into the entrance to the ballpark. They were divided into ten groups and then each led to a camera and interview setup where a small bank of lights were ready to make him and all the others glow for the camera. Of his group, he got to be the lucky bastard who went first. "Don't worry about the camera," the interviewer said. "They just want to see how you come across through the lens. Just pretend it's not there." She was much prettier than the flunkie, dressed a little sexy, and willing, it was clear, to flirt a little if that made you say something stupid or embarrassing for the viewing public. Jonathan liked her immediately. "Right," Jonathan said. The five-inch black glass eye stared at him. "Just like it's only you and me." "Exactly," she said. "So. Let's see. Could you tell me a little bit about why you want to be on American Hero?" "Well," he said. "Have you ever heard of Paper Lion?" A little frown marred the interviewer's otherwise perfect brow. "Wasn't that the ace who—" "It's a book," Jonathan said. "By George Plimpton. Old George went into professional football back in the '60s. Wrote a book about it. I want to do something like that. But for one thing, football's for the football fans. For another thing, it's been done. And for a third, reality television is for our generation what sports were for our dads. It's the entertainment that everyone follows." "You want to … report on the show?" "It's not that weird. A lot of guys get into office so they can have something to write in their memoirs," Jonathan said. "I want to see what it's all about. Understand it. Try to make some sense of the whole experience, and sure, write about it." "That's interesting," the interviewer said just as if it really had been. Jonathan was just getting warmed up. This was the sound bite fest he'd been practicing for weeks. "The thing is, all people really see when they see aces are what we can do, you know? What makes us weird. These little tricks we've got — flying or turning into a snake or becoming invisible — they define us. It doesn't matter what we do. It just matters what we are. "I want to be the journalist and essayist and political commentator who also happens to be an ace. Not the ace who writes. This is the perfect venue for that. Just getting on the show would be a huge step. It gives me the credentials to talk about what being an ace is. And what it isn't. Does that make sense?" "It does, actually," the interviewer said, and now he thought maybe she was just a little bit intrigued by him. One step closer, he thought. Only about a million to go. "Okay," she said. "And Jonathan Hive? Is that right?" "Tipton-Clarke's the legal last name. Hive's a nom de guerre. Or plume. Or whatever." "Right. Tipton-Clarke. And what exactly is your ace ability?" "I turn into bugs." |