Shadow Ops: Control Point

he’d grown up.

If the army had taught him one thing, it was how to run, and he did it well despite the screaming of his wounded calf. Somewhere behind him was a horrible thing, something he didn’t want to think about, and if he could just keep running fast enough, maybe that thing would never catch up to him.

The tides of magic went with him. Gates snapped open, teasing him with the prospect of saving his father, never staying open long enough to admit him.

Sirens sounded, drawing nearer. He threw himself into a ditch, watching over the rise as two police cruisers swept past, heading for his parents’ house. He bolted back to the street, racing onward.

And then he stopped, bathed in the glow of a convenience-store sign. He knew this parking lot. His friend Rob Dausman had introduced him to smoking dope here, hidden behind a bread truck and pretending the drug affected him more than it did.

For Britton, it had been a one-time deal, but Rob had made it a lifestyle. That lifestyle had bound him to this spot though he’d moved into the store and behind the counter. Britton could see him through the window, running a hand through his curly blond hair as he laughed with a customer. Britton felt a wave of relief at that smile. With Rob it had never mattered that Britton was black, or twice his size, or better in school. Britton realized why his footsteps had brought him here. If there was a person in the world who would not judge him, it was Rob.

He felt the blast of heated air strike him as the automatic doors slid aside. Elevator music bleated over the speakers. Fluo-rescent lighting reflected off rows of eyedrops, canned soup, and shampoo.

The customer, a middle-aged woman with short hair and a thick middle, was buying a pint of ice cream and laughing with Rob. Britton marveled at them; the world ticked on, blind to the tectonic shift in his life.

Britton looked up at the TV screen hanging from a corner of the ceiling. The news blared a block-lettered footer: RIOTS IN MONTMARTRE DISTRICT OF PARIS. SELFERS BATTLE EUROPEAN CALIPHATE POLICE.

The strict Sharia Islamic law of the EC forbade the practice of non-Suppressive magic, but that didn’t stop some from trying. The screen cut to shots of “Djinn-Born” Selfers standing atop a burning armored police vehicle, SUPPRESSION MAGIQUE printed on the side. French police in riot gear and Islamic Mutawaeen religious police swarmed around it. The Djinn-Born were bared to the waist and covered in winding tattooed Arabic script. One spit fire over the police. The other froze a Mutawaeen officer with a touch, then kicked his crystalline form to splinters.

When Britton took his eyes off the TV, both Rob and the customer were staring at him, wide-eyed.

“Dude,” Rob breathed.

The woman moved forward. Britton lifted his hands, but she only pushed past him and ran out the sliding doors, catching them with her shoulders in her haste to exit. He heard her car door slam and the engine start, and looked back to the TV as she roared out of the parking lot.

The news had been replaced by a mug shot. Britton recognized the image from his military Common ACCESS CARD. ACTION 6 NEWS ALERT! READ THE SCROLLING TEXT. $100,000 REWARD OFFERED FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO THE CAPTURE OF A SELFER FUGITIVE IN YOUR AREA. OSCAR BRITTON ESCAPED FROM MILITARY CUSTODY AND IS CURRENTLY AT LARGE. IF YOU SEE THIS INDIVIDUAL, PLEASE CONTACT THE AUTHORITIES IMMEDIATELY. THIS SELFER’S BLACK MAGIC IS NOT CONTROLLED AND HE SHOULD BE CONSIDERED EXTREMELY DANGEROUS! DO NOT ATTEMPT TO APPREHEND HIM ON YOUR OWN!

A toll-free number followed.

Britton looked back to Rob, who looked away, blushing. “It’s been running all night,” Rob said, then his eyes widened.

Britton followed Rob’s gaze over his shoulder. An open gate glittered just inside the store’s entrance.

“Dude,” Rob said again. “This is not good.”

“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.