by Myke Cole
Bookbinder sighed and went into his office, closing the door behind him. The office radiated official dignity from its dark-stained cherrywood furniture to the walls completely covered with the trappings of a long and storied career; plaques, folded flags, challenge coins, trophies. Framed posters depicted dignified scenes. Washington accepted Cornwallis’s surrender in one corner. On the opposite wall, the Continental Congress signed the charter creating the army. There were no battle scenes.
He settled into his leather commander’s chair and brought his computer out of sleep mode. The huge split-screen monitors were overkill, but they helped with keeping track of the giant spreadsheets that were his stock–in–trade. He’d left at 1900 hours last night. Three hundred emails already awaited him.
He sighed, the current battering him unsparingly.
The phone rang.
He picked it up. “J1. May I help you, sir or ma’am?”
There was a brief pause as the caller took the line off speakerphone.
“Colonel Bookbinder, sir? This is HS2 Wainwright in Lieutenant Colonel Thompson’s office. We’ve had a cancellation if you’re free to stop by.”
The doctor’s office had taken exactly three minutes to get him in. There was no cancellation. Pinchot had not used her own name and rank as he’d instructed. Who knew what poor soldier with a more urgent problem had just been bumped so the lofty colonel could be accommodated. But with the drowning sensation dogging him, he was grateful for the chance to get examined.
Bookbinder massaged his temples and stood. He passed through the outer office and tapped Pinchot’s shoulder. “They’re taking me now,” he said, meaning it as a remonstration for her failure to follow instructions.
She tapped away at her keyboard, ignoring him. “That’s great, sir. I’ll take your calls.”
The trip to Lieutenant Colonel Thompson’s office took longer than he’d expected. The elevator was being repaired, and there was a snarl of contractors on pedal-driven carts running cable down two of the usual thoroughfares. He passed flat-screen monitors dedicated to the perils of unauthorized magic use.
Slick electronic posters featured grizzly digital photos of Selfers gone nova, their burned carcasses scarcely recognizable as human. It was followed by a Ten Most Wanted slide. Oscar Britton continued to hold the top spot.
Bookbinder entered Doc Thompson’s and stiffened as half the waiting room got to its feet. “Good morning, sir,” they chorused.
“Good morning, everyone. Sit down, please. That’s not necessary.”
“Good morning, Colonel. Doctor Thompson is waiting for you,” said a young orderly in blue scrubs.
Bookbinder glanced an apology at the assembled convalescents.
More than a few met his glance, irked at having their wait lengthened by the system’s tendency to jump whenever top brass needed something done.
But there was nothing to be done about it now. The tide was insistent, and the doc was waiting.
Bookbinder sat in the exam room for a few minutes before Thompson came in.
“Good morning, sir!” The doctor said, pumping his hand vigorously.
Thompson was mustachioed and bull-necked.
The silver oak leaf cluster and gold caduceus pinned to his white doctor’s coat were the only things that marked him as a soldier.
“Your admin seemed worried about you. Everything okay?”
“I feel ridiculous,” Bookbinder began, “there’s really nothing wrong with me.”
“Describe it.”
“It feels like I’m drowning. I can’t breathe. Well, I can, actually.”
He demonstrated, spreading his arms and filling his lungs with air. “I just feel like. . . I’m underwater. I can’t shake it.”
Thompson stroked his moustache with the butt of his pen.
“When did this start?”
“Last night. I had a nightmare.”
“Does it get worse when you lie down? Are you having trouble climbing stairs?”
Bookbinder shook his head. “It’s constant. Always the same.”
“You haven’t started smoking, have you?”
Bookbinder frowned. “Come on, Doc.”
“Okay, well, let’s have a look at you.”
Having a look at him took all day. After Thompson found nothing abnormal with his blood pressure, he went at him with the stethoscope with similar results. He shined lights in his eyes, looked up his nose and ears, took blood. Bookbinder tried to leave after an hour, worried about the men outside whose days were being wasted waiting, but Thompson wasn’t going to let a sick O–6 out of his sight without making damned sure that everything was all right.
The big tests began. Chest X–ray, CT scan, echocardiogram.
By the end of the day, Bookbinder was exhausted, sitting naked in a blue examination gown, his skinny butt freezing against the stainless-steel surface of the examination table.
Thompson entered the room, shaking his head.
“Nothing?” Bookbinder asked.
Thompson shrugged. “Nothing. We still have to wait on some lab results, but I don’t expect to find anything.”
But the current was there. Bookbinder gulped air, feeling the drowning sensation more acutely than ever. “Jesus, Doc. What’s going on?”
“If I had to put my finger on it? You’re having a panic attack.”
Bookbinder cocked an eyebrow. “That’s ridiculous. I’m forty-five. I’ve never had a panic attack in my life.”
Thompson shrugged. “Well, there’s nothing physically wrong with you, sir. And there’s no age limit on anxiety issues. You said it came on right after a nightmare, correct?”
Bookbinder nodded.
“Must have been one hell of a nightmare,” Thompson said.
Bookbinder shuddered. “It was.”
“Well, look. I’d take the rest of the day off.” He handed Bookbinder a small plastic bag full of white pills. “This is a generic zolpidem. It’ll help you sleep. Eat something, piss, then pop one. Go directly to bed, do not pass go. Give me a call in the morning and let me know how you feel.”
Panic attack. The thought ate at him. He was supposed to be a commander. Panic attacks didn’t come with that territory.
“Doc, could we—”
“We’ll keep this between us,” Thompson cut him off, his voice sympathetic. “You’re not the first field grade I’ve had in here with this condition, sir. It’s stressful at the top. Sometimes you have to make room for that. You just call me tomorrow.”
The doctor paused in the doorway. “There’s one thing, sir.”
Bookbinder pulled up his pants and buttoned them. “What?”
“It’s silly, really.”
“What is it?” Bookbinder was tired and hungry and irritated at having wasted an entire working day.
“Well, I have to ask you to call your command’s SOC liaison.”
Bookbinder’s jaw dropped. “You think I’m Latent?”
“It’s just that some of your symptoms are consistent with new Manifestation. Protocol is that it gets reported, but there’s no reason you can’t take care of that yourself. Don’t worry, you’re not Latent. You’re not actually displaying any magical power, which only ever happens with Rump Latents, but they don’t have sensations as strong as what you’re describing. A lot of them don’t even know they’re Latent until someone else picks up their current.”
“Believe me, this is superstrong,” Bookbinder said. “I can barely concentrate on anything else.”
“I know,” Thompson said, “which is why I’m sure you’re not Latent, but you still need to check in with the SOC LNO. Just takes a second for them to send a Seer over. Again, don’t worry. Even if you are Latent, you’re not Manifesting, which means it’s Rump and no real danger to anyone.”
Bookbinder pulled his shirt on and nodded. “Okay, Doc. Thanks.”
Thompson nodded, waved, and left him alone in the drowning tide, suddenly malevolent now that it had a potential name.
Magic, Bookbinder thought. He thought of his house in Arlington, his wife and children, his retirement check just a few years away. After that, an easy job as a defense contractor, the double-dipping ensuring smooth sailing for Julie and the girls.
Then golfing, summers in the RV at national parks, and long weekends at the seashore. Maybe grandkids if he was lucky.
Magic did not fit into that equation. Even those who didn’t go Selfer were ostracized.
Get ahold of yourself, he thought. It’s like 1 percent of 1 percent who actually come up Latent. It’s like the doc said—panic attack.
He suddenly found himself hoping the doctor was right.
He punched up the SOC liaison on his dashboard phone during the drive home.
The voice that answered was grainy and distorted. “SOC. Talon.”
Bookbinder paused at the lack of phone courtesy, then reminded himself that the SOC didn’t follow protocol like the big army.
“Hi, this is Colonel Alan Bookbinder, I’m the J1 for AMC.”
“Sure, sir.” The voice became friendlier, he guessed in reaction to his rank. “How can I help you?”
“I feel ridiculous even calling you, but I’ve been feeling really weird lately, and the doc couldn’t find anything wrong with me. But he said I have to report to you.”
“Uh–huh,” Talon said.
“So,” Bookbinder went on, filling the uncomfortable silence that followed. “I’m reporting.”
“Drowning sensation?” Talon asked. “Like you’re in the middle of a river that’s flowing through you?”
A sick chill settled in Bookbinder’s gut and began to work its way up his spine. The current intensified.
“Yes. . . that’s it exactly,” he croaked.
Talon didn’t react to the change in his voice. “You have a nightmare, sir? Or a really vivid dream just before the sensation came on?”
Bookbinder nodded at the speaker before remembering that Talon couldn’t see him. The car behind him honked, and he realized he had slowed to a crawl. He put on his blinkers and pulled over.
“Yes,” he said again.
“But you obviously haven’t Manifested or you’d be on your way here in person instead of calling me.” Talon’s voice was calm.
“Yes,” Bookbinder said. Panic drowned him. “Do you. . . oh my God, do you think I might be Latent?”
Talon chuckled on the other end of the phone. “Hell, sir. You’re not Latent. If you had actually come up Latent enough to feel the flow, you’d have Manifested. If you were Rump, you probably wouldn’t feel anything at all. And on the odd chance that you are Rump, you’re no threat to yourself or others.”
“But . . . but you knew about the nightmare . . .”
“That’s a common symptom, but it doesn’t always happen that way. I Manifested in the middle of the afternoon, taking a shower. It’s okay, sir. You want me to send a Seer over to your house now to see if he can pick up a current? Or I could swing by myself . . .”
Relief replaced panic, drowning all. “No, no, it’s fine. God, I feel like a damned fool. I’ll come by tomorrow morning. Let me at least get a good night’s sleep and see how I feel when I wake up.”
Talon laughed again. “Roger that, sir. I’m usually in around 0700, we’re on the . . .”
“Fifth floor, A ring, I know.” You couldn’t miss it on all the posters encouraging those who suspected they might be Latent to self-report.
“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
See? Damned idiot. No way you’re Latent. Relief and embarrassment churned in him. He felt the current rising, as if in response. Damn, but that was weird. Oh well, panic attack it was. He would go home, take the pills, and get some sleep.
But not before he kept his promise to Kelly.
He swung into the convenience-store parking lot and jogged through the entrance, pausing as he reviewed the signs swinging over the aisles looking for the breakfast cereal. He spotted a line of purple boxes peeking off one of the metal ledges and made his way toward them.
And stopped short.
The tide that drowned him was suddenly crossed by another; strong and foreign. His eyes wrenched off the cereal boxes and moved unerringly toward the current’s source.
A young boy, no more than sixteen, stood at the end of the aisle. Ripped blue jeans draped over wide sneakers. A black hooded sweatshirt masked most of his features, but not his eyes, wide open in shock and fixed on Bookbinder’s uniform.
The sick feeling rushed back into Bookbinder’s gut, bullying away the sweet relief. He can feel my current, too.
Panic attacks didn’t facilitate that kind of communication.
Only magic did.
The kid yanked down the shelf, sending an avalanche of cereal boxes cascading between them.
He turned and ran.
Bookbinder went after him.
Chapter II
Sea Change
The Danish Hekseri Corps took a different tack. They recognized Russia as the primary threat and understood that weather dominance was the only way to beat a numerically and financially superior enemy. Every Danish Trollmann is focused primarily on impacting flight paths and sea- lanes, and their Aeromancers are the best in the world. This single- minded focus changed the balance of power in Northern Europe in the course of a decade.
—Avery Whiting
The Great Reawakening and the Rebalancing
of Power in the Postmodern World
Bookbinder vaulted the pile of cereal boxes. He landed a foot short, his slick-soled dress shoe skidding sideways and sending him sprawling. The kid dashed around the aisle, racing for the exit.
“Wait!” Bookbinder called after him, scrambling to his feet.
“I’m not going to do anythi . . . I’m not . . .” Not going to what? he asked himself. Why are you chasing him?
I have to know, he answered himself, if I’m like him.
He spun, pushing off against the crushed boxes and chasing the kid through the store doors, ignoring the clerk, who was threatening to call the police.
“Kid! Stop I . . .” Bookbinder called. The kid pumped his arms, the hoodie flying back to reveal a shock of unruly black hair. He rounded the corner of the store and tore down the alley, knocking down trash cans.
Bookbinder pursued him, his wind up now, vaulting the obstacles smoothly. A chain-link fence topped with a coil of barbed wire blocked the exit, but the kid leapt up it. He tangled his sleeve in the barbed wire and struggled, entangling himself worse. He looked over his shoulder at Bookbinder, his eyes wide and unseeing, a panicked animal.
Bookbinder slowed, kept his distance. “Kid, it’s okay. I just want to talk to you. I’m not SOC.”
More scrambling. Bright lines of blood blossomed on the kid’s face and arm.
“Jesus! Stop messing around.” Bookbinder tugged gently at the kid’s ankle. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Bookbinder could feel the kid’s current pulsing erratically against his own. Where Bookbinder’s tide felt like a steady soaking, the foreign tide was wild, mounting to crescendo.
“Fuck you!” the kid screamed. “I’m not going anywhere!”
“Nobody’s taking you anywhere. I’m not SOC.”
The kid paused, a glimmer of hope on his face, then he focused, and a snarl overcame his features. “Bullshit, man! I can feel you! You Latent motherfucker!”
The sick feeling he’d had when talking to Talon returned. You have your answer, now get out of here.
“Wait,” Bookbinder said. “How do you know I’m Latent?”
You know how he knows.
The kid’s sleeve tore free, and he fell, landing a couple of feet from Bookbinder. He could hear the shouts of others at the end of the alley. The kid’s eyes widened in terror as they looked over Bookbinder’s shoulder. He leveled a hand at the colonel’s chest.
“I can fucking control it, man! I can fucking fry you!”
Bookbinder felt the wild seesawing of his
current and knew the kid was lying. “It’s okay, son. Don’t do anything stupid. Nobody’s trying to hurt you here.”
“Back off!” The boy’s current spiked madly. “Just back the fuck off!”
Bookbinder took a few steps backward. The boy frowned, then gritted his teeth as his current spiked again. He raised his hands to his head, shrieking.
The boy doubled over, his current so strong that it blinded Bookbinder’s senses. The colonel lurched forward, reaching out.
“It’s okay! Calm down! You’re going to be okay!”
“Oh Christ,” someone said from behind Bookbinder. “Kid’s going nova. Run!”
But Bookbinder didn’t run, he knelt before the boy, his hands on his shoulders, trying to soothe him. “Listen to me, son. Focus on my voice. Concentrate. You can beat this. You just have to calm down.”
The kid whipped his head from side to side, skin smoking, tendrils of gray vapor wafting from inside his sweatshirt. His hair began to smolder, then burst into flame. He screamed.
The boy threw his head back. His eyes shot wide, then disappeared in puffs of smoke as flames shot from his skull. His skin went black, curling and flapping away from his head. Bookbinder scrambled away on his hands, his eyebrows singed, as the kid writhed on the ground, burning brightly.
Bookbinder got his to feet, panting. He dusted off his uniform instinctively, hands moving involuntarily while his mind grappled with the sight before him.
The kid lay, a smoking ruin that was hard to imagine had once been alive.
That’s magic. That’s what’s in me.
He spun, but the alley was empty; any onlookers had fled at the sight of the boy’s fiery death throes.
He ran, the smell of cooked meat and the echoing screams driving him to his car.
Talon answered the phone on the first ring. “I’m definitely Latent,” Bookbinder said. “I can feel the current.”
Talon sounded exasperated. “Sir, we discussed this . . .”
