Control Point (7 page)

“Rob,” Britton managed, “please.”

“You’ve got to call somebody. This is some serious shit right here. Man, I had no idea you were …I mean, holy crap.”

Britton took a step and winced as Rob stepped back in perfect synchronicity, fetching up against a shelf and initiating a small avalanche of cigarette cartons. “Rob. It’s me, man. It’s Oscar.”

Rob nodded, forcing a smile. “I know, man, I know. It’s not a big deal. I’m just saying. You have to call somebody.” He pointed a trembling finger at a black pay phone below the TV.

Rob’s hand darted under the counter. Britton thought he might produce the store’s sawed-off, but Rob slapped two quarters on the counter. “There you go, man,” he said eagerly. “Call’s on me. Don’t sweat it.” He looked guilty. “I don’t even want the reward.”

But Britton didn’t hear.
Don’t waste any more time,
his mind said.
You’re alone.

Profound weariness followed. His shoulders sagged. For the first time in his life, Britton wasn’t sure that he wanted to live.

He slapped the quarters up into Rob’s face. Rob threw his arms up and crouched, but Britton had already picked up the pay phone. He stared at the receiver.

Rob was right. Britton did have to make this call. Would they kill him? Probably. But maybe that’s what needed to happen. His father was dead by his hand. He couldn’t control what was clearly a dangerous weapon. Why was he prioritizing his
own life over others? What gave him that right? That was why they called them Selfers.

He saw his father’s face as the gate closed, heard his screaming over the keening of the demon-horses. He couldn’t bear to face it, and instead took a deep breath and tried to rebuild his world.

Baby steps,
he thought.
You’re standing in a convenience store. You’re staring at a pay phone.
Even that was too much, so he concentrated on smaller details.
The phone receiver smells like stale beer. Weeds grow through cracks in the parking lot outside the window.

But reality would not be denied.
You’re Latent. You’re a Probe. You’re not in control of your magic. The army has rejected you. You’ve killed your father. Your mother is terrified of you. Even Rob is scared of you. You’re a fugitive. Your life has changed forever.

And, most importantly,
you’re alone
.

His knees buckled under the enormity of the realization.

There was a click, and a woman’s grainy voice answered. “Operator.”

“South Burlington ANG base,” Britton replied. “SOC liaison office.” His voice sounded alien through the earpiece. Someone else was talking to the operator, someone far calmer than Oscar Britton—Selfer, Probe, and murderer. The thought steadied him. That someone else could handle the situation. He would just listen.

“South Burlington Air National Guard?” the operator asked. “I have the main switchboard number here.”

“I need the Supernatural Operations Corps liaison office,” he said. “There’s been an incident. This is an emergency.”

The receiver went silent. He was about to ask if the operator was still there when she said, “You should have called nine-one-one.”

“I didn’t,” he answered. “I called you.”

There was a click, and the sound of ring tones.

Another woman’s voice answered, clearer than the last. “SOC, Captain Nereid.”

He paused. Self-preservation cried out to hang up the phone and start running again. But fatigue cloaked him like a thick blanket.

“This is Lieutenant Britton, 158th Ops Support Flight.”

After a pause punctuated by the tapping of a keyboard, the voice answered, coldly professional. “Lieutenant Britton, we’ve been very worried about you. I’m glad you called.”

Stanley Britton’s screams echoed in his ears. Britton’s voice broke as he answered. “Yes.”

Sympathy crept into Nereid’s voice. “We know what’s happened, Oscar. Are you all right?”

He nodded, tears flowing now, not realizing she couldn’t see him.

Her voice grew urgent. “Oscar. All you have to do is stay where you are. It’s going to be all right. Can you hear me? We’re coming to get you, and we’re going to help you. All you have to do is not move, and you’ll be fine. Do you understand me?”

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I didn’t mean to hurt anybody. I’m trying to do the right thing.” He cringed at the pathetic whine in his voice.

Her voice was firm. “I need you to calm down and stick by that phone, okay? Whatever you do, do not surrender yourself to the police. The police may not understand what you’ve done like we do. Should you see police vehicles, hide as best you can until we can get to you. Do you understand? Hello? Hello?”

The kernel of self-preservation blossomed. His mind conjured images of Harlequin descending, lightning crackling from his fingertips; the Probe girl on the roof lying helpless in a spreading pool of blood.

Oscar Britton might have a dangerous, uncontrolled power, but the army murdered little girls.

What the hell are you doing?
His mind screamed at him.
You damned idiot! Run!

He dropped the receiver, letting it hang.

He turned to see two police cars whip into the parking lot, screeching to a halt. Rob was gone.

Four uniformed officers exited the vehicles, guns drawn, and raced for the door.

Britton dove over the counter, flipping and landing face-first on the rubber matting. He heard shouts as he crawled to his knees, brushing his nose against a code-locked safe.

Beside it was a sawed-off shotgun. The breech was open, shells loaded into both barrels. All he had to do was snap it closed, stand, and fight.

He couldn’t run forever. Why had Captain Nereid had warned him not to surrender to the police? So Harlequin could have the pleasure of killing him instead or hauling him before a court-martial to do the deed officially?

He glanced over the counter. The police officers advanced at a crouch. Two leveled pistols. The other two followed, with shotguns ready.

Just a few hours ago, he’d been on the same side as the police. Crime needed a motive. All he’d ever wanted to do was the right thing. Rage and terror competed in his gut.

Rage won by a nose. The magic rose. This time he welcomed it.

Screw the gun. I don’t need it.

He closed his eyes and let the tide flow. He could feel the current reaching out toward the cops. He stood, arms spread. The air behind the policemen reverberated. They spun, crying out.

He hesitated at their cries. There had to be a difference between him and what he’d always been taught Selfers were.
You didn’t kill your father on purpose,
he reminded himself.
That was an accident. You don’t hurt innocent people. If you forget that, you really are a Selfer.

He struggled against the magical tide. One of the cops turned back to Britton and fired. The bullet punched a hole in the sliding door and buried itself in the counter.

Britton didn’t flinch, overwhelmed by the magic coursing through him. He felt like his veins would burst, his cells pried apart. He desperately tried to shunt the tide back, but it would not be denied, howling toward the policemen.

Behind the cops, the air pulsed open into a shining gate.

Another cop leveled a black shotgun through the glass display window. “Selfer son of a bitch! Switch it off!”

I’m trying,
Britton thought,
but now it’s out, and I can’t stop it.
He could feel tendrils of magic slide through the gate, reaching beyond.

The shotgun boomed, turning the window into spinning fragments.

The magic found what it sought and hauled it through the gate.

The portal spasmed and pushed something tall and strange into the world. The cops turned, Britton forgotten.

The thing from the gate was at least seven feet tall, covered with feathers so dark they absorbed light, each veined and edged in bright red, glowing bloody. A spade-shaped crest of the same color crowned its head. It took a tentative step on a leathery leg with dark purple skin. One claw hovered in the air. Its head flicked left and right, black eyes regarding the policemen, swinging a dark purple beak as long and sharp as any sword.

“Christ,” one of the cops said, raising his pistol.

The giant bird flicked its head again, the narrow throat ballooning to basketball size, tiny black feathers stretched so far apart that Britton could see purple skin taut beneath.

The swollen throat let go its cargo, emitting a sound so deep
that Britton felt, rather than heard it, sending visible ripples through the air. The sonic boom shattered what remained of the windows. The hedges lining the storefront were knocked flat, the doors knocked off their sliding course, dropping slowly inward. The cops were blown off their feet, ears bleeding.

Showered with shattered glass, Britton ducked behind the counter. When he rose, the tide was already building again. The cops lay moaning. The bird paced across the parking lot.

Britton’s ears rang, his eyes dry from the wind gust. He turned and ran, bursting into the stockroom. Wire shelves lined the walls, piled high with cardboard boxes bulging with paper towels, canned food, and over-the-counter medicine.

He hit the back door, bursting it open and running into the warming dawn air.

And straight into Harlequin, emerging from the cargo doors of an unmarked white van.

Harlequin’s digital-camouflage uniform was neatly pressed. His polished boots reflected the sun. A pale-faced Dan Cheatham stood beside him, carrying his carbine.

I was always a friend to you,
Britton thought as his eyes bored into Cheatham’s.
We were a team.

Cheatham’s gaze broke. “… Sir, …”

“See, here’s the problem,” Harlequin cut him off. “You ran, Oscar. Warrant Officer Cheatham advised you to report to me immediately. You elected not to do that.”

Britton could feel the eddy of Harlequin’s magic. The wind about the Aeromancer whipped into a funnel, swirling dust and pebbles over his head.

The tide of magic overwhelmed Britton’s senses.
Help me,
he mouthed, his body burning with energy. He sank to his knees.
I can’t stop it. It’s killing me.

Harlequin’s brow furrowed, the dust devil collapsed.

Britton’s tide rolled back, and he fell forward, gasping. He gulped air, feeling his magical flow intersected by Harlequin’s, rolled back. Britton’s training had taught him to expect that as well. They used it on the Marines in Suppression Lances and those civilians who enrolled in NIH’s monitoring program. Magical Suppression.

Cheatham leveled his carbine and advanced a pace.

Britton stood weakly, pointing at the carbine. “You don’t need that.”

“I’m afraid we do,” Harlequin said. “As long as my magic is tied up Suppressing yours, I have to keep you under guard.”

“No,” Britton said. “I called. I turned myself in.”

Harlequin shook his head. “Dan tells me you Manifested at around 0200. It’s now roughly 0800, You’re miles off post. You ran.”

“What the hell did you expect me to do? I’m a Probe. You’re just going to kill me anyway. I needed to see to my parents.”

“Yeah, that worked out well,” Harlequin said. “We now have another incident here, a murder. I know what you did to your father.”

“That wasn’t my fault! He attacked me…I couldn’t control it…”

Harlequin folded his arms over his chest. “That’s why we always follow orders. I guess that’s something you big army guys never understood. Well, in the SOC, we live by our orders. Because, when we don’t, people die. You decided that you knew better. As a direct result, your father is dead. This is what happens when you run, Oscar.”

“I called the SOC at South Burlington!” Britton shouted, inching backward. “I talked to Nereid! I just tried to surrender! Ask her!”

Harlequin reached into a trouser leg pocket and produced a pair of plastic zip cuffs. “She radioed, Oscar. I know you called. That’s the only reason you’re still alive. You Manifested in a prohibited school. You ran. You killed your father. Act like a soldier and man up to it.”

Britton knew he wouldn’t get three steps in any direction before Cheatham put a bullet in his back. “You’re going to kill me,” he said. “Maybe not here, but you’ll do it.”

Harlequin shrugged. “That’s for a court-martial to decide. For now, you go to the stockade. Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”

“Freeze!” Two of the cops burst through the door, pistols leveled at Britton’s back. “Hands in the air!”

“Damn it, wave off!” Harlequin shouted. “I’m army Supernatural Ops! I’m taking this man in!”

“He injured a police officer,” one cop said. The other lowered his pistol, confused.

Surprised, Cheatham pointed his carbine at the cops. The one with the raised pistol reacted instinctively, pointing his weapon at Cheatham.

If you go with him, you’re dead,
Britton thought.
He spelled it out for you—you Manifested in a prohibited school, you ran, you killed your father. No court-martial in the country would let you off for that.
He thought of Cheatham’s grip on his elbow, his father’s flailing fists, Rob slapping two shiny quarters on the counter, the girl’s corpse on the roof. The army had been the only home he’d had outside the house in Shelburne.
It’s all gone. Move, and quickly.

Britton took a step back alongside the cop with the raised gun and chopped down with both hands, striking the policeman’s wrists, sending the weapon spinning. Then he ducked around the corner of the building.

Harlequin cursed, conjuring up the dust devil. Britton felt the magical current surge back into him as the Suppression dropped away. Britton heard the crack of a bullet tearing into the building’s corner. Britton knew that Dan was a better shot than that.