Control Point

by Myke Cole

  The adjacent trailer was empty and covered with soft matting. A short-haired, kind-voiced older woman dressed in a white jumpsuit greeted them and bade them sit Indian style on the mats. The next two hours were spent in meditation exercises. The woman led them first through stretches, then chants, and finally silence, attempting to rid their minds of conscious thought. Britton heard Truelove begin snoring faintly during the last of the exercises, but the Necromancer was brought around by Fitzy’s boot in his ribs. Richards smirked but choked back his laughter before Fitzy could provide similar disci-pline.

  “Try to take this seriously,” the instructor admonished. “Dis-ciplining your emotions is the key to magical control. Even the Dampener isn’t as effective as a person who has attained true self-mastery. Meditation is an important part of that.”

  The other soldiers in the evening chow hall avoided them, stepping out of line as the Coven approached. The few humans working the food lines slopped the food onto their trays in a hurry, thrusting them at the Coven as if trying to ward them off. The Goblins murmured among themselves in their own language. A few bowed to Britton as he passed, tapping their closed eyelids as Marty had done.

  Marty appeared among a cluster of humans and Goblins from the cash, all in blue medical scrubs. He waved to the Coven, and Truelove waved back. “How’s it going?”

  “You just secure that crap, Rictus,” Fitzy snarled. “You want to buttfuck your fairy-tale boyfriend in the privacy of your own hooch, then I guess everyone is entitled to blow off a little steam, no matter how nasty that particular mental image may be. But God as my witness, you will not fraternize on my watch!”

  Marty looked at his feet and moved on.

  They ate without speaking. Fitzy munched away beside them, eyes fixed straight ahead.

  Back at the trailer, they were split up.

  Britton followed Fitzy down another track to a huge canvas tent that enclosed a bare patch of ground some hundred feet square. Foam mats lay scattered about. Ropes hung from metal brackets attached to the tent’s canopy. Their breath steamed in the cold air. Fitzy strolled to the center of the tent and faced Britton.

  “You get the pleasure of spending more time with me than any of the other Novices in the Coven, Keystone. This is because while all of Coven Four must develop hand-to-hand combat skills, your training plan calls for particular expertise in the Modern Army Combative system, which we will now refer to as MAC. It just so happens that before I Manifested, I had the pleasure of serving as a MAC instructor in the Eleventh Infantry. Before being assigned to lead Shadow Coven, I taught MAC to the SOC. I don’t think I’ve ever taught fewer than ten men in a class. But you get one-on-one training, which perhaps makes you the luckiest man on this whole damned FOB.

  “The end goal will be to develop a concept coined by my predecessor, with the only other Portamancer we had the pleasure to work with—Gate-Integrated MAC or GIMAC. I affectionately term this as ‘gate-fu.’ But if I ever hear you call it by that name, I will hand you your ass more than I am about to. GIMAC integrates all the MAC moves with conjured gates, used as a cutting weapon. You will also use your magic to position yourself more advantageously against your opponent.”

  “You’re going to teach me hand-to-hand combat?” Britton asked.

  “For the nonce,” Fitzy replied, “I will forgive you for asking a question out of turn. I will even tell you that, once you have learned how to integrate your Gate Sorcery with MAC, you will be deadlier than an entire rifle company. You’ll use your gates like an extra fist. No, like a cleaver, only one that can cut through absolutely anything. You’ll be able to appear in the enemy’s backfield and take out fifty of him before he knows you showed up. But there’s a long, long way to go before you can do that, and we have to crawl before we can walk. So, MAC first, GIMAC when you’re ready. Now, let’s begin.”

  Fitzy advanced. Britton retreated, hands extended. “Sir, I’ve done some MAC before, but I’m not ready to…”

  Fitzy snapped a kick at Britton’s knee. Britton jerked his leg back, slapping the boot down, but Fitzy landed on it and brought the other foot up, crashing into Britton’s head and sending him sprawling. Even under the influence of the Dampener, the magic threatened to surface, and Britton concentrated on shunting it back.

  “Get up,” Fitzy said.

  Britton propped himself up on his elbows, hesitating.

  “Learning to take a hit is the first step to being able to deliver one, Novice. Now get the hell up, or I’ll just pound you while you’re down.”

  Britton jumped to his feet, and Fitzy snapped a jab at his face. Britton dodged, trying to remember what little MAC he’d had before. As an aviator, it had hardly been stressed, and he regretted his refusal to “roll” with the rest of his team when they practiced between sorties. He hooked Fitzy’s arm in his own, whipping his elbow toward the chief warrant officer’s face. Fitzy jerked his head back and out of the way, flexing his hooked arm. The man was impossibly strong. Despite being half his size, he yanked Britton toward him, using his own momentum against him. Fitzy’s fist pounded Britton’s gut so hard that he lost his dinner, forcing the Master Suppressor to leap backward to avoid being spattered.

  Britton collapsed in his own vomit, gasping.

  “Jesus, Keystone,” Fitzy said. “That’s disgusting. Now, get up, and let’s give this another round.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  SCYLLA

  MAC? Yeah, it’s pretty cool. Mixed martial arts, more Brazilian Jiujitsu than anything. SOC operators put all their eggs in that basket. In any magical school, there’s little need to carry more than a sidearm, but if someone gets the drop on you, or you’re off the Dampener and can’t get your mojo going—sometimes a good old-fashioned can of ass-whoopin’ is called for. My bootheel on your spine is every bit as effective as a fireball in your face.

  —Lieutenant “Sunspot” (call sign), SOC Liaison Officer (LNO)/

  Pyromantic Assault Team Leader, 101st Airborne Division

  Despite the drubbing Fitzy had given him, Britton was in a celebratory mood. He played with the Dampener as he sat in the OC, chatting with the rest of Shadow Coven, calling the current, then shunting it back, thrilled to feel some semblance of control, no matter how slight.

  Downer’s enthusiasm was infectious. Britton’s early irritation at her flip-flopping allegiance was replaced by genuine joy at seeing someone so happy. Richards shook his mug of beer, and Downer animated the foam across the top. Sudsy elementals lined the bartop, boxing with a weird, multitailed rat that Richards had Whispered to his command. She giggled as the rat made short work of one elemental, rolling in the foam, then licking the suds off its fur while the remaining creature flailed at it ineffectually.

  Truelove and Marty cheered uproariously, the little Goblin wiggling its fingertips and making deep-throated barking noises that Britton assumed were supportive.

  “Outstanding.” Britton chuckled, patting Downer on the back. A piece of him rebelled against the comfort. Don’t get settled. You can’t stay here. You have to find a way to escape. But you’re not Swift. You don’t have to rebel for rebellion’s sake. Why not stay here? What better life is waiting for you if you break free?

  Britton pushed the thought away as Downer turned at his patting. “What about you?”

  “What about me?” he responded.

  Britton looked at her. Truelove paused in midsentence.

  “A gate, silly,” she said. “Open one.”

  Britton looked around the empty room. “…I don’t think I’m supposed to. What about your precious regs? You’re not even supposed to be making those beer monsters.”

  Downer looked down at her lap and shrugged, suddenly looking very young. Truelove said nothing, but his eyes lit up. Marty set his cup of sugar water down on the counter and blinked.

  “Okay,” Britton said, thinking of places he’d visited. “It only works for places I’ve been before. What do you want? Statue of Liberty? Grand Canyon?”
<
br />   Downer said nothing, cheeks still burning over Britton’s rebuke. “Ever been to Mount Rushmore?” Truelove asked. “I’ve been telling Marty about it.”

  Britton had, once, on a road trip with his father as a high-school freshman. The forced attempt at bonding had been a cold, drawn-out week that Britton couldn’t wait to end.

  “Not sure if this’ll work,” he said, concentrating. “It was a long time ago.” He closed his eyes, trying to recall the wonder he’d felt as the massive stone faces had appeared over the guardrail along the side of the road, eclipsing Stanley Britton’s brooding presence with a sense of posterity, permanence, and majesty.

  The gate sliced through the middle of the guardrail. Four stone presidents fixed stately gazes from the distant mountain. There was a squeal of tires as a passing car swerved away from the gate. Britton saw it slew right and left, nearly careening into the far guardrail before righting itself and speeding away. He closed the gate.

  “Christ,” he said. “Don’t tell anybody about that.”

  He rubbed his head. Calling the current had exacerbated his headache, still hurting from the pummeling Fitzy had given him.

  “You okay?” Richards asked.

  “Yeah, the MAC practice is a little rough,” Britton responded as Marty clucked in his throat and began rooting through his leather bag.

  “You need a Healer,” Downer said. “Fix you right up.”

  Britton thought briefly of Therese, the warmth of her hand on his face. He stopped, momentarily stunned. A Physiomancer put this bomb in your chest. A Physiomancer could get it out.

  The next morning continued along the same lines. Britton woke himself just in time to bolt down breakfast and make his way back to the SASS.

  Downer had beaten him there. She stood with Therese, Swift, and the rest of the enrollees gathering outside the schoolhouse as he passed through the gate. The enrollees stood stiffly, staring at something, cigarettes held forgotten in their hands. He made his way toward Therese as the guards dragged the barriers back into place but stopped short.

  The door to the pillbox stood open, its interior shrouded with shadow. Goblin contractors worked inside it with brooms and hoses.

  Britton followed the gazes of the enrollees and saw two Suppressor guards following a few paces behind a woman. Her skin had the unhealthy pallor of one denied sunlight, the blue tracery of veins clearly visible. Her jet-black hair was cut in a severe bob, the points almost sharp where they passed the line of her jaw. She was thin, tall, and clad in a one-piece orange jumpsuit similar to the one Britton had worn when he was first captured. Her hands were cuffed before her.

  She made her way slowly around the compound, stretching her legs and working kinks out of her neck. The Suppressors gave her a wide berth, their fingers braced along the trigger guards of their guns, eyes never leaving her rolling shoulders.

  She turned a face dominated by large eyes with jet-black pupils and smiled at the No-No Crew. Many of them genuflected at her, save Swift, who only nodded briefly. Her grin was all teeth, huge and vulpine. And yet there was no denying her beauty, an older, experienced brand, sensual and wise. Britton felt his pulse quicken at the sight of her.

  “That’s her,” Pyre said. “That’s the queen of Selfers right there. One of these days, she’s going to bust out of there and make these fuckers in the SOC pay for what they’ve done to us. One of these days, she’s going to set us free.”

  Britton only nodded. For a man talking about his savior, Pyre sounded terrified.

  The woman rounded the corner of one of the Quonset huts and met his gaze evenly, the smile never faltering. “Oscar Britton,” she said as she approached. “You’re even prettier in the sunlight.”

  “Ma’am,” he said instinctively, responding to the authority she projected.

  “Oh, there’s no need for that. You can call me Scylla.”

  “That’s not your real name.”

  “I’m beyond names. So are you. That’s why they’re terrified of us.”

  “Shut up and keep moving, ma’am,” one of the guards said from behind her.

  “See?” Scylla said to Britton, not even acknowledging the guard. “Can you hear the terror in the human’s voice? This little gulag is all to buy them a little more time before they’re forced to face reality.”

  “What reality is that?” Britton asked.

  The guard inched forward, as if to touch her, appeared to think better of it, and looked askance at his partner, who likewise refused to move.

  “The reality we all see around us but refuse to acknowledge, human and Latent alike. That we are a new race, better adapted to our environment than the old. The humans can imprison us for a time, but, sooner or later, we will rule them as surely as they rule dogs and cows.”

  “That’s…crazy,” Britton stammered. Is it?

  “That’s the way it is,” she went on. “You know it as surely as I do. Think on it, Oscar Britton. You possess the ability to move between the fabric of dimensions under your own power, and yet you are hounded and ruled by those who cannot even fly through the air without the aid of a machine. How does that make sense?”

  Britton struggled to find a way to refute her, but the fact was that it didn’t make sense.

  “Welcome to the new apartheid, Oscar Britton,” Scylla said. “It will fare no better than the old one.”

  “Get moving,” one of the guards said, finally mustering his courage and pushing her from behind. Scylla stumbled forward a step and slowly looked over her shoulder, her smile fading as she met the guard’s eyes.

  “CWO-2 Blankenship. Three good conduct medals. Recently treated for gallstones. Your boards are coming in a month, and while your dog tags mark you as a Christian, you don’t really believe it.”

  Blankenship’s mouth worked, his eyes wide and terrified. “It can’t be magic,” his partner said. “I’ve got her Suppressed.”

  Scylla smiled. “Do you know why I was put in the hole?”

  “Everybody knows,” Blankenship said, instinctively leveling his weapon at her.

  “It might not earn your respect, but it should at least earn your fear. So. Don’t. Ever. Push. Me.”

  Both guards took a step back, mouths open. One jerked his weapon at her. “Let’s go. You get an hour of exercise. Use it or lose it.”

  Scylla turned back to Britton. “See? Terrified. Never forget that, Oscar. These people may limit your movements for now, but deep down? You own them.”

  She moved past him, her elbow brushing his stomach and sending chills through him, the guards dogging behind, squared shoulders and long strides obvious efforts to mask their fear.

  Britton made his way to the knot of SASS enrollees entering the schoolhouse.

  “What was that all about?” Therese asked him.

  “I’m not really sure,” he said. “You weren’t kidding about her being creepy, though. How’d she wind up in the hole in the first place? She said everybody knows.”

  “She got one of her Suppressors to drop her for a moment. That was all it took. By the time she was done, she’d unleashed hell.”

  “Hell?”

  “Twenty, maybe thirty dead.”

  “How? She some kind of super Pyromancer?”

  “Scylla’s a Witch,” Wavesign said. “Negramancy. It’s supposedly nasty, nasty stuff. Black magic and all that.” His vapor field intensified, Britton guessed as a reaction to his fear.

  “But how does it work?” Britton asked. “Does she turn people into toads?”

  Therese shuddered, and Wavesign looked at his feet. “It’s nasty,” he said eventually. Britton noted his discomfort and didn’t press the matter.

  “How’d she get the Suppressor to drop her?” he asked instead. “She whack him over the head?”

  Therese looked even more uncomfortable, and Wavesign kept his eyes on his feet.

  “She, you know,” Swift said, trailing off.

  “Oh,” Britton said. Scylla wasn’t an unattractive woman,
for all her wicked charisma. She’d used the only tool she’d had to hand.

  “How’s it going, Wavesign?” Britton asked, trying to change the subject, extending his hand.

  “Don’t do that,” the young Hydromancer responded. “I’ll just get you wet.”

  “I don’t mind if you do,” Britton responded, shaking his hand. His grip was slippery, like trying to run kelp through one’s palms. Britton suppressed an instinct to grimace. The kid already had problems without further damage to his ego. The boy nodded shyly, then cast a glance up at Pyre and Swift, as if seeking their permission.

  Inside the schoolhouse, Salamander cued up another video, this one showing Aeromancers working weather control for the coast guard, rescuing shipwrecked fishermen.

  Swift sidled over to Britton and whispered, “Sorry about yesterday,” when Salamander stepped out to use the latrine. “Let’s start over.”

  “Wow,” Britton murmured back. “Scylla really put the fear in you, didn’t she?”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it, Swift? Cut to the damned chase.” He could almost feel his cheek, still stinging from Swift’s nails. “I’m no fool. I don’t believe you suddenly want to be friends.”

  Swift sighed and looked at his lap. Both Therese and Wavesign were looking over at them. Pyre leaned his chair against the wall, arms folded, pretending to sleep, but Britton could tell he was listening. Every so often he would open one eye and glance over at Downer to make sure she wasn’t eavesdropping, but the young Elementalist was sitting at the front of the class as usual, and if she overheard, she gave no sign. Tsunami stared intently at them but was too far away to hear anything. Wavesign glanced nervously at the door every so often. “It’s the gate magic. You’re a Portamancer.”