by Myke Cole
“Don’t be silly, Oscar,” she said, her voice matronly, chiding. “Even now they’re coming. What do you think they’ll do if they find you here?”
“Fucking kill me, I hope,” he said. Her magic had released its grip on him, but his stomach still writhed with horror and guilt. Escape was only her secondary motive, he thought. Revenge was the first. “I’m the idiot who freed you, who let you do this. Here’s hoping they kill you, too.”
Scylla threw back her head and laughed. “Pretty, but not too smart. They’re not going to kill me, Oscar. If they were going to kill me, don’t you think they would have done it already? They put a bit of explosive in your chest, and you quail and beg and do whatever they tell you. You never got it, did you Oscar? I explained it plain and simple. They’re not going to kill you unless they absolutely have to, unless you give them no choice at all. Only the tiniest fraction of the human population comes up Latent. We’re too precious to kill. The corpses I left behind are all lost in the cost-benefit analysis.”
Britton got shakily to his feet but found he couldn’t support his own weight, and crashed down again. “They were going to carve up your brain,” he said. “They figured they weren’t getting enough for the cost of keeping you. They were going to make you like Billy. If I’d just waited a little while longer, they would have done it.”
Scylla turned to face the perimeter fence, with its open view of the plain beyond. The guard towers stacked just behind it were gone, reduced to piles of flaking crumbs, as if the wood had been ravaged by termites. She laughed, long and low.
“Well, I suppose I should thank you, then, shouldn’t I? Because their return on investment is about to go way into the red.” She turned, bent down, placed her cool fingertips under his chin. Her face was serene, beautiful in the weird light of the Source’s giant moon.
“One more chance, Oscar. Are you helping me? Or am I not going to get killed by the SOC on my own?”
For a moment, Britton’s stomach fell. Her eyes, huge and welcoming, her mouth so steady, her voice so even. She knew something he didn’t. It all made sense to her, there was no confusion, no doubt. Could she be right while the rest of the world was wrong?
But a stench curled in his nostrils, tendrils of stink, rotten, fetid. God knew how many bodies, the remains of people slowly dripping back into the earth. “Fuck you,” he said, jerking his chin away from her.
“A pity,” she said. Britton could hear shouting, boots pounding in the distance, the whine of an electric motor. “Well, I’m not going to kill you, Oscar Britton. Instead, I’m going to leave you to reap the rewards of your position. You’re of no use to me if you’re not going to open a gate, so you can keep that bomb in your chest. You clearly prefer it to freedom. I don’t have the time to give you the education you so clearly need. I’m done mothering you, Oscar. If you live, if any of you live, perhaps you’ll come to learn in time. When you do, I’d be much obliged of your company. Bye now.”
She turned back to the fence line and spread her arms. The strength of her gathering current overwhelmed him, and his stomach clenched anticipatorily, but Scylla was as good as her word, and the magic billowed outward instead.
The fence collapsed, rotting back to the mud like everything else inside the SASS. Scylla began to walk forward, her shoulders lightly dusted by swirling motes of rusted metal, disintegrating in the gentle breeze, as farther down the line, shouts erupted. Britton craned his head to one side, and his eyes widened. All along the FOB’s perimeter, outside the SASS’s boundaries, the concrete barricade walls were crumbling, the skeletal stubs of their rebar supports stuck out into the sky, briefly silhouetted against the moon before they, too, flashed into flaking rust and blew away in the wind. Machine-gun emplacements collapsed, antiair systems fell to pieces with light pops. Hundreds of men and women wailed and collapsed, before dripping into the earth, their bones laid bare in fetid clouds of what used to be their bodies.
It went on as far as Britton could see in both directions. An Apache, circling on patrol, highlighted Scylla within a bright halo of its searchlight before suddenly breaking apart, its component pieces wafting away on the breeze before they could even hit the ground, the pilots nowhere to be seen.
Britton saw a tank park off to his right vaporize, the neat rows of main battle tanks reduced to stinking hulks of desiccated ore. Buildings collapsed in rotting heaps. The wailing went on and on.
Scylla turned to Britton, winked, and waved, then turned on her heel and strode out of the FOB, disappearing in the blackness beyond.
As far as Britton could see in either direction, the FOB’s perimeter had completely vanished. The base was entirely open, near as he could tell, to the countryside. Britton knelt, paralyzed with horror. So many dead, so much destruction. All because of him, because he had let her go.
And the ATTD still nestled in his heart, mocking him, reminding him that this swath of ruin had all been for nothing.
Movements in the grass beyond, small, hunched creatures rising out of the long grasses, calling to one another in their guttural tongue. Goblin spotters, Britton knew, from the hostile Defender tribes. They called in magical strikes every night. He’d seen the forward observers they used to direct them. Magic wasn’t so different from artillery in that sense.
They stood in the saw-toothed, swaying grasses, their silhouettes betraying utter shock.
Then one of them blew a horn.
Another blast followed farther down the line, and another.
The line of destruction that Scylla had wrought was suddenly alive with clarion calls, low, rumbling blasts followed by shouts. Britton couldn’t understand the language, but he knew full well what they were saying. The defenses are down. The way is open. Come now, come now. We may never have this chance again.
Panic-fueled adrenaline fired in Britton’s heart and stomach, strength flowing back into him. He lurched to his feet, turning to the wasteland that had once been the SASS’s gate, and ran with all he had.
LITTLE BIGHORN
The notion of Prohibited or “Probe” schools is the root of the problem. What incentive do Probes have to cooperate, to turn themselves in? From the moment they Manifest, their very existence is illegal. When you relegate a class of people to pariah status, you are creating a ready-made insurgency. The problem here is that this particular one has the power to bring about a change in the regime.
— Loretta Kiwan, Vice President
Council on Latent-American Rights
Appearing on WorldSpan Networks Counterpoint
CHAPTER XXX: ESCAPE
You can call it blasphemy all you want, but the timing is perfect. Jesus Christ was an unusually powerful Physiomancer during the last Reawakening cycle. Your whole system of belief is based on a fluke of history. What you do with that realization is your problem, but it sure as hell should deflate your basis for oppressing homosexuals, outlawing abortion, and prohibiting magical schools.
— Mary Copburn
Council for Ethical Atheism
With every step, Britton’s mind returned to his heart. He imagined that he could feel the ATTD bouncing, dancing in his ventricle, waiting for the signal that would tell it to end him. His feet pounded with the rhythm of his heartbeat. Pound, pulse, pound, pulse, pound. Boom? When would the boom come?
Maybe Scylla was right; maybe he was worth too much. But he wasn’t taking any chances. The cash tent loomed before him, oddly quiet considering what had just happened.
In the distance, gunfire was erupting in the near-ceaseless staccato that spoke of real engagement. Several helicopters buzzed overhead.
Britton burst through the cash flaps, charging into the trauma unit. Several orderlies stared at him, but all the MPs were gone. Probably busy guarding Marty, he thought, or gone to see what the hell is going on out there.
Therese stood in the trauma unit, chatting sympathetically with a young marine who was gingerly testing his shoulder, pressing his fingertips against one of the tent be
ams, then wincing in pain. “Don’t be such a baby,” she admonished. “It won’t even be sore by tomorrow.”
The marine grinned at her and opened his mouth to say something as Britton approached.
“I need to speak to you,” Britton said. His eyes bored into hers. Don’t ask, just come with me.
Her eyes lighted on his bruised neck, his skinned hands and arms. Her nose wrinkled at the rotten stink on his clothes. She held his gaze for a moment before nodding. “Follow me.”
She led him to the row of individual examination rooms, each kitted out with a long hospital gurney, complete with foam mattress, curtained off from the bustle of the main cash. As soon as she’d closed the curtain, he seized her elbows and drew her close.
“You’ve got to get this thing out of my chest, right now.”
“Are you crazy?” she whispered, shaking her head. “I don’t know if I can even do it, and I haven’t had a chance to get the meds I need yet. The pain could kill you!”
He shook his head. “I’m dead anyway, and so is Marty if you can’t get me free of this thing in the next few minutes.”
“Oh God, Oscar. What happened?”
“It’ll take too long to explain. Suffice to say that I fucked up big-time. This whole FOB is about to come down around our ears. They’ve got Marty, and they’re probably going to kill him as soon as they realize what the hell is going on. While I’m at it, I need to get us all out of here. I can’t do that if the SOC can track me. Therese, we don’t have any time.” He took her hand and placed it on his chest. “You have to try.”
She opened her mouth, and he caught her hands, hoping the intensity of his stare conveyed the urgency his words could not. “Please, Therese. I need you to do this.”
She was silent another moment, then nodded. “Get on the cot, hurry!”
She disappeared as he lay down, and returned again carrying a syringe. “All I can get are some Benzodiazepines. It’ll calm you down more than the Dampener, but it’s not going to do anything for the pain.”
Britton thought of Marty and bit down. He felt his heart racing. Still beating. That’s something. “Let’s get it over with.”
She looked at him, one hand on his forehead.
He held her eyes as he felt the syringe pierce his shoulder and the chemical wash into his bloodstream. It was followed by peace, a dizzy and relaxed euphoria. His heart slowed, the harsh sodium lights took on a halo of rainbows. Therese waxed more beautiful than ever.
“I love you,” he said before he knew he had spoken.
Therese smiled and leaned down, her lips brushing his forehead. He kept his eyes closed as she pulled away.
The doped fog washed over him, Britton’s mind cartwheeled, forming escape plans. Once the ATTD was out, and he could gate away, then what? Rescue Marty, bring Therese, somehow convince Umbra Coven to come with him, take them all somewhere the SOC could never follow.
But the SOC could always follow, couldn’t they? Britton wasn’t their only Portamancer. Billy’s drooling face swam into his drug-addled vision. Anywhere Britton could go, the SOC could follow.
“Hang on, Oscar.” Therese’s voice cut through his reverie. “I’ll do this as fast as I can.”
He felt something pressed against his mouth and opened to accept it. A small rubber ball. He bit down on it instinctively and heard a murmur of appreciation from Therese.
The warm ripples of her current intensified, dropping down into his chest, slipping behind his ribs and cradling his heart. They curled there, gripping the muscle. Britton could feel the tendrils moving through the valves and chambers. It tingled but didn’t hurt. They probed. Britton could feel the magic gather, pause.
“There it is,” Therese said. “Here we go.”
Agony. Pain like he had never known before. Scylla’s assault on him had been nothing compared to this. His breath vanished, his vision gone white for the second time in less than an hour. A vise gripped his heart, each beat hammered so hard he felt it would pound him to fragments. He could feel the ATTD migrating, the flesh spasming to push it upward. The muscle shuddered, threatened to stop, but the tendrils of magic kept it beating steadily. But Therese couldn’t keep the body’s natural rhythm. Waves of agony sounded across his body as every cell cried out in rage at the flow of oxygen suddenly interrupted.
He tried to scream, but he couldn’t move muscles completely locked in spite of the drugs coursing through him. His jaw clamped shut, teeth digging furrows in the rubber between them.
Pain became the whole of his universe, eternal, all-encompassing. Oscar Britton lay in it and prayed to die.
And then, mercifully, he did.
Stanley Britton stood naked, his wiry body strong as ironwood, the muscles mapping a rolling landscape beneath the skin. Only his face and silver-threaded hair betrayed his age. He hovered above the saw-edged grass, weird stars drifting overhead. Demon-horses cavorted around him, nuzzling his thighs, crooning affection. His fingertips touched lightly over their shaggy backs.
A huge stone resting on his chest, Oscar lay on his back and looked at his father. The weight crushed him. Blood lapped the edges.
“Dad,” he croaked. “Dad, get it off. It hurts.”
“Sir,” Stanley said in Fitzy’s voice. “Show some goddamned respect.”
“It’s killing me.”
“Funny how that works,” Stanley said. “Just deserts, I’d say.”
“I’m sorry,” Oscar managed. “I didn’t want to…” The stone dug deeper, he felt his ribs give way beneath the weight, his lungs compressing. He could barely manage the air to speak.
“You always were a little slow on the uptake,” Stanley said. He gestured over his body. “Do I look hurt to you? If I were any better, I’d need rubber pants. No, no. I’m just fine. You’re the one who’s dead.”
Snow swept around him, the air suddenly chill. The fat flakes rained down around the stone, soaking the blood, burying him. The cold swept into his veins, freezing him, making him leaden. A black shape blossomed behind Stanley’s head, extending long slender limbs over his shoulders.
Oscar strained to make it out, but the blizzard picked up, obscuring his vision. Stanley vanished in the deluge until all Oscar could see was his head, leaning back into the crook of another’s neck. The shadow behind him nuzzled him affectionately, like a lover.
“See you soon, son,” his father said, then the snow took Oscar, leaving only the crushing weight on his chest, constriction and lingering agony.
“Oscar.” The snow began to clear. The cold and agony re-mained.
“Oscar.” Not his father’s voice. Someone else. Someone good.
“Oscar, come on.” Something battered his cheeks, he tried to move his head away from it, but the slaps continued.
The snow resolved into a canvas ceiling supported by metal poles. Harsh sodium lights.
The cash.
“Oscar, look at me.” Therese’s almond eyes, wet with concern, filled his vision. She waved a hand in front of him.
Balanced on her fingertips was a steel insect, its segmented carapace still glossed with his blood. One end dangled a long wire, stingerlike. The other housed a clear plastic dome, pulsing a gentle blue light. Black numbers had been stenciled on the side.
“We got it,” he croaked. His voice burned in his throat.
“We got it,” she said, biting back tears. “How are you?”
He began to sit up, the ball of pain in his chest expanded. His head swam with drugged bewilderment and nausea. He leaned over the table and dry-heaved, the spasm aggravating his agony.
“Oh, God,” he said.
Therese put her hands on his chest, whole and unscarred. “Oscar, lie down. You can’t move yet.”
He shook his head, the motion nearly made him pass out. “No time. We’ve gotta get Marty.” And after that? Later. Take it step by step.
He swung his feet over the edge of the cot. They slammed down on the ground, and he nearly vomited again, but the soli
dity of a hard surface made him feel somewhat steadier.
“Oh, Jesus, you’re crazy,” Therese said, putting her shoulder in his armpit to support him. The smell of her hair soothed him, then made him sick again. His vision faded and returned in time with the pulsing agony in his chest.
“They’ll kill him,” he said, and forced his weight onto his feet. His knees failed him, and he sagged against Therese, who steadied herself with one hand on the cot.
She couldn’t carry him. He’d have to dig deep. He took a shaking step.
It took them nearly a minute to get halfway across the tiny room, but they made it. Therese still dangled the ATTD between two fingers.
“No,” he croaked, “get rid of it. It could go off any minute.”
Outside, the cash was erupting in noise and chaos. The word must have begun to arrive. A loud buzz of helicopters sounded overhead. Deep booms, some sounding like magic, some not.
Therese set the ATTD down on the cot and helped Britton walk. “What’s going on?”
“Later, we’ve got to move.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
Britton slouched toward the dental unit. “Just look for MPs.”
They found them in abundance. A knot of them swarmed the urinalysis section, carbines pointed earthward but fingers braced tensely over triggers. Marty stood placidly inside a protective ring of surly Goblin orderlies. They snarled in their language at a translator who sat behind a laptop, shouting questions. The tent thronged with onlookers, furious Goblins, soldiers, and orderlies alike. Half of the MPs faced inward, keeping the angry Goblins from assaulting the translator. The other half faced outward, keeping the equally enraged humans from storming Marty.
Truelove and Downer stood outside the ring of MPs, lending their shouts to the throng. Truelove spotted Britton and ran to him.
