by John Dixon
Scarlett brushed reflexively at the back of her neck, where it felt like someone was tickling her with a feather. She turned and raised a brow. No one was messing with her, but her classmates were all smiling. Not at Scarlett and not at Rhoads—at the screen.
“Here at The Point, however,” Rhoads said, “Jagger tested unremarkably on math, ESP, everything. We began to suspect that he wasn’t posthuman at all, that his lucky streak had been just that, a lucky streak. But he was likable and seemed to have leadership skills, so we just sort of kept him on. Eventually, somebody misplaced his discharge papers, and we thought, What the heck? Why not keep the guy, see how he works out?”
The tickling on her neck intensified and crawled up her skull. Was a TK trying to get her attention? She glanced out the classroom door, half expecting to see Seamus, but the little glass square was empty. The disappointment that she felt surprised her.
“The posthuman program was new,” Rhoads said. “Things at Bragg were pretty sketchy. We were figuring things out as we went along. The idea was to create a unit of posthuman supersoldiers. But what we did there, it wasn’t a leadership program like The Point.”
Lopez’s snort cut through the air, making Scarlett jump. “You can say that again, sir.”
“These recruits hadn’t volunteered. They were conscripted. Many weren’t cut out to be soldiers. Out of desperation, we used experimental tactics to maintain control. Some were…harsh.”
Lopez nodded, absentmindedly fingering a long scar on his muscular forearm.
“Frankly, we didn’t know what we were doing,” Rhoads said. “The recruits were frightened and angry. They hated us and fought among themselves. The program was crumbling. Then we made Jagger platoon leader, and—” Rhoads snapped his fingers. “—our troubles were over. He was a natural leader. Suddenly, we didn’t care whether or not he had powers. The platoon needed him. We needed him.”
Lopez said, “Every night, Jagger held a meeting in the back bay. We told him our problems. He listened. Really listened. We could tell that he understood us and cared. He reported our complaints, and things changed. Jagger had our backs. So we wanted to make him happy and wanted to show Major Rhoads that we’d work harder for Jagger than we would for him and his goons.”
Scarlett noticed her classmates nodding and smiling. Why did they look so enthusiastic? Her skull tingled, and a touch of heat lit in her chest.
What’s going on?
A minuscule amount of energy was building inside her. Was she picking up some kind of radiation? Was Rhoads secretly testing her, targeting her with microwaves or something?
Rhoads said, “Much later, after the High Rollers’ mass escape, the guards testified that Jagger just sweet-talked his way out of The Farm. He simply suggested that the guards should release the inmates, and the guards opened the cells and gates and gave the departing inmates handshakes and high fives, along with cash and car keys and firearms. We took a much closer look at Antonio Jagger then. We went back through his files, all the way to security cam footage of him raking in the chips at Vegas and A.C. and Tishomingo. Analyzing the footage, we realized that Jagger had been playing us from day one.
“When we originally watched the footage, we’d seen what we were looking for—a slim, dark-haired man in sunglasses and flashy clothes, generally in the company of an attractive girl or two, scoring big wins at the blackjack table—but after the escape, revisiting the footage, we were struck right between the eyes by a lightning bolt of understanding.
“Zooming in on Jagger’s cards, we saw losing hand after losing hand. Jagger just acted like he’d won, and the dealers and players responded as if he’d plopped down a winning hand.
“Jagger is empathy without sympathy. He ‘gets’ people better than Oprah or Dr. Phil, but he’d draw you a warm bath to soothe your sore muscles, then talk you into slitting your wrists, just for the fun of watching the water turn pink.”
Scarlett’s classmates once more shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
“I’ve been watching you smile at his picture,” Rhoads said. “Raise your hand if, just seeing his image, you thought he seemed pretty cool.”
Hands rose sheepishly. A few at first, then others, and finally everyone but Dalia and Scarlett.
Rhoads nodded. “Like a master illusionist, Jagger projects likability. Add motion, body language, and the sound of his voice, and he can charm people like some kind of vampire.”
Lopez came forward. “Jagger would tell me to crush a skull or rip off an arm or spear my fingers into somebody’s guts and pull out their spine. I was his pet gorilla, and I did whatever he wanted. I was brainwashed. We all were. I’d still be with him if I hadn’t been in surgery when the High Rollers broke out. Once he was gone, my head cleared. When I understood what he’d made me do, I dedicated my life to killing the son of a bitch.”
“Tell them about the final mission,” Rhoads said.
“We were on operations in South America,” Lopez said. “We had business with a certain army officer who also happened to be a major drug trafficker. So we camped out with some villagers on his route. Primitive people, one foot back in the Stone Age. They worked his drug fields, and El Jefe gave them T-shirts and medicine, whiskey, stuff like that. Well, Jagger, he won these people over in a heartbeat, and they put us up. They were simple people. Hunter-gatherer types. Kids and dogs all over. They didn’t understand the first thing about the world outside. They just knew that they liked whiskey and candy. El Jefe, he was like a god to them. If they made him happy, they got junk food and firewater. If they pissed him off—and they were lazy and forgetful by nature, truly preindustrial folks—he’d kill one or two of them.
“I felt bad for them. They were small people with innocent eyes and big smiles. I liked them. We all did, even Jagger. But days passed, and then a week, and no sign of El Jefe. Whenever Jagger got bored, he got moody. After a couple of weeks, he got sick of the villagers. Started telling us how worthless they were. We knew that he felt that way about normal humans in general, but these people, they were so primitive, he said it offended him. Good for nothing but slaves, that’s what Jagger said. He started playing with them. He’d picked up their language—it’s crazy how fast he can learn a language—so he started telling them to do things. It was funny at first. ‘Act like a dog,’ he’d tell the village elder, and the guy would start barking and shaking his butt like he was wagging a tail, stuff like that. But the longer we waited there, the darker Jagger’s jokes got.” Lopez paused and looked at Rhoads.
“This is actual video from the village,” Rhoads said.
Grainy footage came to life on the screen. One of the villagers, a small man in a ratty Coca-Cola shirt, stood before a dark-haired soldier in camouflage fatigues and sunglasses.
Jagger.
Scarlett rubbed her chest as if she had heartburn. The energy there continued to build.
Jagger rattled something in a strange language that Scarlett had never heard. Subtitles scrolled across the bottom of the screen: “Your mother died today.”
The smiling villager’s face convulsed with shock, and he broke down crying.
Jagger faced the camera. “The dumb son of a bitch,” he said in English, his voice deep and full. “His mother’s been dead for years!”
Scarlett jumped, startled when her classmates burst into laughter.
Rhoads killed the clip.
The cadets’ laughter sputtered and died. They looked at the floor, blushing.
Scarlett glared at them. Why had they laughed at that twisted clip?
Because Jagger’s the man, some part of her brain whispered. Funnier than hell, and smart-smart-smart, and screw that stupid little villager, anyway. Primitive piece of…
Scarlett shook her head. Where had those thoughts come from?
“That was just a small dose,” Rhoads said. “Spend time with
Jagger, you’re his.”
“Jagger made the villagers fight for our entertainment,” Lopez said. “Men at first. Then he got bored and spiced things up with weird matches: eight kids and an old woman versus a strong man, stuff like that. The High Rollers stood by and watched. We cheered.” She could hear the shame and humiliation in his voice. “He made us cheer. I could puke just thinking about it.”
Lopez didn’t puke, though. He just kept talking, his voice cold and leaden, marching dutifully forward with his heavy pack of remorse hiked high on his shoulders. “One night Jagger pulled his Jeep into the center of the village and honked his horn, and everyone came out. The Jeep had a PA loudspeaker in the grill, and Jagger used it like a bullhorn. He got the villagers laughing and told them what he wanted them to do, and they all thought it was a great idea, and he told them all right, have at it. They went completely psychotic. No hesitation. They used machetes and rocks, knives and farming tools, hands and feet and teeth. It was a bloodbath. The last one standing was a boy about seventeen. He was laughing and crying and bleeding, and Jagger told him to slit his own throat, and the kid didn’t even hesitate.”
The strike force looked sick, shocked, and frightened.
“Making matters worse,” Rhoads said, “Jagger appears to be expanding his powers.” He advanced to the next slide, which showed Jagger on a rickety stage in what looked like an old country church. A congregation of wide-eyed worshippers crushed against the stage, reaching up toward Jagger with their right hands.
They look crazy, she thought, and felt the tingling again. She hadn’t even noticed that it had stopped in the first place, but it was back.
“Notice anything strange?” Rhoads asked.
“They’re all using a hand sign,” Uba said, and mirrored it. “An outstretched palm with the thumb tucked.”
“True,” Rhoads said, “but look again. Something’s even stranger.”
Scarlett saw it. “Jagger is levitating, sir.”
“Exactly,” Rhoads said, and pointed to Jagger’s boots, which were partially obscured by the reaching hands but were hovering six inches above the stage. “We have reports of him using other powers, too. Superstrength, speed, even healing. But using these powers seems to weaken him. We have accounts of him fading out like a narcoleptic, and he disappears for weeks after each terrorist event. We hope to catch him at low tide. Question, DeCraig?”
Lucy sat very straight, her eyes large behind her spectacles. It occurred to Scarlett then that her friend, who relied so heavily on self-control, must be feeling uniquely violated by Jagger’s strange influence. “Sir, how can we fight him if he has this type of persuasive power?”
“We’re trying to locate Jagger,” Rhoads said, and glanced toward Dalia. “We’ll use drone strikes to eliminate the threat.”
“But we’re drilling ambush and infil, sir.”
Rhoads nodded. “There’s a chance that we won’t be able to use drones.”
“In that case, sir—”
“In that case,” Lopez said, jumping in, “shoot first and ask questions later. Everyone strike at the same time, max power.”
Lucy rolled her shoulders, looking like she’d been given a kamikaze mission.
As Scarlett wrote “Shoot first, ask questions later,” Rhoads said, “If we zoom in, you’ll notice the woman on stage behind him. She’s Jagger’s closest confidante, Sadie Holt, twenty-five.”
Dalia gave a muffled gasp. Scarlett looked up from her notebook and watched Dalia close her mouth and narrow her bulging eyes.
Rhoads said, “Sadie wasn’t an original High Roller. She washed out of The Point and was convalescing at The Farm when Jagger escaped and took her with him. Sadie was the first somnopath we’d ever seen.”
The class shifted toward Dalia, who now sat with no expression on her face, pen in hand, feigning sudden interest in note taking.
“Jagger keeps her close,” Rhoads said. “If you see Sadie, Jagger is nearby.”
Scarlett finally looked at the screen and didn’t bother to muffle her gasp. She lurched to her feet and pointed at the girl with gray-streaked hair. “That’s Daisy,” she said, “my brother’s fiancée.”
WHEN SCARLETT CRAWLED THROUGH THE ropes and into the boxing ring, she was seething with rage and self-loathing. Although logically she knew that she couldn’t have known the truth about “Daisy,” as Rhoads had pointed out in his office after the briefing, she couldn’t help but feel that she should have known, should have sensed the threat in her gut or bones or blood.
But she hadn’t. She’d sat beside her and accepted her comfort and hugged her good-bye.
Her first concern then had been her parents, but Rhoads placed the call and learned that her parents were still safe in North Carolina.
“Daisy” had checked out immediately after the funeral. Scarlett listened while Rhoads made several calls, setting agencies into motion. Within an hour, they learned that her apartment was abandoned and the person she’d claimed to be, Daisy Belfort, a psychology student at NC State, just up the road from Camp Lejeune, had never existed. All a lie, all a ruse to…
“But why?” Scarlett demanded. “Why bother to seduce Dan?”
“Maybe to get close to you,” Rhoads said. “Or to learn more about you. If I know Jagger, though, the main reason was to hurt and disturb you. It wasn’t enough to kill your brother. He had to make you feel violated, had to make you—and all of us here at The Point—feel vulnerable.”
Rhoads remained in his office, trying to hunt her down, but sent Scarlett to spar with her teammates, saying, “It’ll help you to blow off steam.”
Coal-burning power plants generate steam, Scarlett had thought, which spins turbines, creating electrical energy.
If Clayton felt bad about Scarlett’s revelation in the briefing, he didn’t show it. Goaded on by Lopez, he rushed at her like a tsunami of muscle.
Just how Scarlett wanted it.
She lay on the ropes and let the gigantic meathead hammer away.
Lopez shouted for her to fire back, but she ignored him.
A few seconds later, when Clayton stopped punching to catch his breath, she mumbled insults through the mouthpiece and beckoned her massive opponent to hit her some more.
Clayton pummeled her with thudding shots, walloping her with wide hooks and looping overhands that filled Scarlett with bouncing force that pumped her muscles full of hissing lava.
Outside the ring, cadets shouted encouragement, though Scarlett couldn’t say whether they were shouting to Clayton or to her. She was too focused on channeling energy.
Using the mindfulness Dalia had taught her, she focused on the task, blurring out the world and the voices. Clayton’s punches became a kind of cadence, a rhythmic boom-boom-boom that was the heartbeat of her concentration as she redirected the pulsing energy from her muscles to her bones, as if it were the result not of concussion but of sound, the force she’d always been able to handle best.
Her bones sucked the force from her muscles, and the urgent burning fire that had been building within her became a manageable vibration throughout her skeleton.
Yes!
Clayton stepped back, huffing like an exhausted draft horse, and stared at her with his mouth wide open.
Scarlett opened her own mouth and released a blast of sound that knocked the meathead off his feet and shattered the glass of the equipment room’s door.
After that, no one stood a chance.
One after another, strike force members climbed through the ropes, tried her, and failed.
Soon, she realized that just as she could convert and redirect received force, storing it as sound energy, she also could switch channels upon opening her bones.
With Hopkins, she absorbed a round’s worth of telekinetic haymakers, stored them as sound in her bones, and then transmuted them into gravitational fo
rce that slammed the TK to the ground and pinned him to the canvas like a bug smashed against a windshield. Truth be told, Scarlett could have smashed him just as flat, but she held back and released extra energy between rounds, battering nearby heavy bags with powerful barrages of telekinetic strikes.
Lopez looked on with a grudging smile.
She’d done it. She’d broken through at last.
Thank you, Dan.
She went easy on her final opponent, Lucy, who, with her great height and skinny physique, looked ridiculous bobbing and weaving in puffy gloves and headgear, like a sunflower in a windstorm. Lucy pattered away with invisible jabs that glanced and grazed lightly off Scarlett’s headgear. After the bell rang, Scarlett gave her roomie a hug, turned to Lopez, and said, “That’s it. That’s everyone. Can we call it a day?”
Lopez chuckled, a sound like a meat grinder gobbling a whole haunch, bone and all. “Anybody want another shot at Winter?” He laughed again. “Going once, going twice—”
“I’ll spar with her,” a familiar voice said.
Seamus slipped through the ropes.
“No,” Scarlett said. “You’re not part of the strike force.”
Seamus rolled his shoulders as if they were going to have a fistfight. “You want to be their weapon? Fight the best, then.”
“Seamus, this is stupid,” she said.
The cadets stomped the bleachers in a thunderous roll and started cheering, “Kyeong! Kyeong the Cannon!”
Scarlett’s heart leaped in her chest. “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, but I’m not going to fight you.”
“Ten seconds,” Lopez shouted from ringside.
She stepped toward him. “Seamus, please.”
He circled away, looking angry—and sad, too. “No, Scarlett. This is the reality. It’s easy to fight someone you hate, like Hopkins, or someone big, like Dunne, who you know can take it, but if you’re going to be their weapon, that means that they point you. They pull the trigger.”