Fortress Frontier

by Myke Cole

  They walked quickly to the train platform’s far end, out of view of the booth and the staircase, clustered around a map on the wall. It turned out they were on Manhattan’s east side, a few stops away from the Canal Street station. Once they confirmed where they had to go, they spread out, sitting on the dirty bench or the dirtier tiled floor. Britton jerked his hood up and kept his head down. Therese and Truelove looked ordinary enough, sitting on the bench chatting softly. Downer didn’t have to work hard to look down on her luck. She hunched beside Britton, shivering and sweating, her clothing filthy. Britton put an arm around her, and she leaned against him. His heart leapt into his throat as other passengers arrived on the platform, but they were veteran New Yorkers, and didn’t spare the homeless couple or the commuters on the bench a second glance.

  Britton looked up at the ceiling and spotted the steel housing with scratched plastic plate that held the security cameras. A tiny light flashed red at regular intervals. He bit down on the panic the sight raised. There was no reason to think that anyone watching camera footage would think any more of Britton and his group than the other passengers did.

  They boarded the train and spread out, making occasional eye contact. None of the other passengers batted an eyelash all the way to Canal Street, and Britton breathed a sigh of relief as they exited the train and made their way to the platform Swift had indicated. This late at night, there were few people there, but Britton knew they’d have to wait for the platform to completely empty before they could make for the rendezvous location.

  If this station had a cop, he was out of sight, probably by the turnstiles and attendant booth upstairs.

  The platform was broken up by a series of ceiling supports, wide steel I–beams broad enough to hide a person behind. He sidled up alongside Therese. “Keep spread out and on the platform, I’m going to find our entry point. Once I signal you, gather by me, but loosely. Let’s try not to give the impression that we’re together.” Therese nodded silently, thrust her hands in her pockets, and made her way down the platform.

  Britton began to run his eyes along the ceiling, looking for security cameras. He saw one immediately, on the edge of the platform, just before the darkness of the tunnel’s edge. He was about to move closer to it when something stuck to the tile walls caught his eye.

  It was a small black sticker, about five inches across. Someone had made the effort to scrape it off and given up after rendering it mostly transparent. Dirty patches of dried adhesive around it showed him that this was the last of over a dozen stickers that had already been removed. The sticker’s center was, a black-and-white mug shot that he had to squint at to make out.

  But after a moment, he was certain.

  It was him. The photo was from his military Common Access Card, the same one the police had been using on his wanted posters.

  Above it, Britton could make out the words: why is this man running for his life?

  Below it, almost illegible, were the words free oscar britton.

  His breath caught in his throat, his heart raced.

  He was looking for a movement, but he’d never thought that a movement might be looking for him.

  Therese sidled alongside him, followed his gaze, then squinted. He was turning away when he heard her catch her breath. “Oh, wow. Is that what I think it is?”

  Not now. Stay focused. “Leave it,” he said. “Don’t draw attention to it or to us.”

  The sticker had kicked off a string of emotions. Excitement, fear, honor, worthlessness. None of them would help him examine that camera. He let it fill his attention, pushing the butterflies in his stomach away.

  The camera had a good view of the entire platform, its view only obscured by the steel columns. It was precisely like the other cameras he’d seen at the last station. Except for one difference.

  The red light was out.

  Britton caught Therese’s eye, then moved behind one of the columns. Truelove came next, supporting Downer, who sloughed drunkenly against him. Therese was just behind. They stood in a small circle, making a show of tending to Downer, a friend who’d had one too many. Britton and Therese detailed opposite sides of the column, casting glances down the platform length, waiting to see if it cleared.

  After nearly an hour of agonizing waiting, the train pulled up, the last passengers on the platform stepped on, and nobody got off.

  Britton tapped Therese and raced off the platform’s edge, dropping into the darkness beyond. He fell about four feet, his boots crunching on packed gravel and wood fragments. Three separate thuds told him the rest of his group had joined him. The inky blackness covered them. Smells reached him, trash, rank water, creosote. He heard scrabbling, and squeaking as rats protested his intrusion into their domain.

  “Put Downer in the middle,” he said. He opened a small gate, using its light to get his bearings. The gate’s uneven light glinted off the train rails to his right. He guessed that they had enough room to flatten themselves against the tunnel wall if a train were to pass, but he couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to find out.

  “We hug this wall. The chamber should be a couple of hundred feet in.”

  He shut the gate and followed the wall along, the rest of the group coming behind him, each person with a hand on the shoulder of the person in front. Downer kept up, though Britton could feel her pulling at his coat at times, letting him drag her along.

  Twice he felt the wall on his left open up into alcoves. He opened the gate both times, using the light to find only long strings of incandescent bulbs, now dark and unused. He moved on, straining to hear the sounds of rumbling wheels that indicated a train was headed their way. At last they came to another alcove, and he opened the gate again, expecting another lighting niche.

  But the back of this alcove had been knocked out. Old sawhorses stood before it, strung with tape that had probably once been yellow before it, like everything else in this filthy tunnel, had been completely covered with black residue. Britton pushed one aside and led them in. The empty back opened into a tiny, bare chamber. The floor was broken earth and rocks, the walls layer upon layer of ancient, long-dried mastic and mortar. The musty smell of old concrete drove out all other scents. There was enough room for all of them, but not much more, and no other exits but the one they’d just used.

  “Do you think this is the right place?” Therese asked. Britton scanned the walls, running the gate’s light over the broken surface of the desiccated stone before finding what he was looking for. Near the ceiling of the wall to the left of the entrance, was a fist-sized red X. Red letters had been marked into the triangles formed by the X’s intersecting lines.

  North to south read: hs.

  East to west read: ny.

  Britton nodded. “This is the right place. We wait here.”

  “Did we beat midnight?” Truelove asked.

  Britton shrugged. “I have no idea, and none of us have a watch. We wait as long as it takes. If maintenance crews or anyone else discovers us, I’ll just gate us out of here.” He turned to Downer. “You going to be okay?”

  “I keep telling you, I’m fine.” She hugged herself, shivering.

  “I’m just a little tired, is all.” She leaned against the wall and slid down to a sitting position, heedless of the filth tracking along her back and the ripping of her coat against the sharp and uneven surface of the wall.

  Britton nodded, then looked at Therese. She’s not fine, he mouthed. Therese nodded back and nestled up alongside Downer, warming her with her body heat. Britton could feel the current of Therese’s magic eddying around them. Truelove took up position alongside the entrance, lowering himself more carefully to the ground, knees up to his chin. “I hope we’re doing the right thing.”

  “We are,” Britton said firmly. “And if we’re not, I can get us out of there. Either way, we’ve got to try. Try to get some shut-eye if you can. There’s just one entrance. I can keep it covered.”

  Truelove nodded and was silent.

&nbs
p; Britton had no idea how much time passed. The darkness was total, and the only sound was Downer’s labored breathing and the occasional rustle as someone shifted position or rats scurried past the entrance. After several trains had roared by, Britton cursed himself for not keeping count of them. He guessed that this late at night, they were running every half-hour, and he could have used their passage as a clock. His mind raced, with things he wanted to say to Therese, worry about the gang they were about to meet, nuclear-winter scenarios about Downer’s illness. At long last his mind was overwhelmed by the tide of worry and went numb. He focused on the entrance to the alcove. Overwatch was simple. Overwatch was something he could do.

  He was brought out of his reverie as Therese moved to his side, her hands finding his face in the darkness. For a moment, he leaned into her touch, raising his hands to hers. She hesitated before stammering, “Let me fix your face, Oscar. If the gang comes to find us, we want you recognizable.”

  He jerked his hand away, embarrassed. “Of course.”

  “A little light to work by? It helps if I can see what I’m doing.”

  He opened a pinprick of gate again, closed his eyes, then bit down on agony as the magic did it’s work, his features melting back into their original positions. After what seemed an eternity, the pain stopped, and he opened his eyes. Therese’s hands still cupped his cheeks, the warmth of her skin tingling against him.

  Her eyes were deep orbs of black, reflecting the gate’s light. Her lips were parted slightly.

  “All fixed?” he asked. “How do I look?”

  She kept her hands pressed to him. “You look great, Oscar.”

  He raised a hand again, taking hers.

  A rhythmic scraping, crunching sound reached them. At first he thought it was another rat, but it was heavier, more regular.

  And drawing closer.

  He dropped Therese’s hand and hissed a warning, closing the pinprick gate and opening a full-sized one back to the Source.

  Anyone coming would surely see the shimmering light, but he would rather have the ground prepped if they needed to make a hasty exit. Around him, Therese, Downer, and Truelove got to their feet and moved closer to the portal, ready to run.

  The crunching materialized into obvious human footfalls, approaching easily, making no attempt at stealth. They paused just outside the alcove entrance, probably altered to the gate light inside.

  “Hello?” A voice called. Thick New York accent. “Anybody in there?”

  Britton motioned Therese, Downer, and Truelove through the gate. He could always bring them back later. If it was the SOC, and they Suppressed him, he didn’t want the rest of his people going down too. He strained, feeling for a magical tide. Even Suppressors had currents. He couldn’t feel anything from this distance. He put half his body through the gate. Waited.

  “Hello?” The voice came again. “I’m comin’ in. Don’t do nothin’ stupid.”

  A magical current reached him from the alcove entrance.

  Moderate, but not particularly well controlled. It felt nothing like the disciplined, tight eddying of the tides of SOC operators.

  He relaxed slightly but stayed ready to leap through the gate the moment he felt that tide touch his own.

  A man ducked into the room. He was young, powerfully muscular, wearing blue jeans and a black, thermal, long-sleeved shirt. The shaved surface of his head reflected the light from the gate. His height, build, and bald head reminded Britton of Fitzy, but that was where the similarity ended. Where Fitzy’s expression was hard and suspicious, this man looked on with delighted surprise. His face and scalp were covered with stylized flames, red, yellow, and orange, whether tattooed or painted, Britton couldn’t tell.

  He stopped, put his hands on his hips and arched his eyebrows.

  “How do ya like that? Oscar Britton. I bet you wouldn’t show. You just cost me twenty bucks, you know that?”

  When Britton didn’t answer, he smiled. “Yeah, well. Worth it, I guess. Welcome to New York. Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter XII

  Meet the Gang

  I will not publicly comment on intelligence applications for magic. Anyone with a functional imagination can speculate on the vast benefits the arcane offers us in the prosecution of intelligence collection and analysis. Suffice it to say that that the intelligence community has been doing its best to leverage all available assets to keep policy makers and military commanders equipped with information as timely and actionable as possible. No further questions, please.

  —Nicholas Steering

  Director of National Intelligence (DNI)

  Speaking at a press conference following the Bloch Incident

  They’d been across the tunnel the entire time, no more than one hundred feet away. The thought made Britton smile as they pushed through the alcove on the tunnel’s opposite side, filing through a narrow passage that ended at a collapsed pile of rock and broken tile.

  The man made sure everyone was with him, then searched the pile. At last he found what he was looking for, a tiny bit of wire, barely visible, sticking out from the heap. He tugged it gently, then waited.

  Britton felt the faintest edges of another magical current from beyond the pile, then the rock slid aside, the edges running together to form a solid mass. The man gestured to the small tunnel it formed. Light flickered faintly from the inside. Britton paused, saw the same worry in his companions’ eyes. They’d come this far, and willingly. But that didn’t change the fact that they were about to walk into a camp of known criminals, whom many considered terrorists. Swift was down there, Britton guessed, but he’d never called the man a friend.

  The bald man frowned at the hesitation. “Look, Oscar,” he said, “we don’t like to keep this passage open longer than we got to. Nobody’s gonna jump you. Just go ahead.”

  Behind him, Downer coughed wetly. There was nowhere else to go.

  He ducked into the passageway, feeling his way along. The gentle light grew as he made his way, and after a moment, he came out into a wide chamber, lit and heated by rocks magicked to glowing resonance by clumsy but powerful Pyromancy. The chamber was an old, vaulted room, the walls made of crumbling brick. The ceiling was supported by worked-stone arches, stretching up into near darkness, architecture of a bygone age.

  Five people stood in a loose semicircle, watching as Britton and his group filed out of the tunnel and into the room. All emitted strong magical currents, but only one showed the kind of measured discipline that Britton had come to expect from military operators.

  That one was Swift, hands in his pockets, smiling. “Knew you’d make it.”

  The next three were ordinary-looking.

  A young black man, basketball-player tall and thin, in jeans and a hooded jersey.

  Beside him stood two women, both beautiful. The first had dark hair in dark ringlets and olive skin. The other was as blond and pale as a heroine from a Norse saga. Both wore fine, businesslike skirts and blouses under expensive-looking winter coats.

  Their soft leather boots matched. As Britton and his group entered, they held hands, leaning closer together.

  The last figure was even bigger than Britton. His broad shoulders strained his thick, longshoreman’s sweater. A voluminous black beard fell to his navel, his long hair just as thick and dark.

  His features were craggy, wise. Large, long nose, jutting brow, deep green eyes. He smiled, genuine, welcoming.

  Britton recognized him from a dozen posters and videos. Big Bear.

  “Oscar Britton.” Big Bear’s voice was rich and dark, earthy as the magic that had driven him out of society. “I have to admit we didn’t think we’d see you. This is an honor indeed.”

  The blond woman opened her jacket and blouse to reveal a black T–shirt printed with Britton’s mug shot. free oscar britton, it read along the bottom.

  Britton smiled. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Nope,” the woman said. “You’re a legend here. I can’t b
elieve we’re finally meeting you. When you suddenly disappeared from the FBI’s Most Wanted Web site, we figured they’d taken you, or killed you. We were going to launch a publicity campaign. Then you reappeared.”

  “That’s when we figured you might have escaped,” Big Bear added. “And then you sent Swift to us. I can’t tell you how delighted we are about that.” He stretched out his hand. Britton shook it, looking past him to his companions. Their expressions were delighted, awestruck. The blond woman was captivated by Britton, but her companion’s eyes were locked on Therese, staring unabashedly. Therese, Downer, and Truelove all stared back at Big Bear. Therese with curiosity, Truelove with trepidation, and Downer with what open hostility she could muster in her weakened state.

  “I saw a sticker on the subway platform. Was that you, too?”

  The woman smiled. “I’ll never tell.”

  “I’m . . .” The big man began.

  “Big Bear,” Britton said. “Your reputation precedes you. Thanks for taking us in.”

  “Your reputation precedes you as well. Or, your actions do. What you did on the White House lawn has advanced our cause greatly. We knew it was Portamancy, but we didn’t know it was you until Swift gave us the full story. The SOC has been very careful to paint you as a Negramancer in all of their wanted posters and news clips. I always knew they feared the truth, but I didn’t understand exactly why until now. But we’re going to make sure the truth gets out, Oscar. I’m excited to do just that.”

  Britton nodded. “First, I’ve got a sick camper here.” He gestured to Downer.

  “I’m fine,” Downer said. “I’ll get over it.”

  Big Bear looked concerned. “We have a Physio . . .”

  “So do we.” Britton gestured to Therese. “SOC-trained. The best. She ran afoul of some Source creatures. They wounded her. The infection isn’t anything we’ve seen before, and it’s not responding. We’d be glad to see if your Physiomancer can help, but as I said, Therese is fantastic at what she does, and she’s not making much headway.”