Control Point

by Myke Cole

The rumble pulsed. The gust of air hit him again, warm and foul.

  Britton turned and stared into a black shape blocking the moonlight. Behind it, a vague rectangle hovered, its edges indistinct. Light wavered across its surface, dancing like television static. Through it he could see a vast plain, patchy with scrub grass.

  Adrenaline bullied sleep aside. He jolted in his chair, and the black shape reared, snorting. Long horns corkscrewed toward him.

  His mind recoiled, his skin going cold with shock. This can’t be real.

  An instant later, his training bulled the shock aside. Later. Deal with the threat. Go.

  He punched the creature hard on the snout, knuckles cracking against a plate of solid bone. The thing grunted and reeled away, stumbling into the corner. It vaguely resembled a bull, bunched shoulders hulking with muscle. Its slick hide shimmered and blended with the shadows, forcing Britton to squint to see it. Its broad snout snuffled, rumbling like the salvage truck.

  He heard Cheatham shout, and called out “Give me a damn hand here!” as he pursued the thing, hammering it with his fists. It crouched, curling under the rain of blows. Reality shivered up his arm with each connecting punch. He wasn’t dreaming.

  Cheatham rushed to his side, seizing one of the horns. The thing heaved, tossing its head and sending the warrant officer sprawling across Dawes, who awoke with a yell. It stormed toward the flickering portal, which snapped shut, vanishing and plunging the room into darkness.

  The creature turned, blinking in confusion. It lowed, a throaty mix of a moo and a growl. Britton drew his pistol and thumbed off the safety as it lowered its head and charged.

  He twisted, avoiding the horns and catching the bony plate of the creature’s forehead against his bruised ribs. They howled anew as the thing drove him to the floor. Britton couldn’t see Cheatham or Dawes, and, not wanting to risk shooting them, he pounded its head with the pistol butt, jarring uselessly against the hard bone. He pivoted on his hips, unable to throw the creature off. It drew back its head, jaws opening to reveal rows of dark teeth.

  Britton saw Cheatham rising beside Dawes’s bed, well clear. He jammed the pistol into the thing’s mouth and pulled the trigger. Its head whipped back and it fell over on its side, vomiting black blood. It lashed its tufted tail, kicked outward, and went still.

  He leapt to his feet, training his pistol on it. His vision grayed out, and he awakened to a sense of drowning. An invisible tide suffocated him with its intensity. He felt his veins bulge with the force of the flow, penetrating his muscles, trilling in his nerves, saturating the pores of his skin. His legs went weak, and Cheatham gripped his elbow.

  “You okay?” Cheatham asked.

  Britton closed his eyes and cursed, feeling the tide pulse through him. He recalled the videos the army had made him watch, films with titles like Basic Magical Indoctrination and Facing the Arcane. A drowning sensation was the first thing they stressed. Britton knew the invisible current he was feeling had a name.

  Magic.

  My God, he thought, that was my gate. I brought that thing here.

  His stomach heaved. I’m Latent. This can’t be happening, not to me. Not now.

  He made for the chair. Cheatham’s hand tightened on his elbow, holding him fast.

  “Give me the gun, sir.” The warrant officer’s voice was hard.

  A gate snapped open just below the ceiling, hovered for a moment, then disappeared. Britton’s shoulders spasmed as the current surged through him.

  “It’s you, sir, isn’t it?” Cheatham asked.

  Britton nodded. “I can’t control it. I feel sick…”

  He heard shouting. People were coming.

  “Just give me the gun, sir,” Cheatham said, “and I’ll help you sit down. You can rest for a minute, then we’ll go get Harlequin.”

  Britton recoiled. “No, Dan! Portamancy’s a prohibited school! They’ll kill me!”

  The door opened, and a sleepy-looking orderly in blue scrubs appeared. “What the hell’s…” He trailed off as he noticed the corpse that was not quite a bull, then fled.

  “Jesus, sir,” Dawes said weakly from his bed, propped on his elbows. “You’re a fuckin’ Probe? Warrant Officer Cheatham, you gotta—”

  “Shut the hell up, Dawes,” Cheatham said. “I’ve got this.”

  “Let me go, Dan,” Britton said. “You saw what they did to that girl. They’ll kill me.”

  “You don’t know that, sir. You haven’t attacked anyone with it.” Cheatham sounded lighthearted, but he held Britton’s arm like a vise. He moved to block the door. “Maybe they’ll ship you off to one of those Marine Suppression Lances, or you can go into the monitoring program at NIH…Maybe they’ll take you to that secret base and train you.”

  “There is no secret base! You don’t believe that conspiracy-theory crap! Probes don’t get a break! They disappear!” Britton shouted. “Christ, Dan! How long have we worked together? You’ve got to help me!”

  Boots pounded in the hallway. Dawes sat up, wincing in pain, and shouted, “In here! Help!”

  Britton leveled the pistol at Cheatham’s face. “Let me go, Dan. Christ as my witness, I will shoot you.”

  Cheatham didn’t budge. “Go ahead, sir. How far do you think you’ll get? You give me the gun and turn yourself in now, and you have a chance. You run, you’re already dead.”

  Two Military Police officers appeared in the doorway, pistols drawn. One gasped at the sight of the creature. The other leveled his gun at Britton, “Drop your weapon, sir! Get down on the ground! Right now!”

  Another gate slid open to Britton’s side. Beyond it, he could see the plain again, rough grasses rustling in the wind.

  Britton’s eyes flicked to the MPs, then to Cheatham. It was his chance to turn himself in, to lean on the system he’d faithfully served to protect him.

  But his mind’s eye was blotted out by the image of the dead girl’s face. His ears rang with the sound of the single shot that cut off her life, echoing off the school’s rooftop.

  Cheatham grasped the pistol barrel, still pointed at his face, “So, sir. You gonna shoot me?”

  “Hell, Dan,” Britton said, “you know I wouldn’t shoot you.”

  Britton let go of the pistol, slamming his knee into the warrant officer’s groin, hauling Cheatham’s body between himself and the MPs.

  “Sorry, Dan,” Britton said, and shoved him hard into the MPs, then turned and ran for the gate.

  Britton heard the sharp report of a pistol and felt a burning in his calf. He struck the gate, rippling edges breaking apart to admit him.

  Oscar Britton landed hard on rough grass, pitching forward under an unfamiliar sky.

  CHAPTER III

  THE OTHER SIDE

  …factors play into Manifestation. Sex and physique have a bearing. Calm males of larger size tend toward Terramancy. Women Manifest in Hydromancy or Physiomancy more frequently than men. Dreamers and mavericks wind up as Aeromancers. Caustic, passionate types show up as Pyromancers. The National Institute of Health continues with the famed Sierra Twenty-Six study group…

  —Avery Whiting

  Modern Arcana: Theory and Practice

  Britton fell, skinning his hands.

  He paused, breathing hard. All was silent and dark, a cool wind gently rippling over his back. He closed his eyes. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what had happened. The gunshot still rang in his ears, the shouts of the MPs, Cheatham’s grip on his arm.

  Breathe, he told himself, just breathe.

  His heartbeat finally slowed, and he stood.

  The gate was gone. The landscape was washed in bright light from a full moon, massive and close. The light mostly blotted out the weird stars, but he could make out a few, shining bigger than any he’d ever seen. He shivered as the breeze picked up. To one side, the plain ended at a line of smooth-trunked, straight evergreen trees stretching past his vision. On the other, it extended into darkness and the faint sound of rushing water. From somewh
ere in the forest, a bird called—a mournful sound, haunting and alien.

  The magical tide still coursed through him. He could feel it bleeding into the air, mixing with the flow surrounding him, currents within currents.

  Raw magic, heady and powerful.

  It’s all around me, he thought. This is where it comes from.

  He sucked in air, the sweetest he’d ever tasted. It washed away his weariness. He blinked at the giant moon, marveling at its brightness. The ground glowed with vibrant color despite the dark.

  One thing was clear. Wherever he was, it was not earth.

  They’d talked about it in training, vague hints of the space where magic came from, but they’d also been clear that it was like the surface of the sun. No human could ever survive there, not for an instant.

  But Britton was very much alive. And judging from the birdsong, so were others. What else was over here?

  Enough. You’ve got bigger fish to fry. He inspected his injuries. The bullet had grazed his calf, digging a shallow furrow in the muscle. The wound bled slow and steady. His hands were badly abraded. His landing had shredded his socks, skinning his feet. Even pain was a newly heightened experience here; the intensity of feeling overwhelmed him.

  He limped toward the sound of running water.

  After a few minutes, the sound grew louder, chiming like bells. Moonlight sparkled on a rushing stream. The grass grew shorter and softer as the ground dipped to form banks dotted with smooth pebbles, shining like diamonds under the moon’s glow. Fireflies darted above the water, bright with flashing patterns—purple, red, bright blue. He stared, amazed at the clarity of his vision in the strange air. After a moment, he realized that the fireflies were actually tiny birds, jeweled feathers dancing with inner light, pointed crystal beaks opening and closing silently. Their wings blurred in tiny circles, sounding faintly like clinking glasses.

  Hard rocks ground into his feet as he picked his way to the streambed. The glowing birds scattered at his approach.

  He thrust his hands into the cool water, the touch of the liquid as amazing as it was painful. He sat, hypnotized by the sensation, for a full minute before he brought his hands together, washing them clean. He took a double handful of water and drank, thrilling at the sharp, metallic flavor.

  He turned to the slowly bleeding wound in his calf. He washed it, the water simultaneously agonizing and thrilling the wound. He took off one tattered sock, rinsed it as best he could, then tied it tightly around the calf. The fabric went tacky with blood, but the fibers sank into the furrow, sealing it temporarily.

  He stood, the wind whipping over him, his mind going over the events of the past few hours. “I don’t believe this,” he said, his words carrying on the air.

  “Dun beleeve thass…” a high-pitched keening answered, mocking his words. Across the stream, the moonlight silhouetted a cluster of horselike shapes. Each snout terminated in a single pointed spike-shaped tooth. Long catlike tails lashed as they sniffed the air.

  “Dun beleeve thass?” the creatures crooned. One bent to lap the water.

  The rest jogged forward, pausing and sniffing the water’s surface before splashing across.

  Britton took a step backward, his calf reminding him of the wound. “Oh, God.”

  “Aw gud aw gud aw gud…” the things keened excitedly, advancing to a trot. The two closest lowered their long necks and put on speed.

  Britton turned and ran.

  He ignored his calf, running for all he was worth. The rough edges of the grass sawed at his feet. He could hear the pack behind him, gaining steadily.

  He risked a look over his shoulder. They were on his heels, necks straining, wind coursing through tufts of spotted hair. Their hooves pounded the ground, nostrils flaring, wicked distortions somewhere between demon and horse. The single spike tooth on each snout jutted toward his back.

  He put on a burst of speed, his calf screaming. He felt the magical tide surge with his mounting terror. The tree line remained far away. He’d never make it.

  He heard a snort. Hot breath gusted against his neck.

  He cried out, and the pack answered him with keening howls. His magical tide answered as well, exploding and rippling out from him through the interlocking streams all around, opening a gate a few yards to his left.

  He pivoted sharply, running for it. He felt one of the spike teeth slice through the air behind him. The pack keened in frustration, sliding as they turned to follow.

  The change in direction bought him a few moments. He closed the distance, shouting as he leapt through a gate for the second time that night.

  CHAPTER IV

  HOMECOMING

  Legal Schools: Prohibited Schools:

  Pyromancy—Fire Magic Negramancy—Black Magic/

  Hydromancy—Water Magic Witching

  Terramancy—Earth Magic Necromancy—Death Magic

  Aeromancy—Air Magic Portamancy—Gate Magic

  Physiomancy—Body Magic Sentient Elemental Conjuration

  Prohibited Practices (please see applicable Geneva

  Convention Amendments):

  Terramantic Animal Control (Whispering)

  Offensive Physiomancy (Rending)

  —Magical School Reference Wallet Card

  Publication of the Supernatural Operations Corps

  Britton’s feet slapped tarmac, and he jogged to a stop, wincing at scattered sharp rocks.

  He recognized Route 7, snaking south between the base and his parents’ home in Shelburne, a few miles down the rural Vermont road. The sky was still dark, the road empty. He ran off the road to crouch in the bushes. Sharp branches tore at his flight suit, and the early frost blasted his feet. The gate shimmered a few feet off the road. The demon-horses sniffed tentatively from the other side, moving toward it, darting away. A moment later, the portal snapped shut. It reappeared to his left, bathing the bushes in flickering light, then vanished again.

  It’s responding to my fear, he thought. I have to calm myself.

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and failed to relax.

  Enough, he thought, focus on what you can control. You’re injured and cold. You might make it through the night, but you’ll be caught in the daylight. You need shoes, and you need cover. They’re on the lookout for a soldier, so you need to get out of this uniform. Go.

  He followed the road toward his parents’ home. If he made good enough time, he could use the spare key and grab clothing before they woke.

  He had to dive for cover twice at the sound of approaching cars. He moved quickly, to warm himself as much as to cover distance. The flight suit kept him relatively warm, but after twenty minutes, he could no longer feel his hands or feet. It was a mixed blessing; his numb feet let him move faster, no longer reporting the pain of stepping on twigs and roots.

  The numbness and rhythm of his movement freed his mind to reflect on how, in just a few hours, magic had taken him from army officer to fugitive.

  Stop it, he told himself. If you think about this crap, it’ll slow you down. If you slow down, they’ll catch you. If they catch you, you know what they’ll do.

  You’re running. So run, damn you. Run.

  He forced all he had lost from his mind and moved as fast as the cover allowed. By the time Route 7 arrived in Shelburne, orange streaked the sky, and he could feel the rising sun on his back.

  Route 7 gave out onto an unpaved rural route, and minutes later he stood exhausted in the driveway of his family home. As the numbness abated in the warming air, his feet reminded him of hours running across frozen grass and rocks. He looked up at the cracking paint and patched screening of the house and felt the tides of magic ebb, lulled by the familiar surroundings.

  Familiar, but never a real home.

  The reason for that crouched before the steps leading to the wraparound porch. Britton felt his pulse quicken, and the tide of magic surged anew.

  It couldn’t have been later than six, but his father was awake and gardening d
espite the early fall frost. Stanley Britton’s pastel clothing flapped off his skinny body. Cheatham had once told him that there were two kinds of Marines: big and mean, or skinny and mean.

  Old age had cemented his father in the skinny-and-mean variety. The retired colonel had a blade of a nose, sunken eyes, and a hard jaw, clenched to show that he still considered himself on duty. A small gold cross gleamed from his neck, refracting the growing sunlight.

  Stanley moved away from the steps, attacking a line of withered dandelions. He brandished a spade like a weapon, knifing into the cold ground. Britton crept up the porch behind him.

  Stanley stiffened. “Jesus withers the fig tree and leaves me with all these damned weeds. Holy Christ, give me the strength to put up with this crap.”

  Britton froze, then realized his father was talking to himself. Stanley continued to follow the dandelions around the porch. Britton slipped inside, ran past the kitchen, and took the worn stairs two at a time up to his old room.

  His father had converted it to storage the day Britton shipped out; the floor was heaped with cardboard boxes. A yellowing army promotional poster depicting an Apache attack helicopter was the only hint that Britton had ever lived here.

  He rummaged through a box at the base of his mother’s wardrobe, packed with clothing intended for Goodwill that she’d never gotten around to giving up. He shrugged out of his flight suit and into a pair of jeans and paint-stained T-shirt. It was inadequate to the cold outside, but it was clean. More importantly, he was out of uniform and would attract no more attention than any black man in Vermont. He kicked the flight suit behind a pile of boxes and grabbed a pair of his father’s shoes and old wool socks. The shoes were a half size too large and without tread, but he was grateful to have something covering his ragged feet.

  He returned to the stairs, stumbling in the oversized shoes. He bent to take them off when he heard his mother’s familiar hum.

  Get moving! his mind screamed at him. You have to get out of here! But Britton drowned in the nostalgia evoked by the smell of baking and his mother’s contented hum. His legs refused to move.