Control Point by Myke Cole Page B

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 hisown 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