by Myke Cole
The Goblin smiled. “Follow. I show you.”
Britton followed him out of the urinalysis section toward the entrance, where they turned down another narrow aisle to a smaller attached tent under the sign reading BURN UNIT.
The room was more crowded than the rest of the hospital, with nurses and orderlies squeezing between beds pushed so tightly together that there was little room for the tables piled with equipment. Marty made his way to a bed where a young man lay asleep under a thin blanket, his vital signs pinging faintly on a monitor.
“That’s…Lenko, right?” Britton asked. “The guy who got tagged by indirect the first night we met…”
Marty nodded. “You save him.”
“No, Marty. Come on. You saved him.”
“Soldiers anger. Not want me. You save him.” He pulled back the blanket to show the specialist’s legs and hips, covered with hairless skin, pink and shiny under the light.
“Healer fix burn. But Lenko now sick underneath. Healer not help that.”
“An infection?” Britton thought of Dawes as Lenko moaned in his sleep, twitching.
Marty wiggled his ears. “Sick. Maybe he live. I see every day.”
Britton looked back to Lenko, watching his face, seeming even younger in sleep.
“Marty, you’re the fucking man, you know that? You’re amazing.”
“You fixed. I work. Bye-bye,” Marty said, smiling.
He turned away, one gnarled brown figure among many, carrying his specimen tray out of the tent, around a corner, and out of sight.
CHAPTER XVIII: WORM
“Whispering” is as deceptive a term as I’ve ever heard. “Hammering” is more like it. How about “will crushing” or better yet “mind control.” Let’s call this thing what it really is. You are taking a creature, stripping of it of its free will, and overriding it with your own. You are making it a slave. We outlawed that among humans. It’s high time we did it with animals too.
— Arnold Dishart, Vice President
People for the Moral Treatment of Animals (PMTA)
Swift avoided Britton the next morning, but Britton caught him casting furtive glances his way. Swift’s smoking anger still lurked below the surface, but Britton felt it cowed for the moment. Because now he feels that he needs me. Because now he knows I could be a potential way out of here. Seems like just about everybody’s got a use for me.
Wavesign continued to work on his magic with no appreciable results. Britton took it upon himself to join Therese, trying to talk him down from the emotional surges that were too strong for even the Dampener to manage properly. Only Britton and Therese were willing to withstand the soakings anyone working with him had to endure when his magic went wrong. While working with Britton, Wavesign lost control of his vapor cloud and generated a small river, which flowed around him, soaking Therese, Britton, Swift, and Pyre to the ankles. Britton chuckled, and Swift kept silent; but Pyre cursed and slapped Wavesign on the back of his head. “Fucking A, man! It’s cold enough out here already!”
Wavesign looked horrified and humiliated, and Britton paused. Are you going to take that? He waited another moment, and realized that, yes, Wavesign was going to take that. Just as Therese opened her mouth to say something, Britton stepped forward and cuffed Pyre on the ear, sending him staggering backward. “You touch him again, and wet feet are going to be the least of your problems.”
Pyre looked up at Britton, stunned, his mouth dropping open. “Maybe all this babying him doesn’t help, you ever think of that? Maybe what he needs is a firm hand.”
Britton snorted. “Look around you, genius. He’s in a prison. A military prison. That a firm enough hand for you?”
Salamander jogged over. “Problem, gentlemen?”
Britton shook his head.
“No problem,” Pyre said, cupping his ear and walking away, making an exaggerated showing of shaking off his soaking feet. Salamander nodded and returned to the rest of the group.
“Why do you put up with that?” Britton asked.
“Whatever,” Wavesign said. “It’s not…it’s…just. I can understand where he’s coming from. It’s annoying.”
“Sure, but that doesn’t mean you deserve to be treated like that,” Britton said. “You’ve got to stand up for yourself.”
“Are you okay?” Therese fussed over him, but Wavesign pushed her hands away.
“It’s fine,” he said.
“We’ve been at this for a while,” Britton said. “What do you think is holding you back?”
“It’s like I’m in a circle,” the boy confessed. “The magic comes to my feelings, you know? It comes when I’m sad. So what do you do when you’re sad all the time?”
Britton looked over at Therese. “I guess you have to think about what’s making you sad and try to make peace with it.”
“I appreciate your help, you know,” Wavesign said, barely a whisper.
“You’re helping me, too,” Britton said. “In a lot of ways, I’m lucky. I Manifested as an adult, and a trained soldier at that. I have a lot of advantages you don’t. Watching you deal with all that teaches me how it’s really done.”
Wavesign was quiet. Therese punched him in the shoulder. “Talk to us, Ted. What makes you sad?”
The boy rolled his eyes and pitched his voice low, looking up at where Swift and Pyre stood talking with the rest of the No-No Crew. Peapod spoke to Pyre, her voice low and admonishing as she gestured at Wavesign. “When I came up Latent,” Wavesign said, “my brother hauled me into the woods and kicked me around pretty bad. Told me not to come home. Cops picked me up walking along the road. I like it here, honestly. It’s better than what I had. But…still…” He cuffed at his face, so constantly beaded with water that it was impossible to tell if he was crying.
“It’s not a family, is it?” Britton asked.
Wavesign nodded. “My folks weren’t nice. My mom died when I was too young to remember, and my dad took a strap to me most times. My brother was just doing what he knew they always wanted.”
“He got rid of you,” Therese said.
Wavesign nodded.
“What he didn’t do was lock you in your room and call the SOC,” Britton added.
“So?” Wavesign asked.
“So, maybe, deep down somewhere, he wanted to protect you,” Britton said.
Wavesign shrugged.
“Even with everything your family did to you,” Therese said, “it’s okay to miss them.”
“Not them,” Wavesign said bitterly. “My grandma and my cousins. My friends at school.”
Britton thought of Cheatham and Dawes, Rob Dausman, even the snarling Stanley Britton. He thought of movie theaters and shopping malls, Monday night football in the squadron break room, burgers grilling outside. All that was beyond him, all the smiling faces he’d felt sure would be an e-mail or phone call away for the rest of his life.
When he looked up, Peapod stood there. She worked to find words, her excruciating discomfort apparent in her shifting stance. “Pyre’s sorry,” she said. “You’re a good guy, and you didn’t deserve that.” She looked over her shoulder at Pyre, who made eye contact with Wavesign and nodded curtly.
“You’re still part of the crew,” she added.
That’s the problem, Britton thought. But now wasn’t the time to say anything about it.
“Ready for another try?” he asked.
Later, as Britton and Therese took a break, leaning against the front of one of the Quonset huts, Britton decided to take the plunge.
“So, Therese. Do you remember asking me earlier why I didn’t try to use my gates to escape?”
“Because you have a bomb in your chest,” she said without hesitating.
“How the hell did you know that?”
“Swift isn’t exactly reticent,” she said, laughing. “Everybody knows. He already asked me if I could get it out.”
It took Britton a moment before he could speak, but Therese shook her head. “I’m sorry, Osca
r. I’m getting there, but there’s a big difference between closing a bullet hole and moving something out of a heart ventricle while keeping the thing beating. I’d probably kill you at this point. I need time to get better. I need practice.”
Britton sighed. “How much time do you think?”
“Healing gashes or knitting veins isn’t too tough, but the complicated organs — the heart, the brain, they’re tricky. If your muscle doesn’t function for a moment, or if a vein has a bulge in it, that’s not the end of the world. Not so with your heart.”
“So it could be a while.”
“A long while. I’m sorry. I don’t get a lot of practice in here.”
“They’ve got a cash, Therese. I’m sure they could use your help in there.”
“I’d have to raise the flag, Oscar,” she said, her eyes narrowing.
She’d have to be willing to be the SOC’s instrument. She’s not.
Are you?
They both stood in silence while Britton grappled with the surge of emotions the conversation had brought. Perhaps it was the effect of the Dampener, but did he actually feel relief? Are you actually glad that running might not be an option? Deep down, do you really want to stay?
Therese caught her breath, and Britton looked up to see Scylla making her exercise round again. She paced toward him confidently, her guards towing behind, giving her a wide berth.
“Good morning,” she said. Her voice was serene.
“What do you want?” Therese asked.
“That’s unkind,” Scylla replied. “I’ve just wished you joy of the day, and you treat me as someone who would do you harm.”
“You’re a murderer,” Therese replied. “Everybody knows what you did.”
Scylla laughed. “Am I?” She gestured at the guards lining the wall, the soldiers patrolling the SASS grounds. “These men have slaughtered Goblins by the score, tracked down so-called Selfers for the crime of being born with an ability they didn’t ask for. I killed my mortal enemies, who deprive me of freedom and dignity. Can I help it that the weapons I have at hand are more powerful than theirs? How can you murder soldiers? They’re paid to kill their enemies and to be killed by them.”
Britton shook his head. “What do you know about soldiering?”
She turned to Britton, held his eyes. “I didn’t ask the SOC to chase me down and capture me. I didn’t write the unjust laws, and I had no say in their implementation. I defended my rights and my freedom, as Americans have done since this nation’s founding. Who can blame me for that? I’m not dropping bombs on schoolyards and hospitals, like your army did in the old War on Terror. I kill my enemies, same as you do.”
She turned back to Therese. “You’re a gifted Physiomancer. Perhaps knitting flesh has made you averse to tearing it. I understand that, and it speaks well of you. I only hope you will consider that sometimes, in war, bloodshed is justified. I take no joy in killing, Therese. Try, if you can, to think better of me.”
And then she was gone, the guards goading her along, leaving Britton to marvel at her words.
Coven Four sat in the OC. Britton cradled a head that felt the size of a bowling ball and weighed twice as much. He clutched a bag of ice over his left eye, swollen shut by one of Fitzy’s expert strokes. Britton tried to contain his disappointment. There was no way Captain Hayes would ever help him. The fat, self-interested Healer didn’t appear to be anyone’s friend but his own. To even ask him would be too great a risk. Therese was his only hope if he was to have any chance of escape, and who knew how long it would take until she could help him?
And what about Swift, Wavesign, Peapod, and the rest of the SASS enrollees? What about Truelove and Downer? If he could get out of there, would he take them with him? Would they want to go?
More importantly, did he? The truth was that he was getting better. Would life on the run, even free life on the run, be an improvement?
The officers were beginning to accept the idea of a newly reconstituted Shadow Coven’s frequenting the establishment. While they gave the group a wide berth, they didn’t evacuate the premises. Richards had summoned one of the abundant rats on the FOB to perch on his shoulder, where it worked diligently, building an impressive cowlick out of his curly red hair.
“It’ll be okay,” Truelove said, looking Britton over anxiously. “Marty’ll get off in a few and meet us here. He’ll fix you up.”
“Dear God,” Britton muttered. “It feels like somebody put a spike in my eye.”
Richards laughed. “Stop being such a baby. You’re Shadow Coven now, baddest of the bad and all that, right? Have a drink and suck it up.” He motioned to Chris, who poured him a tumbler of something that Britton downed too quickly to taste. It burned his throat and belly, but he felt better.
“Aren’t we not supposed to hang out with Marty?” Britton asked. The thought made him uneasy. He’d come to rely on the Goblin’s kindness, a rare ray of sunshine in the otherwise bleak landscape of the FOB.
“I guess,” Truelove said. “But I’ve never seen Fitzy come in here. It’s not our fault if Marty decides to come in on his own, right?”
“Regs are regs,” Downer said.
“Regs are guidelines,” Britton said. “People bend them all time. I don’t think I ever drove a car a day in my life without speeding, and that’s probably true for 90 percent of the drivers out there.”
“I never did,” Downer said.
“That’s because you aren’t old enough to drive,” Britton growled. “Besides, you saw Harlequin stick up for him before. Harlequin outranks Fitzy.”
Downer blushed at the mention of Harlequin. “I am so old enough to drive.”
Britton’s head throbbed. “Fitzy is a real piece of work,” he said. “I better get this MAC down fast, or I swear he’s going to kill me.”
“MAC? Damn. My training is just a lot of boring chemistry,” she said. “It’s kicking my ass, but not in the same way as you, it seems.”
“How does that work for Sentient Elemental Conjuration?” Britton asked, glad to get past the tension. Downer’s mindless devotion to SOC doctrine burned him.
She nodded. “I guess they want me to be able to make elemental fuel quickly. Most of what they’re teaching me is pyro…pyro…”
“Pyrotechnics,” Truelove finished for her.
“Yeah, how to make fire out of nothing.” She pursed her lips, looking so young that Britton’s heart went out to her. His stomach twisted with guilt. It seemed like just yesterday he’d shot her on top of a burning school.
“That’s better than what they’ve got me doing,” Richards chimed in. “I’m Whispering worms.”
Britton cocked an eyebrow.
“Big, fat purple things,” Richards continued, slurring slightly. “Like maggots on steroids, except that they prefer live flesh. They’re native here. They burrow into you, eat muscle, and lay eggs in the fibers. Well, they’ll do it anywhere, but they prefer muscle tissue. Apparently, we’ve lost a soldier or two to them.” He shuddered.
“But under Whispering,” he went on, “they’re the most effective surgeons we have. They prefer unhealthy but still-living tissue apparently. They love tumors. You just have to keep them from laying their eggs and setting up house, and you’re good to go.”
“That ain’t right,” Downer said.
“What ain’t right is your being here,” Britton said. “I mean, I know you have to be, and I know you want to be. But it sucks that we live in a world where a teenaged girl spends her adolescence in the army instead of getting drunk and running up her dad’s phone bill.”
“I ran,” she said. “That’s what happens when you run. You had to take me down.”
“Did you think I liked that?” Britton asked. “Did you think any of my team did? Hell, half of us were ready to turn around and pack it in. You’re just a kid, Sarah. You deserve better than this.”
“I’m not just a kid!” she fumed, standing. “That’s what everyone says, and it’s just BS you pull to
try to make yourself feel smarter. I’m a Sorcerer!”
“Okay, okay. You’re right, Sarah. I’m sorry,” he said. He looked down at his empty tumbler. The army tore people down and built them back up with the goal of making their self-worth dependent on their success in the organization. Downer had bought that lock, stock, and barrel.
Downer plopped back onto her stool and stared moodily at her soda. “I’ve probably done just as much fighting as you have,” she muttered. Britton doubted it but let the matter drop.
“Richards isn’t even a true Probe,” Truelove stammered as he tried to break the tense silence. “He taught himself to Whisper while serving in the SOC as a Terramantic Engineer.”
“What did you expect?” Richards asked. “I spent all my time building berms and ditches. If I had to shore up one more foundation, I think I would have shot myself. Chatting with the wildlife saved my sanity.” The rat sat up and squeaked triumphantly, pumping its fist in the air.
“You told me you didn’t run, right?” Britton asked Truelove.
“I called the SOC the second I realized what was going on,” the Necromancer answered.
“And I got caught in the act and was given an offer I couldn’t refuse,” Richards finished. “Looks like you two are our runners.”
But only one of us has a bomb ticking away inside his chest.
A moment later, Marty entered to a surge of muttering from the OC patrons. A look from Britton silenced the worst of it, but a few of the officers stood to go, grumbling. Britton turned to Chris. “You going to yield the bar again?”
Chris grumbled under his breath. “Gotta serve the other customers.” But he slammed a large mug and a container of sugar down on the bar. Truelove smiled and set about preparing Marty’s drink.
The Goblin ignored the mug, making soft noises as he climbed on an empty barstool to run his fingers over Britton’s face. The rough pads of his fingers felt cool, soothing.
“Fitzy is asshole,” the creature muttered, reaching into his scrubs and producing the worn leather pouch. He took out a pair of broad leaves, licked their backs, and, despite Britton’s groans of protest, stuck them over the largest swellings, clucking admonition when Britton tried to pull away. The bruises began to feel better the moment the plant touched his face. Even his headache subsided slightly. “Damn, Marty,” he said, smiling in spite of himself. “Why do all of your remedies involve spit?”