Fortress Frontier

by Myke Cole

  “We may have work for you then,” Big Bear said to her. “I’m very glad to meet you.”

  “My pleasure,” Therese said. “It’s amazing to meet you. I’ve been reading about you since before I came up Latent. I honestly wasn’t sure you were real.”

  “I’m real,” Big Bear said. “Ask the gang.”

  “He’s real,” snorted the curly-haired woman.

  “Too damned real,” her companion chimed in, smiling.

  “They tolerate me,” Big Bear said. “I haven’t gotten them killed so far.”

  “This is the whole gang?” Truelove asked.

  “Not by a long shot,” Big Bear answered. “But we don’t gather together in large groups in one place for obvious reasons. Especially when we’re meeting new folks.”

  “It’s an infection.” Britton brought the subject back around to Downer. “Or a disease. But it’s . . . otherworldly. It’s not responding to Physiomantic magic.”

  “You’re a Terramancer,” Therese began. “Do you think you could . . . ?”

  Big Bear shook his head firmly. “Coax bacteria integrated with the human cellular system? I’m nowhere good enough to risk it. What if I caused a bloom? I could kill her. Might be the SOC has Terramancers that skilled, but we don’t have half the training they do.”

  Britton sighed. “Is there a regular doctor among you? We need to try antibiotics, or something.”

  Big Bear paused, looked over at the tall black man, who shook his head. “No,” Big Bear said slowly. “But we have many contacts on the outside. We can get her help. I just need some time to make arrangements.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  Downer shrugged. “Okay, thanks.” She sat down suddenly, drew her knees up to her chest, and shivered. Big Bear started forward, taking her by the elbows and looking into her eyes. She jerked back from him. “I appreciate it, but I’m fine.”

  “We don’t like to stay this close to the maintenance walkways.”

  Big Bear said. “Let’s move deeper in, and we can talk there.”

  “Someplace warm?”

  Big Bear nodded. “We’ll take care of it; come on.”

  The old brickwork of the chamber continued into an arched passageway that reminded Britton of the old tunnels in which he’d taken down the Russian Selfer. Stylized stone eagles appeared at regular intervals over chiseled American flags. He caught an inscription with a date in the nineteen thirties, but they had moved on before he could make out the specific year.

  The tall man took up the rear. Truelove kept looking over his shoulder at him until he finally couldn’t bear it any longer.

  “You’re Deshawn Williams, aren’t you?” he asked.

  The tall man nodded, looking resigned. “Haven’t gone by that name in a while.”

  “Wow, man.” Truelove looked momentarily boyish, like he had when he’d first discovered that Britton had flown helicopters.

  “I used to watch you when you were with the Spurs. You were amazing. I was wondering what happened to you. I kind of thought I’d see you in the SASS. When you weren’t there, I just figured . . .”

  “That I was dead,” the tall man finished for him. “Good. That’s what I wanted.”

  “Get up to any b–ball down here?” Truelove asked.

  The tall man only looked at him, his eyes cold. Truelove swallowed and faced front.

  “What’s the SASS again?” the bald man asked Swift.

  “It’s the gulag where the SOC takes you once they capture you,” Swift answered. “Though I think it’s rubble now. Rubble and slime. Like I told you, Scylla completely wasted the place.”

  “I don’t think so,” Therese said. “We went back, and it looked like they shored it up pretty well.”

  The worked brick ended and packed earth began, narrower and looking less stable as they continued to descend. Britton guessed this was Terramantic construction. Britton instinctively liked Big Bear, but he kept his magic ready and occasionally brushed his palm against the butt of his pistol, secreted in his lower back under his coat. He’d trusted the farmer Nelson, too, and he remembered keenly how far that had gotten him.

  “Swift tells us that you took names in the SASS, your own call signs, like the SOC. We do the same thing here.” Big Bear said.

  “Not all of us did that,” Therese answered.

  Big Bear ignored her. “He goes by Spur now, on account of his basketball days.” He gestured to the tall man. “The ladies are Guinevere and Iseult, and our scout who picked you up is Flicker.”

  Britton nodded to Guinevere. “I still can’t get over that T–shirt.”

  Guinevere laughed. “Isn’t it great! My idea. Not a lot of Selfers top the FBI list. Most get taken down and quickly, or aren’t important enough to rate that kind of publicity. We knew you were special right away. And all the press! We’ve been wanting to talk to you forever.”

  “You said this Witch, Scylla, destroyed the SASS?” Iseult, the curly-haired woman, asked. Her voice had a trace of a New York accent though softer and more genteel than Flicker’s.

  “Swift’s described her to me. Did any of you ever get her real name?”

  Britton shook his head. “We didn’t know anything about her other than that she’s completely crazy.”

  “Crazy smart,” Therese said. “A good speaker. Smooth. You could tell she was educated, used to power. Belonged in a corporate boardroom.”

  Iseult laughed. “That’s because she spent most of her life in a corporate boardroom. We worked together before she came up Latent though she was miles over my head. Pale, jet-black hair, about this long.” She chopped her hand along her jawline.

  “Really hot?”

  Britton nodded in time with the rest of them.

  “That’s Grace.”

  “Huh?” Britton asked.

  “Her name was Grace. I saw what happened to her when she ran. Like everyone did with Spur, I assumed the SOC had killed her. They took her down in the boardroom right in front of everybody. It wasn’t until I heard Swift’s story that I realized they’d captured her instead.”

  “They did the same with Downer,” Britton added. “What was her last name? Grace what?”

  Iseult shook her head. “Sorry,” she said. “I still work there. It’s hard enough keeping my magic secret from everyone on the outside, so I’m extra careful about security, even here. I’m going to keep that to myself.”

  “Iseult and Spur did rather well financially on the outside,” Big Bear said. “We have come to depend on that generosity to fund our operations. In Iseult’s case, it’s an ongoing effort. Not everybody runs. It’s a precarious existence, keeping your Latency secret, but we’re grateful to those willing to make the sacrifice.”

  The tunnel gave out into another large, vaulted chamber, this one obviously constructed entirely via Terramantic magic. The high walls were completely smooth earth, seamless and plastic-looking, notched throughout with flat stones covered in slick plant life that glowed with an eerie blue-green color. Aeromantically warmed air kept the chamber at a comfortable room temperature.

  The room was furnished like a comfortable office.

  Several well-appointed desks and swivel-backed chairs were arranged against one wall, beside a row of fine, leather-upholstered couches and reclining chairs. A giant flat-screen television was mounted to one wall, the electric cord snaking into the ground through a hatch. Britton could hear the hum of a generator beneath it. The floor was covered in overlapping and tastefully chosen deep pile rugs. He even spotted a couple of vases full of fresh-cut flowers.

  He gaped. “I don’t . . .”

  “Not what you’d expect from a bunch of terrorists, eh?” Big Bear smiled. “We’re a movement, Oscar. We’re organized and well funded. Contrary to what the SOC would have you believe, we don’t make rash decisions, and we don’t live like animals. Welcome to our lower Manhattan council chamber.”

  “How the hell do you keep hidden here? I mean, doesn’t the SOC co
me after you?”

  “Constantly.” Big Bear motioned to one of the leather couches. Downer slumped into it immediately, stretching out.

  Therese sat down beside her, cradling her head on her lap. Iseult joined her, squeezing in to sit uncomfortably close. Guinevere pursed her lips. “I’ll get the girl some water.”

  “New York is one of the oldest cities in the country,” Big Bear went on. “Around three centuries old depending on when you count the founding. It’s actually several cities, when you get down to it, each built on top of the other. When you add in some Terramantic renovations, the SOC has more ground to cover than they think. The entrance you saw is just one of many. And every chamber”—he pointed upward—“ has a rockfall that allows us to collapse it if we feel it’s going to be compromised. Add to that the ongoing jurisdictional dispute between the SOC and the NYPD, and we do all right. We’re Sorcerers, too, you know.”

  Something in Big Bear’s argument didn’t hold water. He’d seen the SOC go after targets in the past. They’d be more likely to level the entire city than let a Selfer gang like Houston Street run underneath it unchecked. But Mescalero still boiled in open revolt, and that had been allowed to fester, so maybe things were more complicated than he thought. Big Bear’s claims to Sorcery didn’t impress him either. The SOC mantra of “skill beats will” had been proved too many times for him to doubt it. Big Bear’s tide was far more disciplined than the other Selfers around him, but it was nothing compared to what Britton knew the SOC could do. Wild magic was far less effective in a stand–up fight.

  Spells were more likely to fail, Sorcerers more likely to go nova.

  Big Bear dragged an office chair over and motioned for them all to sit on one of the empty couches. Guinevere returned with a pitcher of water and a stack of plastic cups. She was followed by another man, of a size with Big Bear, but solid muscle. He wore black jeans and a black T–shirt. His long, brown hair was tied into a waist-length ponytail, bound in several gunmetal rings. His face was a storm cloud, his eyes possessed of the heightened awareness Britton had come to know in the most seasoned military operators. He clearly recognized Britton, but where Iseult looked at him with worship, he was decidedly unimpressed.

  Britton recognized him immediately from a dozen familiarization video clips and wanted posters. He knew his voice from twice as many Internet messages and recordings distributed across the entire East Coast.

  Render. Houston Street’s most famous member besides Big Bear. Britton tried to recall the number of confirmed kills of police and SOC operators to his tale. He stopped at around twenty-five.

  Downer emerged a bit from her fog, eyes widening.

  Britton sat forward in his chair, pulling his magic around him, readying for a fight. He knew that Render was part of the gang but hadn’t been prepared to meet him so soon.

  The reaction wasn’t lost on Render. His smile never reached his eyes. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

  Downer sat back, Truelove sliding closer to her. “What’s he doing here?” she asked.

  “I was planning on checking you out, making sure you’re okay, but all of a sudden I’m having second thoughts.” he said, looking over at Big Bear.

  Big Bear frowned. “Render is our Physiomancer,” he said. “I asked him to be ready to assist in case you were injured.”

  “I can handle that,” Therese said, standing. She was practically shaking. Britton wasn’t surprised. He knew how she felt about the use of offensive Physiomancy. He could only imagine how she felt confronted by a person so proud of that capability that he had taken it as a nom de guerre.

  “Render is a talented Healer,” Big Bear said.

  “Which is why he calls himself Render,” Therese responded.

  Swift tried to break in. “Guys, what the fuck . . .”

  Big Bear shrugged. “We are free to choose whatever monikers we like in this organization.”

  Render rolled his shoulders and eyes in time. He dropped a black bag at Therese’s feet. “Whatever. I’m not going to argue with you. Especially when, to hear Swift tell it, you fuckers worked for the SOC for ages. I’ll put my body count up against yours any day. At least mine were in self-defense.”

  He pointed at the bag. “That’s stocked with sports drinks and nutrition bars. Not sure what you’ve been eating while you were on the run, but bland stuff like that will help restore your vitals without making you sick. We can put you back on regular food once we’re sure you’re all right.”

  “Render was an EMT . . .” Iseult began.

  Render chopped his hand through the air. “Save it,” he said.

  “I don’t need this bunch to like me.”

  He stopped, met Therese’s stare. “Why don’t you take a fucking picture, it’s cheaper.”

  She bridled, trying to find her words.

  He smiled. “Saw some videos, huh? My reputation precedes me? You think you’re the first new arrival who knew who I was? Why don’t you go ahead and get your judgmental speech over with. Then I can dissect all the bullshit in it and we can get on with more productive stuff.”

  “You . . .” she began.

  “Kill people,” he said. “In absolutely horrible ways. Last one was a Port Authority cop. By the time I was done with him, he looked like he’d been through a blender set on frappe.”

  “Jesus. You sound proud of it.”

  “Goddamn right I am,” Render replied. “That was some grade A prime Physiomancy at work there.”

  “No it wasn’t,” Britton said, annoyed at his arrogance. “You lack training. I can feel it in your current. I’m not saying you’re not doing something, but you’ve got a long way to go compared to the SOC.”

  Render looked at Britton, the long ponytail jerking with the sharp motion of his head. “Tell that to the SOC-hoppers I’ve got ground into my boot soles. I’ve lost count of how many of those douchebags I’ve taken down. If they’re so good, how do you explain that?”

  “I’m not sure,” Britton answered honestly. “Still trying to get my ahead around that, but my friendly advice is not to get cocky. I’ve fought Physiomancers before, and so has she. It was a hell of a lot nastier than you, and we still took care of it.”

  “It?” Render asked.

  “It was a monster.” Therese shuddered. “Not even human anymore.”

  Render and Big Bear went suddenly silent, eyes on the ground. They know, Britton thought. They knew that thing, maybe they even helped it.

  He was opening his mouth to answer when Render turned to Therese, his voice cracking before he got it under control. “Have you ever even Rended before? You make it sound like you’re some kind of saint.”

  She nodded. “Once. I promised I’d never do it again. Then I had to. It was . . . horrible.”

  Britton winced, knowing she blamed him for having to give a repeat performance.

  “How is it more horrible than cooking someone with Pyromancy? Or frying them with Aeromantic lightning? Or using Terramancy to suck them underground? Killing’s killing, and the tool at hand is the one you use. You might as well swear off knives because guns are the cleaner instrument,” Render said.

  “You call yourself ‘Render,’ ” Therese answered coldly. “You wear it like a medal.”

  “Pinned on me for killing my sworn enemies? For reducing the number of scumbags who can bully innocent Latents for the crime of being born? For reminding Walsh and Whalen and this dictatorship that there are people who aren’t going to stand idle while they ruin the world? People who keep them awake at night, worrying about their precious safety while they destroy that same peace for others?

  “Yeah”—he leaned in close—“ I’d take a medal for that.”

  Britton tapped his shoulder. “You can say that from about a foot farther back from the lady. I’m proud of a few things myself, and I’d be happy to show them to you.”

  “I don’t need your help.” Therese glared at Britton. She turned back to Render. “You think you’re the first
loudmouth I’ve tangled with?”

  “Render,” Big Bear broke in, “enough. The girl is ill. She’s been infected by something from the Source, and it’s not responding to normal Physiomancy.”

  Render’s eyes fell to Downer, and he bit his lower lip, then looked back up at Therese. She swallowed and nodded.

  “Please . . .” She choked on the words. “I . . . I need help.”

  Britton felt Render’s tide reach out and touch Downer. “You boosted her immune system?”

  Therese nodded. “Whatever it is, it’s breaking down her organs. I’ve kept them repaired. I also jumped her white-blood-cell and lymphocyte counts, but I’m just holding whatever it is in check.”

  Render’s eyebrows rose. “You can do that? Directly manipulate her lymphocytes?”

  Therese looked confused. “Can’t you?”

  “No,” he said flatly. “We don’t all have the benefit of SOC training.” He turned to Big Bear. “If she can’t help the girl, then I can’t either. I haven’t spent the last few months being trained to use my magic by the fucking United States military.”

  Big Bear sighed. “Thank you for trying.”

  Render looked furious. “That all?”

  “I wanted to have Mr. Hoy see if he could help,” Big Bear answered. “Maybe conventional medicine will work. Can you ask him to meet us at the hothouse in an hour or so? As soon as he can make it.”

  Render cocked an eyebrow, hesitated. “You want to call that chit in?”

  Big Bear looked back at Downer, slumped back in the couch, sweating freely, bruised purple patches shadowing her eyes.

  “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

  Render nodded. “Okay, I’ll let you know what he says.” He turned to go, then turned back to Therese.

  “I’m sorry,” he added. “For the girl. I wish I could help her.”

  Therese smiled tensely as he left, then knelt and rummaged through the bag he’d left, passing out the contents to the rest of them. Downer gulped greedily at the drink, sighed. “Better,” she said. “Needed that.”

  “We’ll get her the help she needs,” Big Bear said. “Mr. Hoy has access to conventional antibiotics and might have some other tricks up his sleeve.”