the schoolhouse as he passed through the gate. The enrollees stood stiffly, staring at something, cigarettes held forgotten in their hands. He made his way toward Therese as the guards dragged the barriers back into place but stopped short.
The door to the pillbox stood open, its interior shrouded with shadow. Goblin contractors worked inside it with brooms and hoses.
Britton followed the gazes of the enrollees and saw two Suppressor guards following a few paces behind a woman. Her skin had the unhealthy pallor of one denied sunlight, the blue tracery of veins clearly visible. Her jet- black hair was cut in a severe bob, the points almost sharp where they passed the line of her jaw. She was thin, tall, and clad in a one-piece orange jumpsuit similar to the one Britton had worn when he was first captured. Her hands were cuffed before her.
She made her way slowly around the compound, stretching her legs and working kinks out of her neck. The Suppressors gave her a wide berth, their fingers braced along the trigger guards of their guns, eyes never leaving her rolling shoulders.
She turned a face dominated by large eyes with jet-black pupils and smiled at the No-No Crew. Many of them genuflected at her, save Swift, who only nodded briefly. Her grin was all teeth, huge and vulpine. And yet there was no denying her beauty, an older, experienced brand, sensual and wise. Britton felt his pulse quicken at the sight of her.
“That’s her,” Pyre said. “That’s the queen of Selfers right there. One of these days, she’s going to bust out of there and make these fuckers in the SOC pay for what they’ve done to us. One of these days, she’s going to set us free.”
Britton only nodded. For a man talking about his savior, Pyre sounded terrified.
The woman rounded the corner of one of the Quonset huts and met his gaze evenly, the smile never faltering. “Oscar Britton,” she said as she approached. “You’re even prettier in the sunlight.”
“Ma’am,” he said instinctively, responding to the authority she projected.
“Oh, there’s no need for that. You can call me Scylla.”
“That’s not your real name.”
“I’m beyond names. So are you. That’s why they’re terrified of us.”
“Shut up and keep moving, ma’am,” one of the guards said from behind her.
“See?” Scylla said to Britton, not even acknowledging the guard. “Can you hear the terror in the human’s voice? This little gulag is all to buy them a little more time before they’re forced to face reality.”
“What reality is that?” Britton asked.
The guard inched forward, as if to touch her, appeared to think better of it, and looked askance at his partner, who likewise refused to move.
“The reality we all see around us but refuse to acknowledge, human and Latent alike. That 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.”
“That’s…crazy,” Britton stammered.
“That’s the way it is,” she went on. “You know it as surely as I do. Think on it, Oscar Britton. You possess the ability to move between the fabric of dimensions under your own power, and yet you are hounded and ruled by those who cannot even fly through the air without the aid of a machine. How does that make sense?”
Britton struggled to find a way to refute her, but the fact was that it didn’t make sense.
“Welcome to the new apartheid, Oscar Britton,” Scylla said. “It will fare no better than the old one.”
“Get moving,” one of the guards said, finally mustering his courage and pushing her from behind. Scylla stumbled forward a step and slowly looked over her shoulder, her smile fading as she met the guard’s eyes.
“CWO-2 Blankenship. Three good conduct medals. Recently treated for gallstones. Your boards are coming in a month, and while your dog tags mark you as a Christian, you don’t really believe it.”
Blankenship’s mouth worked, his eyes wide and terrified. “It can’t be magic,” his partner said. “I’ve got her Suppressed.”
Scylla smiled. “Do you know why I was put in the hole?”
“Everybody knows,” Blankenship said, instinctively leveling his weapon at her.
“It might not earn your respect, but it should at least earn your fear. So. Don’t. Ever. Push. Me.”
Both guards took a step back, mouths open. One jerked his weapon at her. “Let’s go. You get an hour of exercise. Use it or lose it.”
Scylla turned back to Britton. “See? Terrified. Never forget that, Oscar. These people may limit your movements for now, but deep down? You own them.”
She moved past him, her elbow brushing his stomach and sending chills through him, the guards dogging behind, squared shoulders and long strides obvious efforts to mask their fear.
Britton made his way to the knot of SASS enrollees entering the schoolhouse.
“What was that all about?” Therese asked him.
“I’m not really sure,” he said. “You weren’t kidding about her being creepy, though. How’d she wind up in the hole in the first place? She said everybody knows.”
“She got one of her Suppressors to drop her for a moment. That was all it took. By the time she was done, she’d unleashed hell.”
“Hell?”
“Twenty, maybe thirty dead.”
“How? She some kind of super Pyromancer?”
“Scylla’s a Witch,” Wavesign said. “Negramancy. It’s supposedly nasty, nasty stuff. Black magic and all that.” His vapor field intensified, Britton guessed as a reaction to his fear.
“But how does it work?” Britton asked. “Does she turn people into toads?”
Therese shuddered, and Wavesign looked at his feet. “It’s nasty,” he said eventually. Britton noted his discomfort and didn’t press the matter.
“How’d she get the Suppressor to drop her?” he asked instead. “She whack him over the head?”
Therese looked even more uncomfortable, and Wavesign kept his eyes on his feet.
“She, you know,” Swift said, trailing off.
“Oh,” Britton said. Scylla wasn’t an unattractive woman, for all her wicked charisma. She’d used the only tool she’d had to hand.
“How’s it going, Wavesign?” Britton asked, trying to change the subject, extending his hand.
“Don’t do that,” the young Hydromancer responded. “I’ll just get you wet.”
“I don’t mind if you do,” Britton responded, shaking his hand. His grip was slippery, like trying to run kelp through one’s palms. Britton suppressed an instinct to grimace. The kid already had problems without further damage to his ego. The boy nodded shyly, then cast a glance up at Pyre and Swift, as if seeking their permission.
Inside the schoolhouse, Salamander cued up another video, this one showing Aeromancers working weather control for the coast guard, rescuing shipwrecked fishermen.
Swift sidled over to Britton and whispered, “Sorry about yesterday,” when Salamander stepped out to use the latrine. “Let’s start over.”
“Wow,” Britton murmured back. “Scylla really put the fear in you, didn’t she?”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it, Swift? Cut to the damned chase.” He could almost feel his cheek, still stinging from Swift’s nails. “I’m no fool. I don’t believe you suddenly want to be friends.”
Swift sighed and looked at his lap. Both Therese and Wavesign were looking over at them. Pyre leaned his chair against the wall, arms folded, pretending to sleep, but Britton could tell he was listening. Every so often he would open one eye and glance over at Downer to make sure she wasn’t eavesdropping, but the young Elementalist was sitting at the front of the class as usual, and if she overheard, she gave no sign. Tsunami stared intently at them but was too far away to hear anything. Wavesign glanced nervously at the door every so often. “It’s the gate magic. You’re a Portamancer.”
Britton tried to meet Swift’s eyes, but the pale man looked steadily at his lap. “What about it?”
“You can get us out of here. Why haven’t you escaped already?”
“Maybe I don’t want to escape.”
