by Cole, Myke
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 has 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.
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 its 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 alerted 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 Twelve
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 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 believe 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.’
‘We may have work for you then,’ Big Bear said to her. ‘I’m very glad to meet you.’
‘My pleasure,’ Therese said. ‘It’s amazing to meet you. I’ve been reading about you since before I came up Latent. I honestly wasn’t sure you were real.’
‘I’m real,’ Big Bear said. ‘Ask the gang.’
‘He’s real,’ snorted the curly-haired woman.
‘Too damned real,’ her companion chimed in, smiling.
‘They tolerate me,’ Big Bear said. ‘I haven’t gotten them killed so far.’
‘This is the whole gang?’ Truelove asked.
‘Not by a long shot,’ Big Bear answered. ‘But we don’t gather together in large groups in one place for obvious reasons. Especially when we’re meeting new folks.’
‘It’s an infection.’ Britton brought the subject back around to Downer. ‘Or a disease. But it’s . . . otherworldly. It’s not responding to Physiomantic magic.’
‘You’re a Terramancer,’ Therese began. ‘Do you think you could . . . ?’
Big Bear shook his head firmly. ‘Coax bacteria integrated with the human cellular system? I’m nowhere good enough to risk it. What if I caused a bloom? I could kill her. Might be the SOC has Terramancers that skilled, but we don’t have half the training they do.’
Britton sighed. ‘Is there a regular doctor among you? We need to try antibiotics, or something.’
Big Bear paused, looked over at the tall black man, who shook his head. ‘No,’ Big Bear said slowly. ‘But we have many contacts on the outside. We can get her help. I just need some time to make arrangements.’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
Downer shrugged. ‘Okay, thanks.’ She sat down suddenly, drew her knees up to her chest, and shivered. Big Bear started forward, taking her by the elbows and looking into her eyes. She jerked back from him. ‘I appreciate it, but I’m fine.’
‘We don’t like to stay this close to the maintenance walkways,’ Big Bear said. ‘Let’s move deeper in, and we can talk there.’
‘Someplace warm?’
Big Bear nodded. ‘We’ll take care of it; come on.’
The old brickwork of the chamber continued into an arched passageway that reminded Britton of the old tunnels in which he’d taken down the Russian Selfer. Stylized stone eagles appeared at regular intervals over chiseled American flags. He caught an inscription with a date in the nineteen thirties, but they had moved on before he could make out the specific year.
The tall man took up the rear. Truelove kept looking over his shoulder at him until he finally couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘You’re Deshawn Williams, aren’t you?’ he asked.
The tall man nodded, looking resigned. ‘Haven’t gone by that name in a while.’
‘Wow, man.’ Truelove looked momentarily boyish, like he had when he’d first discovered that Britton had flown helicopters. ‘I used to watch you when you were with the Spurs. You were amazing. I was wondering what happened to you. I kind of thought I’d see you in the SASS. When you weren’t there, I just figured . . .’
‘That I was dead,’ the tall man finished for him. ‘Good. That’s what I wanted.’
‘Get up to any b-ball down here?’ Truelove asked.
The tall man only looked at him, his eyes c
old. Truelove swallowed and faced front.
‘What’s the SASS again?’ the bald man asked Swift.
‘It’s the gulag where the SOC takes you once they capture you,’ Swift answered. ‘Though I think it’s rubble now. Rubble and slime. Like I told you, Scylla completely wasted the place.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Therese said. ‘We went back, and it looked like they shored it up pretty well.’
The worked brick ended and packed earth began, narrower and looking less stable as they continued to descend. Britton guessed this was Terramantic construction. Britton instinctively liked Big Bear, but he kept his magic ready and occasionally brushed his palm against the butt of his pistol, secreted in his lower back under his coat. He’d trusted the farmer Nelson, too, and he remembered keenly how far that had gotten him.
‘Swift tells us that you took names in the SASS, your own call signs, like the SOC. We do the same thing here,’ Big Bear said.
‘Not all of us did that,’ Therese answered.
Big Bear ignored her. ‘He goes by Spur now, on account of his basketball days.’ He gestured to the tall man. ‘The ladies are Guinevere and Iseult, and our scout who picked you up is Flicker.’
Britton nodded to Guinevere. ‘I still can’t get over that T-shirt.’
Guinevere laughed. ‘Isn’t it great! My idea. Not a lot of Selfers top the FBI list. Most get taken down and quickly, or aren’t important enough to rate that kind of publicity. We knew you were special right away. And all the press! We’ve been wanting to talk to you forever.’
‘You said this Witch, Scylla, destroyed the SASS?’ Iseult, the curly-haired woman, asked. Her voice had a trace of a New York accent though softer and more genteel than Flicker’s. ‘Swift’s described her to me. Did any of you ever get her real name?’
Britton shook his head. ‘We didn’t know anything about her other than that she’s completely crazy.’
‘Crazy smart,’ Therese said. ‘A good speaker. Smooth. You could tell she was educated, used to power. Belonged in a corporate boardroom.’