by Myke Cole
Fitzy advanced. Britton retreated, hands extended. “Sir, I’ve done some MAC before, but I’m not ready to…”
Fitzy snapped a kick at Britton’s knee. Britton jerked his leg back, slapping the boot down, but Fitzy landed on it and brought the other foot up, crashing into Britton’s head and sending him sprawling. Even under the influence of the Dampener, the magic threatened to surface, and Britton concentrated on shunting it back.
“Get up,” Fitzy said.
Britton propped himself up on his elbows, hesitating.
“Learning to take a hit is the first step to being able to deliver one, Novice. Now get the hell up, or I’ll just pound you while you’re down.”
Britton jumped to his feet, and Fitzy snapped a jab at his face. Britton dodged, trying to remember what little MAC he’d had before. As an aviator, it had hardly been stressed, and he regretted his refusal to “roll” with the rest of his team when they practiced between sorties. He hooked Fitzy’s arm in his own, whipping his elbow toward the chief warrant officer’s face. Fitzy jerked his head back and out of the way, flexing his hooked arm. The man was impossibly strong. Despite being half his size, he yanked Britton toward him, using his own momentum against him. Fitzy’s fist pounded Britton’s gut so hard that he lost his dinner, forcing the Master Suppressor to leap backward to avoid being spattered.
Britton collapsed in his own vomit, gasping.
“Jesus, Keystone,” Fitzy said. “That’s disgusting. Now, get up, and let’s give this another round.”
CHAPTER XVI: SCYLLA
MAC? Yeah, it’s pretty cool. Mixed martial arts, more Brazilian Jiujitsu than anything. SOC operators put all their eggs in that basket. In any magical school, there’s little need to carry more than a sidearm, but if someone gets the drop on you, or you’re off the Dampener and can’t get your mojo going — sometimes a good old-fashioned can of ass-whoopin’ is called for. My bootheel on your spine is every bit as effective as a fireball in your face.
— Lieutenant “Sunspot” (call sign), SOC Liaison Officer (LNO)/
Pyromantic Assault Team Leader, 101st Airborne Division
Despite the drubbing Fitzy had given him, Britton was in a celebratory mood. He played with the Dampener as he sat in the OC, chatting with the rest of Shadow Coven, calling the current, then shunting it back, thrilled to feel some semblance of control, no matter how slight.
Downer’s enthusiasm was infectious. Britton’s early irritation at her flip-flopping allegiance was replaced by genuine joy at seeing someone so happy. Richards shook his mug of beer, and Downer animated the foam across the top. Sudsy elementals lined the bartop, boxing with a weird, multitailed rat that Richards had Whispered to his command. She giggled as the rat made short work of one elemental, rolling in the foam, then licking the suds off its fur while the remaining creature flailed at it ineffectually.
Truelove and Marty cheered uproariously, the little Goblin wiggling its fingertips and making deep-throated barking noises that Britton assumed were supportive.
“Outstanding.” Britton chuckled, patting Downer on the back. A piece of him rebelled against the comfort. Don’t get settled. You can’t stay here. You have to find a way to escape. But you’re not Swift. You don’t have to rebel for rebellion’s sake. Why not stay here? What better life is waiting for you if you break free?
Britton pushed the thought away as Downer turned at his patting. “What about you?”
“What about me?” he responded.
Britton looked at her. Truelove paused in midsentence.
“A gate, silly,” she said. “Open one.”
Britton looked around the empty room. “…I don’t think I’m supposed to. What about your precious regs? You’re not even supposed to be making those beer monsters.”
Downer looked down at her lap and shrugged, suddenly looking very young. Truelove said nothing, but his eyes lit up. Marty set his cup of sugar water down on the counter and blinked.
“Okay,” Britton said, thinking of places he’d visited. “It only works for places I’ve been before. What do you want? Statue of Liberty? Grand Canyon?”
Downer said nothing, cheeks still burning over Britton’s rebuke. “Ever been to Mount Rushmore?” Truelove asked. “I’ve been telling Marty about it.”
Britton had, once, on a road trip with his father as a high-school freshman. The forced attempt at bonding had been a cold, drawn-out week that Britton couldn’t wait to end.
“Not sure if this’ll work,” he said, concentrating. “It was a long time ago.” He closed his eyes, trying to recall the wonder he’d felt as the massive stone faces had appeared over the guardrail along the side of the road, eclipsing Stanley Britton’s brooding presence with a sense of posterity, permanence, and majesty.
The gate sliced through the middle of the guardrail. Four stone presidents fixed stately gazes from the distant mountain. There was a squeal of tires as a passing car swerved away from the gate. Britton saw it slew right and left, nearly careening into the far guardrail before righting itself and speeding away. He closed the gate.
“Christ,” he said. “Don’t tell anybody about that.”
He rubbed his head. Calling the current had exacerbated his headache, still hurting from the pummeling Fitzy had given him.
“You okay?” Richards asked.
“Yeah, the MAC practice is a little rough,” Britton responded as Marty clucked in his throat and began rooting through his leather bag.
“You need a Healer,” Downer said. “Fix you right up.”
Britton thought briefly of Therese, the warmth of her hand on his face. He stopped, momentarily stunned. A Physiomancer put this bomb in your chest. A Physiomancer could get it out.
The next morning continued along the same lines. Britton woke himself just in time to bolt down breakfast and make his way back to the SASS.
Downer had beaten him there. She stood with Therese, Swift, and the rest of the enrollees gathering outside the schoolhouse as he passed through the gate. The enrollees stood stiffly, staring at something, cigarettes held forgotten in their hands. He made his way toward Therese as the guards dragged the barriers back into place but stopped short.
The door to the pillbox stood open, its interior shrouded with shadow. Goblin contractors worked inside it with brooms and hoses.
Britton followed the gazes of the enrollees and saw two Suppressor guards following a few paces behind a woman. Her skin had the unhealthy pallor of one denied sunlight, the blue tracery of veins clearly visible. Her jet-black hair was cut in a severe bob, the points almost sharp where they passed the line of her jaw. She was thin, tall, and clad in a one-piece orange jumpsuit similar to the one Britton had worn when he was first captured. Her hands were cuffed before her.
She made her way slowly around the compound, stretching her legs and working kinks out of her neck. The Suppressors gave her a wide berth, their fingers braced along the trigger guards of their guns, eyes never leaving her rolling shoulders.
She turned a face dominated by large eyes with jet-black pupils and smiled at the No-No Crew. Many of them genuflected at her, save Swift, who only nodded briefly. Her grin was all teeth, huge and vulpine. And yet there was no denying her beauty, an older, experienced brand, sensual and wise. Britton felt his pulse quicken at the sight of her.
“That’s her,” Pyre said. “That’s the queen of Selfers right there. One of these days, she’s going to bust out of there and make these fuckers in the SOC pay for what they’ve done to us. One of these days, she’s going to set us free.”
Britton only nodded. For a man talking about his savior, Pyre sounded terrified.
The woman rounded the corner of one of the Quonset huts and met his gaze evenly, the smile never faltering. “Oscar Britton,” she said as she approached. “You’re even prettier in the sunlight.”
“Ma’am,” he said instinctively, responding to the authority she projected.
“Oh, there’s no need for that. You can call me
Scylla.”
“That’s not your real name.”
“I’m beyond names. So are you. That’s why they’re terrified of us.”
“Shut up and keep moving, ma’am,” one of the guards said from behind her.
“See?” Scylla said to Britton, not even acknowledging the guard. “Can you hear the terror in the human’s voice? This little gulag is all to buy them a little more time before they’re forced to face reality.”
“What reality is that?” Britton asked.
The guard inched forward, as if to touch her, appeared to think better of it, and looked askance at his partner, who likewise refused to move.
“The reality we all see around us but refuse to acknowledge, human and Latent alike. That we are a new race, better adapted to our environment than the old. The humans can imprison us for a time, but, sooner or later, we will rule them as surely as they rule dogs and cows.”
“That’s…crazy,” Britton stammered. Is it?
“That’s the way it is,” she went on. “You know it as surely as I do. Think on it, Oscar Britton. You possess the ability to move between the fabric of dimensions under your own power, and yet you are hounded and ruled by those who cannot even fly through the air without the aid of a machine. How does that make sense?”
Britton struggled to find a way to refute her, but the fact was that it didn’t make sense.
“Welcome to the new apartheid, Oscar Britton,” Scylla said. “It will fare no better than the old one.”
“Get moving,” one of the guards said, finally mustering his courage and pushing her from behind. Scylla stumbled forward a step and slowly looked over her shoulder, her smile fading as she met the guard’s eyes.
“CWO-2 Blankenship. Three good conduct medals. Recently treated for gallstones. Your boards are coming in a month, and while your dog tags mark you as a Christian, you don’t really believe it.”
Blankenship’s mouth worked, his eyes wide and terrified. “It can’t be magic,” his partner said. “I’ve got her Suppressed.”
Scylla smiled. “Do you know why I was put in the hole?”
“Everybody knows,” Blankenship said, instinctively leveling his weapon at her.
“It might not earn your respect, but it should at least earn your fear. So. Don’t. Ever. Push. Me.”
Both guards took a step back, mouths open. One jerked his weapon at her. “Let’s go. You get an hour of exercise. Use it or lose it.”
Scylla turned back to Britton. “See? Terrified. Never forget that, Oscar. These people may limit your movements for now, but deep down? You own them.”
She moved past him, her elbow brushing his stomach and sending chills through him, the guards dogging behind, squared shoulders and long strides obvious efforts to mask their fear.
Britton made his way to the knot of SASS enrollees entering the schoolhouse.
“What was that all about?” Therese asked him.
“I’m not really sure,” he said. “You weren’t kidding about her being creepy, though. How’d she wind up in the hole in the first place? She said everybody knows.”
“She got one of her Suppressors to drop her for a moment. That was all it took. By the time she was done, she’d unleashed hell.”
“Hell?”
“Twenty, maybe thirty dead.”
“How? She some kind of super Pyromancer?”
“Scylla’s a Witch,” Wavesign said. “Negramancy. It’s supposedly nasty, nasty stuff. Black magic and all that.” His vapor field intensified, Britton guessed as a reaction to his fear.
“But how does it work?” Britton asked. “Does she turn people into toads?”
Therese shuddered, and Wavesign looked at his feet. “It’s nasty,” he said eventually. Britton noted his discomfort and didn’t press the matter.
“How’d she get the Suppressor to drop her?” he asked instead. “She whack him over the head?”
Therese looked even more uncomfortable, and Wavesign kept his eyes on his feet.
“She, you know,” Swift said, trailing off.
“Oh,” Britton said. Scylla wasn’t an unattractive woman, for all her wicked charisma. She’d used the only tool she’d had to hand.
“How’s it going, Wavesign?” Britton asked, trying to change the subject, extending his hand.
“Don’t do that,” the young Hydromancer responded. “I’ll just get you wet.”
“I don’t mind if you do,” Britton responded, shaking his hand. His grip was slippery, like trying to run kelp through one’s palms. Britton suppressed an instinct to grimace. The kid already had problems without further damage to his ego. The boy nodded shyly, then cast a glance up at Pyre and Swift, as if seeking their permission.
Inside the schoolhouse, Salamander cued up another video, this one showing Aeromancers working weather control for the coast guard, rescuing shipwrecked fishermen.
Swift sidled over to Britton and whispered, “Sorry about yesterday,” when Salamander stepped out to use the latrine. “Let’s start over.”
“Wow,” Britton murmured back. “Scylla really put the fear in you, didn’t she?”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it, Swift? Cut to the damned chase.” He could almost feel his cheek, still stinging from Swift’s nails. “I’m no fool. I don’t believe you suddenly want to be friends.”
Swift sighed and looked at his lap. Both Therese and Wavesign were looking over at them. Pyre leaned his chair against the wall, arms folded, pretending to sleep, but Britton could tell he was listening. Every so often he would open one eye and glance over at Downer to make sure she wasn’t eavesdropping, but the young Elementalist was sitting at the front of the class as usual, and if she overheard, she gave no sign. Tsunami stared intently at them but was too far away to hear anything. Wavesign glanced nervously at the door every so often. “It’s the gate magic. You’re a Portamancer.”
Britton tried to meet Swift’s eyes, but the pale man looked steadily at his lap. “What about it?”
“You can get us out of here. Why haven’t you escaped already?”
“Maybe I don’t want to escape.” Is that true? Britton asked himself. Are you enjoying finally being in control, no longer having to run? His stomach turned over at the thought.
Swift looked amazed and horrified.
“Anyway,” Britton said, his voice sounding apologetic in his own ears. “It won’t work. They tagged me with some kind of tracking device that can detonate. I run, I die.”
Swift finally looked up, his eyes dancing. “There has to be a way to get it out.”
There is a way, Britton thought looking over at Therese. But can I ask her? Will she rat me out? He didn’t think she would, but how could he know?
They proceeded along the same lines for the next week. Mornings were spent in the SASS, watching propaganda videos and working on basic magical control. Then Britton and Downer reported back to Fitzy for classroom instruction, meditation, and another propaganda video, chased with basic group-magic exercises. Richards summoned battalions of rats and spiders, while Downer and Truelove practiced their animations, with Britton sometimes dispatching their creations, slicing them in half with the flickering edge of a gate. He always opened them on the black recesses of an area off LSA Portcullis’s loading bay that Fitzy had designated as his staging area. “Gate here at will,” Fitzy said. “You show up anywhere else? You’ll have cost the army a good bit of money.” Britton’s one attempt to open a gate on Harlequin’s office had earned him a Suppressing and boot to the back of his knee from Fitzy.
“Pinpoint gating,” Fitzy observed the first time he’d noticed that Britton was actually opening his gates on the same location. “You picked that up quickly.” He made a note on a pad thrust into his belt and moved ahead with training.
For all his talk, Britton found Salamander surprisingly lenient, at times like a kindly old father, even giving them the day off control practice to play pickup football in the SASS yard. Britton sat
with Therese and watched Swift weave through the other enrollees, the ball tucked under his arm.
“Guy’s got talent,” Britton said.
Therese nodded. “He does. Pyre says he was a receiver in high school. But he cheats a lot, too.”
“Cheats?” Britton asked.
“Watch.” She grinned.
A squat woman with broad shoulders and short hair, whom Britton recognized from the No-No Crew, raced to intercept Swift. “That’s Peapod,” Therese said. “She never told me her real name. Woman’s rugby star at U of New Hampshire.” She ducked her head and angled toward him, lowering her shoulders and pushing from her thighs. She moved directly across Swift’s path, there was no way Britton could see for him to avoid her.
Britton smiled as Peapod’s thick thigh muscles propelled her on, steady as a freight train. “Oh, man,” he said. “This is going to hurt.”
Swift grinned, stuck out an arm.
His fingertips lightly brushed Peapod’s forehead as he vaulted over her, corkscrewing through the air and landing behind her, not missing a step.
“He’s an Aeromancer,” Britton said, swiveling to look at Salamander, who stood with his arms crossed, chuckling.
Therese nodded.
“Isn’t he going to get in trouble?” Britton asked.
“I told you, Salamander’s a good guy. He lets it slide when it’s harmless like this. I personally think he likes it.”
“Because it demonstrates control.”
Therese nodded. “Yeah. And I think it does his heart good to see people playing with magic. It can get kind of serious in the SOC, you know?”
Britton nodded. “Do I ever. I think that’s what bugs me the most about magic.”