Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

Britton was silent. Scylla patted the bed beside her again. He shook his head.

She smiled, beautiful in the dark. “Oh, Oscar. Don’t you want to be free?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then why not open a gate and walk away? They don’t have you Suppressed half the time.”

“Because they put a bomb in my chest, Scylla. They can track my movements and tear out my heart anytime they like. Or didn’t your rumor mill tell you that?”

She smiled again, resting her tiny chin in her hands. “Well, of course it did. But are you going to let a little thing like a machine stop you? You are a being of magic, Oscar Britton. You are beyond human technology.”

“That’s a very grand statement with nothing behind it. I can be beyond whatever I like. I’ll still be just as dead the moment I walk though that gate.”

“No, Oscar. You won’t. Not if you deactivate it. Not if you take it out.”

Britton swallowed. “How the hell do you propose that I do that?”

“Oh, Oscar. Don’t you know how magic works?”

“Enlighten me.”

“It’s elemental. It draws on each element as its fuel, permits the Sorcerer to manipulate it. Fire for Pyromancers, earth for Terramancers, the fabric between dimensions for you.”

“That doesn’t help me.”

“But it does, Oscar. Do you know what element Negramancers manipulate?”

Britton shook his head.

“Decay, Oscar Britton. Witches are queens of rot.”

Britton’s head spun. “And?”

“And that means we can decay human flesh, or stones. We can rot the bolts out of a tank and make it fall into its component parts. We can collapse buildings into blowing piles of desiccated mortar.

“We can rot machines, Oscar. We can cause wires to fizzle, metal to break down into ore, explosive chemicals into inert elements. I can break the ATTD, Oscar. I can rot it into sludge that will filter out of your system in a few hours.

“Get me out from under this Suppression for five minutes, and I can free us both.”

We’re not exactly certain how the “Mountain Gods” got onto the reservation, sir, but it’s apparent there’s some kind of affinity. They’re clearly cooperating with the insurgency. If the Selfers have a Portamancer, we don’t have any reporting on it. The intel staff at FOB Frontier is currently working on the possibility that they may be Source indig entities who breezed through some kind of “thin spot” in the interplanar fabric. If that is the case, it’s a serious threat, and one we’re definitely going to have to spend some resources on researching.

— Unidentified briefer to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff

They let him out of the hole just as the sun was beginning to set. Salamander looked resigned, refusing to make eye contact. Two guards dragged him to the gate, where they flung him at Fitzy, who caught him in midstride, looking him over.

“You okay?”

It was the nicest thing Fitzy had ever said to him. The shock crippled his answer, and it was a long while before he could nod dumbly. “How’s everyone else?”

“They’re fine.” Fitzy looked over his shoulder and made eye contact with Salamander. “Thanks for your compliance, sir. You’ll have no more trouble from this one.”

Salamander grimaced. “Just get him the fuck out of here.”

Fitzy saluted. Salamander paused for a long while before returning it.

Fitzy’s fingertips dug into the meaty portion of Britton’s upper arm as he steered him away.

“What the hell is going on?” Britton asked. “What happened back there?”

Fitzy stopped him midstride and spun on him, chests touching. “You are fucking done asking questions, Novice. You are also done picking fights with anyone, anytime, ever. I have no idea how long that little stunt you pulled just fucked up things between SAOLCC and the SASS, but I assure you that it won’t be over quickly. You are lucky as hell that you’re needed; otherwise, I would have been happy to let you rot in there with that fucking hag. Next time, I may have no choice. Is that perfectly clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you ever stop and think that you represent a Coven here? That what you do reflects on how Downer will be treated in there?”

Britton’s stomach sank. “No, sir. I…I didn’t.”

“You’re goddamn right you didn’t. Now, do you have any other questions for me?”

“No, sir. No questions, sir.”

“Good. Now, you were so anxious to practice gating aid in combat, you’re going to get some hard practice at it.” Fitzy spun Britton and marched him back toward the P pods.

Britton went meekly, his mind overwhelmed with the thought of Scylla’s offer. Could she really get the ATTD out? She probably could. But how could he get her out of Suppression? And even if he could, what would he be unleashing on the world? She’d killed twenty people. Probably more, she claimed. She viewed her captors as cattle.

With the sun beginning to set behind the barricade walls, Fitzy took Britton to the MAC practice tent to find a SOC K-9 handler. He instructed Britton to open a gate onto the Portcullis loading bay. The dark vastness had been filled with three chain-link pens, each housing five mean-looking German shepherds.

“So you first tried Portamantic Summoning back in Shelburne,” Fitzy said. “Took a recovery team about six hours to clean up that particular mess. Now you’ve successfully screwed up whatever goodwill I had with Major Salamander thanks to your little stunt today. What you did by accident before, I now want you to do on purpose. Let’s try bringing these pooches through the gate and into the MAC tent one at a time.”

It was surprisingly simple. Britton recalled the sensation of the tendrils of magic snaking through the gate, driven by the sense of dire threat, grasping for something to assist him. He opened a gate inside one of the pens and recalled the feeling, giving the magic free rein to do its work. The shepherd popped through without complaint and crouched in the mud of the tent floor, ready to spring.

“Outstanding,” Fitzy said. “Now do it again.”

So Britton did it again and again. When the kennels had been emptied, and the dogs all stood to their hocks in the mud, Britton gated into Portcullis and practiced bringing them back. He thought of the worm, digging into his chest, hauling out the ATTD. I would trade my gates for Whispering if I could. It seemed a far lesser power, but Whispering could save him, Portamancy kept him chained there. Scylla’s offer hovered at the edges of his mind, tempting him. The worm plan had too many moving parts, hers was simple. Get her out from under Suppression for just a few minutes, and freedom.

But freedom to do what? There was nowhere in the world he could hide from the SOC. It would be freedom to run, forever a fugitive. And what had the SOC really done to him? They had captured him, they controlled him, but they were training him. He was beginning to master his ability. He had dispatched that bear as easily as he’d gated him in. If he ran, if he escaped, all that training would be lost to him, forever. But did that make them worth serving? They lied about so many things. They had faked Downer’s death, hidden the truth about the Source, kept Limbic Dampener away from the public. They were so obsessed with controlling magic that they failed to do real good with it. Britton could never serve such masters. He had to find a way out. There were Selfers out there who evaded capture. There were entire Indian reservations that boiled in active insurgency. If they could do it, then so could he.

At night, Britton sat on the steps to his hooch and looked up at the sky, trying to make sense of the spray of stars that gleamed so much brighter than back in the world he had simply begun thinking of as “home.”