Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

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, Oscar. 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?