Control Point (26 page)

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 sol-diering?”

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?”

The Goblin didn’t reply, gently pressing the leaves down to make sure they stuck.

“We’re really not supposed to be hanging out with him,” Downer groused, still moody over their confrontation.

Britton’s anger sparked. The Dampener shunted it to the side, but he gave it rein. After all Marty had done for him, after all the patient kindness he had never hesitated to show in spite of how the humans there treated him, he deserved better. Zealots, especially the newly converted, sometimes gave way when you applied a little pressure.

“You know, these people don’t love you,” he said. “Why do you think we’re contractors? If we’re the good guys, why doesn’t the army acknowledge us?”

“Because we’re Probes…” she said.

Take it easy, Oscar,
he told himself,
she’s just a kid.

“And they’re willing to destroy our lives because of it,” he went on. “We’re the same, Sarah.”

“No, we’re not the same,” she said. “I know that I did something wrong. I want to make it right. I want to serve my country.”

“What did you do wrong?” Britton asked. “You woke up one morning with a power you didn’t ask for. You decided that you might want to take a second to play with it before someone else stepped in and told you how to run your life. That’s your big crime?”

Scylla’s words echoed in his mind.
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.
Her words were crude, but he couldn’t deny the truth in them. The thought of them being accused of crimes at all burned him.

“I killed people! I damaged property!” Downer shouted, and the OC began to empty again.

“That’s Harlequin talking,” Britton said. “I might as well gate over to his office and have him lecture me.”

“You leave him alone!” she yelled. “He took care of me. He gave me a second chance!”

“Oh, come off it. Your magic gave you a second chance,” Britton said. “You’re here for the same reason I am; the SOC wants your magic. If either of us had gone Selfer in a more common school, we’d probably be dead. Now we get to be government slaves instead.”

“I’m not a slave! I’m a Sorcerer!” Downer’s face was red.

Truelove let out a nervous, honking laugh and stepped between them. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said. “We’re all in the same Coven.”

Downer ignored him and held Britton’s eyes.
The SOC can force me to work for them,
he thought,
but they can’t stop me from making her grow up.

But not tonight. He had nothing left to give. “I’m going to hit the rack. Lots of studying to do for tomorrow.”

He stepped out into the chill air and looked up at the night sky. The huge stars winked back at him.
Therese can’t help. Who knows when she’ll be able to? You’re out of choices, Oscar,
they seemed to say.
They’ve got you.

He shook his head and started toward P block. A hand touched his elbow. He looked down into Marty’s black eyes, surrounded with painted dots. Britton reached out to touch the creature’s head, then jerked back his hand. Would Marty take it as patronizing? What was it he had seen them do? Britton closed his eyes and bowed, tapping the lids. Marty smiled broadly, then repeated the gesture, murmuring in his own language.

“You important,” Marty said, sketching a doorway in the air with his fingers. “Special.”

Britton sighed. “Yeah, people keep telling me that. It’s not helping any.”

Marty looked at him, uncomprehending. Britton sighed. “God, what a fucked-up life this has turned out to…” He paused, then looked back down at the creature. His eyes widening.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

Because he suddenly realized that there might be a way out of this after all.

Marty stared back at him, the blue surgical mask dangling from one ear, flapping in the wind.

Britton knelt to Marty’s height. “Have you ever heard of a flesh-eating worm?”

Marty turned pensive. “…wurm?”

“It’s a worm from here. It eats muscle.” Britton thumped his chest.

Recognition dawned across Marty’s face. He corkscrewed one finger over his sternum. “Worm! I know! I know! Worm very…few. Very…important. Some in srreach room. Cold room with Doctor Captain, remember?” The research tent where they’d met Captain Hayes. Britton remembered.

He sagged with relief, sitting on the ground.

“Why?” Marty asked.

“Marty, there’s a bomb in my heart. You understand a bomb?”

Marty nodded gravely. “You”—he searched for the word—“captured.”

Britton nodded.

“Worm very…hurt you. Kill you.”

“Not with magic, Marty. Not with someone to Whisper it. Maybe it can break the bomb.” More than likely it would set the ATTD off, but that was a chance Britton was willing to take. He remembered Rampart’s words to him in the helo as they left the LZ.
They live in the Source all their lives and come up Latent at around twice the rate we do.