by Myke Cole
Closed Session
To be honest, I’m not a fan of the term “Rump Latent.” It’s dismissive and unfair. The proper term for them is “Unmanifested Latencies,” and they play an important role in the SOC. Our Unmanifested make up the bulk of our Suppressing Corps, and their ability to sense magical currents in others make them an invaluable tool in tracking and identifying Selfers. Those are mission-critical roles in this organization. There’s nothing ”rump” about them.
—Lieutenant General Alexander Gatanas
Commandant, Supernatural Operations Corps
As it turned out, life on a secret base in an alternate magical dimension was much like life back home. Bookbinder spent his days with his butt planted in a swivel-backed black chair identical to the one in his office on the Pentagon’s E–Ring doing paperwork.
While goblins, rocs, and God knew what else cavorted outside the wire, Bookbinder stared at his computer screen until his head ached, poring over spreadsheets documenting everything from shipments of Meals-Ready–to–Eat to unfilled personnel billets. Oscar Britton, the most wanted criminal in the country, worked for him, but only to the extent of authorizing his budget line and operating costs. The world he knew was miles away, but Alan Bookbinder’s world hadn’t changed a bit.
Except for one thing.
He missed his family so much he ached. He made his calls from a darkened squad bay, via a specially rigged state–of–the-art Single Channel Ground and Airborne Radio System.
When Bookbinder first arrived to use the system, the Radio Telephone Operator handed him the handset, then sat, folded his arms, and stared at the ceiling.
“You’re going to hang around? This is a private call,” Bookbinder said.
“Sorry, sir. You’re calling through a Portamantic Gate. Security risk. I have to supervise the equipment.”
“I’m talking to my wife!”
“And I’ve got to answer to my first sergeant. Respectfully, sir, I have to stay here.”
Bookbinder turned his back on the private. There was a long silence. Bookbinder was just about to tell the RTO it wasn’t working when the handset issued a series of clicks that materialized into Julie’s voice.
“Hello? Alan?”
“Bunny? Bunny! How are you doing?”
“Alan? I can barely hear you. It sounds like you’re down a well.”
“Never mind that. How are you? How are the girls?”
“What?”
“The girls! Can you . . .”
“The girls. Well, Sarah made a picture of . . . bzzz . . . Kel . . . bzzz . . . acting out becau . . . bzzt.”
“What? Kelly’s acting out? What about?”
“She’s just having a hard ti . . . bzzzt . . . so I think that’s all that . . . bzzzt . . . her teacher says she . . . bzzt.”
“What? Oh, Jesus fucking Christ!”
“. . . bzzz . . . did I do? You don’t have to yell at . . . bzzzt.”
“No, bunny! I’m not yelling at you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I was just cursing this damned comms system. I can barely hear you. Bunny? I’m sorry. I wasn’t yelling at you. Can you hear me?”
“. . . bzzz . . . hear you.”
Despair rose in his stomach. “Oh God, bunny. I miss you.”
Silence.
“Sorry, sir,” the RTO said. “Window’s closed.”
Bookbinder looked down at the plain gold band of his wedding ring, turned it on his finger. With every call, Bookbinder felt his family slipping away. He pounded on his desk and left his office. Carmela looked up, her smile never slipping, which only made him feel more powerless. “What’s up, sir?”
He nodded toward Colonel Taylor’s office, the door shut tightly as usual. “I need to speak to him.”
“He’s in a meeting right now, sir. Is there anything I can help you with?”
Bookbinder knew it wasn’t her fault that Taylor was impossible to get ahold of, or that the comms were so spotty. But it did nothing to cool his anger.
“This is unsat! He’s always at a damned meeting. I haven’t been able to talk to my family at any length, with any fidelity or any privacy for weeks now. The comms are so spotty that we can barely understand one another! I need it fixed. We’re losing touch . . . with each other.” You meant to say “I’m losing her.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that, sir. I know it can be frustrating with loved ones back home.” Her tone was sympathetic, but her words so disingenuous that his anger burned even hotter.
“You don’t have the first idea! If you did, you’d get me a damned appointment. It shouldn’t be this hard to get to talk for five minutes with my own boss!”
Carmela coughed politely, her eyes dropping to the framed picture of her three smiling boys.
Bookbinder’s shoulders sagged, and his cheeks burned.
“I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t think about . . . When did you last speak to them?”
“It’s been about two years now, sir. This was a comms-dark tour for me, and I knew that going in. It’s still hard, though; I really do know how you feel.”
However broken and spotty, he got to talk to his family once a week. Carmela didn’t get to talk to hers at all. What a bastard he was. “How do you . . . manage it?”
She shrugged. “I have everything I need out here. Food, clothing, shelter, medical. My entire paycheck goes into an account back in the Home Plane. By the time I wind up this tour, all three of them won’t have to worry about college tuition. When I miss them, I try to think about that.”
“Carmela, I know it’s . . . just the way things are out here, but it would really help if I could just get a little more time on the channel, or be alone, or . . . well, anything. I just need five minutes of his time.”
“I’ll do my best, sir. I promise you I will.”
And he believed her. But that didn’t mean it would do a damn bit of good.
The only break in the monotony was the near-daily testing.
Bookbinder would walk to the bustling tent city that made up the FOB’s Combat Surgical Hospital, or “cash.” The huge operation was a testament to the military’s ability to deal with trauma in a forward position. The army had come into another world, and using only what they brought with them, had managed to cobble together canvas sheets, stainless-steel poles, and ingenuity to create a world-class hospital in the middle of a mud pit.
On the other hand, that hospital was overwhelmed with activity day and night, which was a testament to how dangerous the Source was. Between the range of native fauna that were just plain predatory or deadly (birds that barked sonic booms, snakes that spit poison, giant flying things with beaks that could swallow a car), to the sentient indig that hated them, there were more than enough ways to get killed out here.
But not all the indig hated them. The goblins were divided into warring tribes that were spread across hundreds of villages that dotted the landscape around the FOB. Some of these tribes were Defenders, who saw the humans as interlopers. The Defenders grossly outnumbered the few Embracer tribes, who believed the humans had come home when they entered the Source, and that it was their duty to assist, even protect them. Many of the Embracers worked as contractors on the FOB, and the cash was full of them in blue jumpsuits and hospital scrubs, carrying trays of medical equipment, binding blood-pressure cuffs, or reading thermometers.
He made his way from the trauma ward to another tent under a sign reading assessment/ suppression. He paused and sighed, shoulders slumping. Remember they’re trying to help. The sooner you get a handle on what’s going on with your Latency, the sooner you can be through with this.
The tent could host more patients, but they’d cleared it for Bookbinder’s appointment. Two Suppressors lounged at the far end of the long room formed by the canvas walls, playing cards.
Not that one was needed, let alone two. Bookbinder’s Latency remained fully stifled.
A white-coated army doctor stood beside a gurney piled with medical equipment.
“Morning, Colonel. How are you feeling?”
“Lonely. Pissed off.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, sir. But it’ll help you call the magic. You ready for the next round?”
“Let’s get this over with. I have to get back to my desk.” So you can fill out more spreadsheets?
The doctor motioned to one of the Suppressors and picked up a black plastic Taser from the gurney. He thumbed the trigger, sending a short arc of blue electricity between the electrodes.
“No way, Doc,” Bookbinder said.
“It’s just a little shock, sir. I have it at the lowest setting. We have to get the magic called up.”
Bookbinder motioned the doc back. “No.”
The doctor took a step forward. “This is standard, sir. You said you wanted to get this over with so . . .”
“Stand down, damn it! That’s an order!”
The doctor froze, as did the Suppressor. Nice going. You’re going to lead men by screaming at them?
“I’m sorry . . .” Don’t apologize, you idiot! You haven’t done anything wrong! “What I mean is, I don’t need it.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I mean I can call the current on my own. I figured out how to . . . what do you call it?”
“Drawing, sir?” the Suppressor asked.
“That’s right,” Bookbinder said. “I can Draw, and I can push it back.”
The doctor cocked his head to one side. “How can you tell?”
Bookbinder shrugged. “I can feel it . . .”
The doctor and the Suppressor exchanged glances, then the doctor turned back to him. “Show me.”
Bookbinder leaned into his frustration and sorrow. He missed his family, Taylor wouldn’t see him, this doctor wanted to tase him first thing every morning. He felt the current respond to the spike in his emotions, the tide pulsing in his veins, making his temples throb.
The Suppressor arched his eyebrows. “He’s pegged, Doc. I’m not doing anything.”
The doctor turned back to the gurney, making notes on his tablet computer. “How long have you been able to do this?”
“Not long,” Bookbinder said. “I think I figured it out in my office a day or so ago.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I’m sorry, I know I should have.” Damn it! Stop apologizing.
“I wanted to wait until I was sure.”
The doctor put the tablet down. “With all due respect, sir, it’s important that you share any development in your Latency with us at the earliest—”
“I wanted to be sure of what I was feeling,” Bookbinder cut him off. “I’ll be sure to let you know about developments when I feel it’s appropriate.” That’s not the way to lead. You don’t exert authority by being a dick.
“All right, sir,” the doctor said, making more notes. After a moment, he looked back up at the Suppressor. “You’re not doing anything?”
“Not a thing, Doc. He’s pegged.”
“What’s it Bound to?”
“I have no idea, Doc.”
“What are you talking about?” Bookbinder asked.
The doctor ignored him. “Can we grab an active Sorcerer real quick?”
The other Suppressor put down his cards and disappeared through the back flap of the tent. He reappeared with a SOC captain, a subdued flameburst pinned to the right breast of his uniform.
“I already told you, Doc,” Bookbinder said. “I don’t need to be tased. Or burned for that matter.”
The doctor continued to ignore him. “Captain, can you feel a current off the colonel here?”
Bookbinder could feel the Pyromancer’s current. He felt his own current grasp it, the tendrils intertwining, tugging at it. The Pyromancer frowned, taking a step back. “Sir, he’s . . .”
Bookbinder’s current intensified, his head throbbing with the force of it. It was as if it were buoyed, doubled by the Pyromancer’s magic. He broke out in a sweat. “Um,” Bookbinder said. “I don’t think this is good.”
The Pyromancer took another step back. “What are you doing?”
Bookbinder’s ears began to ring, his veins felt thick with power. “Not really sure,” he groaned. “A little help here?”
The Suppressor raised his hands and Bookbinder felt his tide roll back. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”
“What the hell just happened?” the doctor asked.
“It was like . . . it was like he was stealing my magic. I felt this pull on . . . like he was pulling on it.”
“What?” The doctor’s voice rose an octave.
“You’re a Pyromancer,” Bookbinder said in amazement.
“What?” the doctor asked. “Of course he is.”
“No, no. I mean, I can feel it. I know what school he is. I can feel it in his flow. Or, at least I could before you Suppressed me.”
“That’s impossible.”
“No, I can tell. It felt . . . hot, caustic. I could tell he’s a Pyromancer.”
The Pyromancer rolled his eyes. “I’ve got my pin on, sir.”
“Damn it, Captain, I’m not lying!” Bookbinder said.
The Pyromancer blanched. “I meant no disrespect, sir.”
Bookbinder turned to the doctor. “I’m serious. I can feel his school. I don’t know how I can, but I can.”
The doctor tapped frantically into his tablet, then jerked his head toward the Suppressor. “What about him?”
Bookbinder paused for a moment. “Weak. That’s all. It feels weak.”
“Let him go,” the doctor said to the Suppressor. “Take the Suppression off.”
“Now, wait a second—” the Pyromancer said.
“Captain, can you go get another Sorcerer for us?” the doctor cut him off. “Any school will do. Please ask him to remove his school pin before coming in.”
“Roger that, sir.” The Pyromancer nodded and made a hasty exit.
“What the hell is happening?” Bookbinder asked.
“I have no idea, sir,” the doctor said, “but we’ll chip away at it until we figure it out.”
A largish black man entered, slightly overweight, with a day’s stubble on his chin. Captain’s bars were Velcroed to the center of his uniform, and a dark patch showed where he’d removed the pin that marked his magical school. “You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked the doctor.
“Yes, Captain. Thanks for coming. Just need you to hang tight for a moment.” He turned back to the Suppressor and arched an eyebrow.
“You’re clear to go, sir,” the Suppressor said.
Bookbinder Drew the magic and felt for the new captain’s current. He found the flow instantly, and felt the same sense of intertwining, of tugging on the tide. The captain’s eye’s widened.
“You sure this is okay, sir?” he asked.
“It’s fine,” Bookbinder said, gritting his teeth. He felt the current suffuse his own, his pores shot through with the magic, low, calm, solid.
Earthy.
“You’re a Terramancer.”
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you know, sir?”
The doctor cut him off as the Suppressor rolled Bookbinder’s magic back. “That’ll be all, Captain, thank you.”
“Sir,” the captain said, and left.
“See?” Bookbinder said.
“He was a big guy,” the Suppressor said. “Terramancers usually are.”
“So? Get someone else,” Bookbinder groused.
The doctor nodded. “That’s exactly what we’ll do.”
They repeated the experiment five more times, with a Hydromancer, an Aeromancer, and three more Pyromancers.
Bookbinder nailed it each and every time.
Bookbinder’s diagnosis remained the same; “Stifled Latency,” which Bookbinder knew meant, “We have no idea what the hell is going on.” He experimented on the way back to his hooch that evening, trying to sense the schools of other Sorcerers, only looking at their pins after he’d a chance to wrap his current
around theirs, reeling it in long enough to get a hint of their magic. He had to stop after three tries, as his subjects began looking wildly around as soon as his current began to pull against theirs, forcing him to let it go to prevent being discovered.
He lay awake that night, stomach twisted with loneliness.
Was this his power? He could tell what other Latents’ schools were? What was the good in that?
That couldn’t be it. He felt something more. His current wrapped around the magic of others, pulled it into him. It doubled his own power, swelled the reservoir until he felt the outpouring would overwhelm him. Identifying the school was the tip of the iceberg.
He tried to lay out the events of the test, then stopped himself.
Everything bled together. It seemed that so much had happened so fast. He couldn’t focus. His fingers strayed instinctively to his wedding band, twisting it on his finger.
Bunny. Oh God, I wish you were here. You would slow me down and talk me through it.
But his wife wasn’t there. Alan Bookbinder was alone.
Just calm down and try to figure this out.
But his mind was full of Julie and the children. No matter how hard Bookbinder tried, he couldn’t stop feeling sorry for himself. Frustrated tears began to flow, initiating a new round of self-loathing when he couldn’t stop them. Some colonel, crying into his pillow. Bookbinder was still cursing himself when he drifted off to sleep.
And awoke to the sound of explosions.
At first, he thought it was the standard run of goblin magical indirect fire, but even as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he knew he was wrong.
Boom, boom, brakabrakabrakabraka.
Those weren’t magical strikes. Those were conventional rounds. Small-arms fire, crackling frantically.
The sound of the good guys.
Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the loudspeaker public address system.” . . . action stations. I say again, action stations.”
They were under attack.
Bookbinder leapt out of his rack, cracking his head against the pressboard wardrobe. He cursed, rubbing the injury as he yanked on his uniform, racing out of his hooch still buckling on his gun belt, bootlaces trailing in the mud.
He heard the whine of rotors as helicopters raced overhead, searchlights beaming out toward the perimeter, their underbellies lit by the flickering of distant fire. Whistles and whumps sounded as mortar rounds impacted somewhere. Boots pounded in the mud around him as soldiers raced every which way.