by John Dixon
A geyser of power gushed from Scarlett and blasted a steaming tunnel through the wall into an adjacent corridor.
Then it was over. Alarms sounded, and sprinklers rained down.
Scarlett stood there, alone at center stage, shuddering, her consciousness dimming in and out like a dying lightbulb. With the last strength remaining to her, she stumbled toward a shape lying in the shadows, and called to the healers, “Help Seamus!”
WEEKS LATER, WITH A MILD sun shining down from a perfect blue sky, Scarlett marched with her fellow plebes across bright green grass to join the upperclassmen already in formation between the bleachers, where their families cheered, and the stage, where Colonel Rhoads stood, smiling down, flanked by Drill Sergeant Lopez and The Point’s official West Point liaison, Captain Fuller. Lopez, once more a drill sergeant, even wore his Smokey the Bear campaign hat for the graduation ceremony, which was being held not at West Point—The Point had struggled too hard to stay out of the news to hold a formal service in broad daylight upon the field—but at a local high school football stadium secured by Senator Ditko, who eschewed the stage to sit in the bleachers alongside his family, including Sav, whose voice Scarlett could hear, and little Penny, who, having completed rehabilitation, would be joining The Point as a Level III recruit on R-Day, making her the youngest plebe in history. She was lucky to be alive. If someone other than Chantel Uba had delivered the blow that had knocked her out of the fight, Penny probably would have died. Uba, however, had taken the time to attack precisely, with restraint, and it had cost her everything.
Following decorum, Scarlett took only a quick glance toward the bottom row of the bleachers, where her parents applauded happily. Consciously or unconsciously, they had left a gap beside them.
Dan.
Despite the beautiful day, cheering families, and triumphant music, a funeral dirge moaned within Scarlett’s heart and certainly within the hearts of those in attendance, as well as tens of thousands not in attendance, who had no idea that The Point even existed. The Point had suffered fifty-seven deaths. Nearly two-thirds of those killed were cadets. Virtually every survivor had suffered significant injuries. Above, in West Point proper, the losses were nothing short of staggering. Although the cadets had stopped fighting seconds after Jagger’s death, nearly 1,500 of the nation’s finest young officers had lost their lives.
The White House had officially blamed the tragedy on terrorists and a chemical agent that had induced temporary psychosis. America was largely mollified by the explanation, and that was no real surprise. With a scapegoat identified, fear and outrage had paradoxically calmed the masses. That being said, in the weeks since the attack, a steady stream of black suits and white jackets had scoured The Point. Government agents had grilled everyone—and no one more than me, Scarlett thought bitterly—and government scientists had subjected cadets and cadre to an exhaustive battery of tests. They’d collected blood and urine, run MRIs and stress tests, administered polygraphs, done narco-analytical interrogations, and even conducted bizarre empathy examinations like the ones Scarlett had seen in that old movie Blade Runner. Testing was over, thankfully, but a team of government “observers” would remain at The Point indefinitely. They lurked in classrooms, patrolled hallways, eavesdropped within the barracks, and had the authority to question anyone anytime about anything.
Recently, General Christian Paul Baca, the secretary of the army, had visited The Point to voice the president’s gratitude and hold a Q&A session for the cadets. When General Baca stated that the president viewed The Point as the nation’s answer to all posthuman threats, foreign and domestic, Lucy, who’d been badly rattled by losing control to Jagger but otherwise had come through the event without serious injury, asked, “Sir, are other countries training posthumans?”
General Baca smiled. “We have every confidence that the United States will be well prepared to win the arms race of the Posthuman Cold War…should one arise.”
Not exactly an encouraging response.
But also not something to think about today, Scarlett reminded herself.
Today she would set aside her grief, suspend her anxieties, and celebrate. Despite the tragedy, the firsties were graduating, and the other classes were moving on, which made her very happy. She now felt proud to be part of The Point, but the notion of repeating plebe year held about as much appeal as gargling battery acid.
She and her classmates maneuvered into formation beside the surviving yearlings, who soon would be declared cows.
Someone goosed her. She managed not to jump, didn’t look around, and didn’t need to. She knew that the perpetrator wasn’t standing behind her. He was standing in the adjacent formation, probably suppressing a grin.
Nothing could erase the awful events of this year, but Seamus at least made things better. If the tragedy had a silver lining, it was his recovery and the second chance he’d not only earned but accepted. Still no fan of Rhoads, Seamus at least had begun counseling and committed to moving forward with his class.
Unlike his fellow yearling, Dalia.
“It’s not an ideal solution,” Rhoads had said, explaining that Dalia would remain at The Farm, under heavy sedation. “It’s the only solution.”
They couldn’t take chances with Dalia, Rhoads explained. She was too damaged and too powerful.
Most of the High Rollers remained at The Farm, undergoing rehabilitation. A few, like Penny, had been out-processed after completing rehab. At Rhoads’s insistence, The Farm also was undergoing a transformation. Apparently, falling under Jagger’s spell had caused the colonel to reevaluate the facility. Security remained priority one, but The Farm was evolving from a terrifying prison asylum into a legitimate correctional facility. Only the most severe and dangerous cases—including Dalia and Sadie—would remain underground.
Scarlett felt bad for Dalia despite what Dalia had done to her, but she hoped Sadie suffered every second of every day for the rest of her life. Maybe that wasn’t very forgiving, but everyone had limitations, and she would never forget Sadie’s soft embrace at Dan’s funeral.
The music stopped, and Rhoads asked those in attendance to stand for the Pledge and the playing of the national anthem. Then he thanked the parents for attending, outlined the day’s significance, and began speaking again of the tragedy. “The dead will never be forgotten,” he said, “and their sacrifice will persist in strengthening our resolve.”
Rhoads segued into his recognition of the cadets “in whose honor we are today gathered upon this verdant field.” He spoke in hallowed tones, and Scarlett couldn’t help but think of Jagger, whose voice had been as deadly as an atomic warhead.
But not to me, thank God, not to me.
Otherwise none of this would be happening. How many of these people would even be alive? You wouldn’t need a set of bleachers to seat them, that was for sure.
Yet she felt no pride. Her resistance to Jagger’s commands had, after all, had nothing to do with resolve or resourcefulness. Her ultimate gamble, which had hinged on not only resisting a superpowered blast of charisma but repurposing that energy to free everyone and defeat Jagger, had been incredibly reckless.
So no, she didn’t feel proud. She only felt lucky.
Rhoads called Uba’s parents onto the stage. Scarlett had seen Mr. and Mrs. Uba at the Christmas feast. Mr. Uba had struck her as large and powerfully built, with a loud voice that floated on a sea of rich laughter. Mrs. Uba had been athletically compact and absolutely vibrant with her expressive face, animated gestures, and fluid movement. Now, however, they moved slowly and stiffly, as if they’d aged thirty years. They looked small and frail in clothes that hung loose on their stooped frames, like trick-or-treat mock-ups of their former selves.
Rhoads spoke of their daughter’s accomplishments and character and the phrase that haunts every service member’s parents: the ultimate sacrifice.
“I
t is my great honor,” Rhoads said, “to announce the institution of the Chantel Uba Memorial Award, which will be presented at the conclusion of each academic year to a cadet who has displayed exemplary courage, character, and commitment to The Point.”
The Ubas smiled and nodded and wiped at tears, obviously moved, and Scarlett felt a lump form in her own throat. Uba had been 100 percent squared away, a totally committed cadet who ate, slept, and dreamed The Point. If anyone deserved the award Rhoads was describing, it was Uba.
“Mr. and Mrs. Uba,” Rhoads said, “I would ask you to stay onstage and help me congratulate this year’s recipient of the Chantel Uba Memorial Award, a cadet who displayed courage, character, and commitment while saving The Point.”
Scarlett felt her face go red.
“Cadet Scarlett Winter,” Rhoads said, “please come forward to receive your award.”
Scarlett’s legs followed orders, moving her out of formation and toward the stage, but her face burned, and her thoughts were a string of question marks. The moment didn’t feel real. It felt like her head had disconnected from her neck and was bobbing high above her marching body like a red balloon filled with air that was growing hotter and hotter as she registered the smiling faces awaiting her on stage and the loud applause thundering behind her. Invisible fingers goosed her again and again as she marched up the steps and across the stage, Seamus’s telekinesis nipping at her butt like a Chihuahua.
Rhoads started talking about the things Scarlett had done, but she didn’t hear it, not really. She was too shocked and overwhelmed and far too conscious of the Ubas, who smiled at her with admiration that she didn’t deserve. Then Rhoads handed her a plaque and shook her hand, and Mr. Uba shook her hand, and Mrs. Uba hugged her. She was surprised by the firmness of Mr. Uba’s handshake and the fierceness of Mrs. Uba’s embrace. Despite outward appearances, despite their unfathomable loss, impressive strength still dwelled within this man and woman. Realizing this, Scarlett experienced another surprise: a surge of unfettered optimism.
She belonged here and was proud to be part of The Point. If the nation did face posthuman threats, foreign or domestic, she would draw strength from this moment and annihilate those enemies.
“Thank you,” she said, and started back toward the ranks. Glancing toward the bleachers, she saw her mother clapping. The torturous nightmare images that had shown her mother dead from suicide fortunately had turned out to be an illusion that was based on nothing but a manifestation of Scarlett’s deep-seated fears and Dalia’s cruelty. Despite her mother’s bright smile, Scarlett knew that she was still struggling, still hurting, but for today at least, she was happy. Sometimes that was all you had. Sometimes happy for today was all you could hope for and all that mattered.
Her father stood ramrod straight beside his wife. And then Master Sergeant Charles Winter, U.S. Army, retired—a man who’d tormented his family but who’d obviously battled demons not to do far worse, a man who’d saved hundreds of lives and never breathed a word of his heroism—broke Scarlett’s heart when he raised his hand in a salute.
Scarlett returned the salute, rejoined the ranks, and spent the rest of the ceremony in a kind of happy haze—thankful for her family and friends, her life and this place, her future, the warmth of sunlight on her face and fresh air and the smell of flowers and the sound of birdsong on the spring breeze—until Rhoads announced that the cadets were shifting ahead into the future.
Scarlett and her classmates, now yearlings, cheered loudly.
Finally, to the wild cheers and applause of all in attendance, the new graduates tossed their caps into the air. The hats fluttered against the blue sky like a flock of disoriented birds, and then, with TKs throughout the ranks grinning conspiratorially, the shiny black caps gathered into a wedge formation, whooshed in a wide circle overhead, and settled squarely down onto the heads of The Point’s newest senior class.
For Allison Skiff,
the best sister-in-law in the world
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
On the long road from initial concept to published book, I was lucky to march alongside a platoon of incredibly talented and hardworking people:
Keith Clayton, my publisher at Del Rey. You made this book happen, unwittingly convinced me to purchase a standing desk, and introduced me to bacon-dusted tater tots.
Tricia Narwani, the most metal editor in the universe. I love working with you. Thank you so much for your killer ideas, high-octane enthusiasm, and supremely sinister coolness.
Matt Schwartz, a top-notch friend and the smartest guy I know. When I wandered, lost in the wilderness of this book, your bright ideas led me not out but deeper. Thanks for everything, bud.
David Moench, Julie Leung, David Stevenson, Eric Lowenkron, Ryan Kearney, Nancy Delia, and everyone at Del Rey. Thank you for your kindness, hard work, and support.
Lieutenant Colonel Bryan Price at the United States Military Academy. Thank you for showing me West Point, sharing hilarious stories, answering countless questions, and buying me lunch. There were no bacon-dusted tater tots, but the view and the company were second to none.
Don Bentley, my friend and first reader. You’re not very good at Ping-Pong, but thanks for making this a better book and for encouraging me every step of the way.
Frank Parisi and Craig DiLouie, who helped me get this book off the ground and who were always there when I needed to talk. You guys are aces.
Thanks to my beautiful wife and best friend, Christina, without whom I would achieve nothing. Thank you for your unwavering support, faith, and encouragement. I love you so much.
Our amazing daughter, Ellie, who showed up during the writing of this book to steal my heart and make my life perfect. Daddy loves you!
Allison Skiff, Carole McLean, and Claire DeLise, for keeping Ellie safe and happy while I battled giant centipedes in the writing cave.
Finally, thanks to you, dear reader. Without you, these words would remain in the cold, dark void between the covers of an unread book. Thanks for giving Scarlett’s story a chance.
BY JOHN DIXON
Phoenix Island
Devil’s Pocket
The Point
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JOHN DIXON’s first two novels, Phoenix Island and Devil’s Pocket, won back-to-back Bram Stoker Awards and inspired the CBS TV series Intelligence. A former boxer, teacher, and stonemason, John lives in West Chester, Pennsylvania, with his wife, daughter, and freeloading dog.
johndixonbooks.com
Facebook.com/johndixonbooks
Twitter: @johndixonbooks
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