of desiccated ore. Buildings collapsed in rotting heaps. The wailing went on and on.
Scylla turned to Britton, winked, and waved, then turned on her heel and strode out of the FOB, disappearing in the blackness beyond.
As far as Britton could see in either direction, the FOB’s perimeter had completely vanished. The base was entirely open, near as he could tell, to the countryside. Britton knelt, paralyzed with horror. So many dead, so much destruction. All because of him, because he had let her go.
And the ATTD still nestled in his heart, mocking him, reminding him that this swath of ruin had all been for nothing.
Movements in the grass beyond, small, hunched creatures rising out of the long grasses, calling to one another in their guttural tongue. Goblin spotters, Britton knew, from the hostile Defender tribes. They called in magical strikes every night. He’d seen the forward observers they used to direct them. Magic wasn’t so different from artillery in that sense.
They stood in the saw-toothed, swaying grasses, their silhouettes betraying utter shock.
Then one of them blew a horn.
Another blast followed farther down the line, and another.
The line of destruction that Scylla had wrought was suddenly alive with clarion calls, low, rumbling blasts followed by shouts. Britton couldn’t understand the language, but he knew full well what they were saying.
Panic-fueled adrenaline fired in Britton’s heart and stomach, strength flowing back into him. He lurched to his feet, turning to the wasteland that had once been the SASS’s gate, and ran with all he had.
LITTLE BIGHORN
The notion of Prohibited or “Probe” schools is the root of the problem. What incentive do Probes have to cooperate, to turn themselves in? From the moment they Manifest, their very existence is illegal. When you relegate a class of people to pariah status, you are creating a ready-made insurgency. The problem here is that this particular one has the power to bring about a change in the regime.
— Loretta Kiwan, Vice President
Council on Latent-American Rights
Appearing on WorldSpan Networks
CHAPTER XXX: ESCAPE
— Mary Copburn
Council for Ethical Atheism
With every step, Britton’s mind returned to his heart. He imagined that he could feel the ATTD bouncing, dancing in his ventricle, waiting for the signal that would tell it to end him. His feet pounded with the rhythm of his heartbeat. Pound, pulse, pound, pulse, pound. Boom? When would the boom come?
Maybe Scylla was right; maybe he was worth too much. But he wasn’t taking any chances. The cash tent loomed before him, oddly quiet considering what had just happened.
In the distance, gunfire was erupting in the near-ceaseless staccato that spoke of real engagement. Several helicopters buzzed overhead.
Britton burst through the cash flaps, charging into the trauma unit. Several orderlies stared at him, but all the MPs were gone.
Therese stood in the trauma unit, chatting sympathetically with a young marine who was gingerly testing his shoulder, pressing his fingertips against one of the tent beams, then wincing in pain. “Don’t be such a baby,” she admonished. “It won’t even be sore by tomorrow.”
The marine grinned at her and opened his mouth to say something as Britton approached.
“I need to speak to you,” Britton said. His eyes bored into hers.
Her eyes lighted on his bruised neck, his skinned hands and arms. Her nose wrinkled at the rotten stink on his clothes. She held his gaze for a moment before nodding. “Follow me.”
She led him to the row of individual examination rooms, each kitted out with a long hospital gurney, complete with foam mattress, curtained off from the bustle of the main cash. As soon as she’d closed the curtain, he seized her elbows and drew her close.
“You’ve got to get this thing out of my chest, right now.”
“Are you crazy?” she whispered, shaking her head. “I don’t know if I can even do it, and I haven’t had a chance to get the meds I need yet. The pain could kill you!”
He shook his head. “I’m dead anyway, and so is Marty if you can’t get me free of this thing in the next few minutes.”
“Oh God, Oscar. What happened?”
“It’ll take too long to explain. Suffice to say that I fucked up big-time. This whole FOB is about to come down around our ears. They’ve got Marty, and they’re probably going to kill him as soon as they realize what the hell is going on. While I’m at it, I need to get us all out of here. I can’t do that if the SOC can track me. Therese, we don’t have any time.” He took her hand and placed it on his chest. “You have to try.”
She opened her mouth, and he caught her hands, hoping the intensity of his stare conveyed the urgency his words could not. “Please, Therese. I need you to do this.”
She was silent another moment, then nodded. “Get on the cot, hurry!”
She disappeared as he lay down, and returned again carrying a syringe. “All I can get are some Benzodiazepines. It’ll calm you down more than the Dampener, but it’s not going to do anything for the pain.”
Britton thought of Marty and bit down. He felt his heart racing.
She looked at him, one hand on his forehead.
He held her eyes as he felt the syringe pierce his shoulder and the chemical wash into his bloodstream. It was followed by peace, a dizzy and relaxed euphoria. His heart slowed, the harsh sodium lights took on a halo of rainbows. Therese waxed more beautiful than ever.
“I love you,” he said before he knew he had spoken.
Therese smiled and leaned down, her lips brushing his forehead. He kept his eyes closed as she pulled away.
The doped fog washed over him, Britton’s mind cartwheeled, forming escape plans. Once the ATTD was out, and he could gate away, then what? Rescue Marty, bring Therese, somehow convince Umbra Coven to come with him, take them all somewhere the SOC could never follow.
But the SOC could always follow, couldn’t they? Britton wasn’t their only Portamancer. Billy’s drooling face swam into his drug-addled vision. Anywhere Britton could go, the SOC could follow.
