Shadow Ops: Control Point

by Myke Cole

  Truelove stumbled backward as a gate snapped opened inches from his face.

  “I, on the other hand, am Latent,” Britton seethed. “And I don’t have time to compare dicks with you. This man is dying, and that Goblin can help him. You’re going to let him help or you and I are going to enter into a rather dynamic disagreement.”

  The man reached up to wrench at Britton’s wrist, then saw Downer and Truelove standing at his side. His eyes flicked to the ghosted star and moon over their chests, to the shimmering gate, and back. He ceased struggling.

  Britton released him and let the Dampener take control. The gate rolled shut, and Truelove exhaled loudly.

  Marty scrambled back to the wounded man’s side. He reached beneath his hospital scrubs and produced a worn leather pouch, divided into several pockets. He grumbled to himself, poking his fingers into its depths and sniffing them before he settled on a fine green powder, which he poured out into his palm. He spat in his palm and rolled the liquid in the powder until it formed a vile paste that stank so badly Britton wrinkled his nose. He leaned forward, and the Seabee jerked his chin toward Marty’s hand. “What the hell is that shit?”

  Britton looked doubtfully at Truelove, but the Necromancer nodded. “Trust him. Marty’s very good at his work.” The Seabee looked daggers at Marty but let the Goblin apply the paste around the wounded man’s nostrils. He writhed, swatting weakly at the air, and moaning.

  “He not die now, soon,” Marty said. “Go cash fast.”

  Sirens wailed in the distance, and Britton could see a plume of fire rising farther out, but still inside the barricade wall of the FOB. Britton and Downer lifted the wounded soldier as gently as they could. He moaned softly, half-conscious, as they carried him behind Marty, who scampered down the muddy track toward the Combat Surgical Hospital. Truelove jogged alongside. The Seabee and the other soldier trailed a few paces back, whispering to one another.

  The hospital was overwhelmed. The massive tent literally jumped with activity, the flaps opening and closing so fast to admit new wounded that wind vibrated through the entire structure. Army doctors, navy hospital corpsmen and SOC burn-trauma officers ran to and fro, fussing over a mounting flow of stretchers.

  “That was amazing,” Downer breathed.

  “That was amazing,” Truelove agreed. “But you’re not supposed to use your magic until you’ve been enrolled in the SASS. You could get in deep shit for that.”

  “I’m just amazed I could do it at all,” Britton said, the reality hitting him. He had called magic entirely on his own, and it had worked. “The Dampener is incredible. Why the hell don’t they just hand the stuff out?”

  Downer sounded peevish. “Against regs,” she muttered.

  “And expensive as hell,” Truelove added. “Most in the SOC don’t get it if they can control their magic okay on their own. But everyone in Shadow Coven gets an unlimited supply.”

  A SOC Hydromancer appeared at the entrance and recognized Marty, moving toward him.

  “Doctor Captain,” Marty said, jerking his hand at Britton, Downer and their weakly stirring cargo. “Specialist Lenko has thunder burn. I give him…bad smell herbs. He needs…”

  Britton remembered Dawes’s care and breathed a bit easier. The Hydromancer moved forward and motioned for two orderlies bearing a stretcher. They loaded the wounded soldier onto the stretcher, and he vanished into the hospital, the Hydromancer following close behind.

  Marty went after them, then paused, turning to Britton. “Thank you,” he said, his brows arching until the white dots on his forehead were reduced to thin lines. He bowed slightly, tapping his closed eyelids.

  Britton realized the Goblin had called the wounded soldier by name. “You knew him?”

  Marty nodded. “Specialist Lenko is wise. He dies, I eat his eyes.”

  The Hydromancer reappeared in the hospital-entry flaps and motioned brusquely. “Marty! Come on! We need every hand we can get!” The Goblin turned and ran after him, leaving Britton with Truelove and Downer and the steady flow of wounded. The Seabee and the other soldier had vanished. They made their way back toward the P pods in silence.

  “Thanks for sticking up for Marty,” Truelove finally said.

  “How’d you two get to be such buds?” Britton asked.

  “I’ve got some stomach problems,” Truelove said, casting an embarrassed look at Downer, who didn’t appear to notice. “The docs at the cash didn’t really know what to do about it, and the one Physiomancer they’ve got is so overworked, he doesn’t have time for something that isn’t life-threatening. Marty gave me some herbal remedy. It doesn’t fix it totally, but it really helps.”

  Britton nodded. “He seems like a good…guy.” In fact, the Goblin’s kindness deeply impressed him. If he’d let that navy chief have his way, Lenko would probably have died while those idiots sat around shouting for a medic.

  Downer laughed. “He’s all right. We keep him in sugar, he keeps Truelove from crapping his drawers.” Truelove turned crimson at the remark, but Downer missed it, punching him in the shoulder.

  “Did he actually say he’d eat that guy’s eyes?” Britton said, trying to change the subject.

  Truelove nodded. “It’s a custom. They do it to honor their dead. They believe that if you eat the eyes of a dead man, you ingest everything he’s ever seen, the sum of his life experience. That way he lives on forever through you. It’s a high compliment. Of course, try telling that to our forward squads who come across Goblins actually doing it. There’s not a lot of patience for the practice around here.”

  Britton shook his head and suddenly realized how cold he was. Smoke still billowed in distant columns, flickering red-orange inside. The late-fall chill was intense, the flame-whipped winds piercing. “Christ,” Britton said, “what the heck is the army doing out here?”

  “You haven’t figured it out?” Downer asked. “FOB Frontier is a bridgehead in the Source. You’re in occupied territory.

  “We’re conquering the magic kingdom.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  FITZY

  Magical Suppression occurs when a Latent individual crosses his own current with that of another Latent individual, effectively interdicting the magical flow. It is a concentrated effort. If the Suppressor’s Latency is weaker than the individual’s he is acting against, a breakthrough may occur, resulting in ineffective Suppression. Some interviewees have described this sensation as painful or exhausting. Skill and training can compensate for this to some degree, but in the end, it is a matchup of strength. Some SOC Sorcerers devote their entire careers to Suppression. These “Master Suppressors” rarely find a current they are unable to lock down.

  Avery Whiting

  Modern Arcana: Theory and Practice

  Britton didn’t bother trying to sleep. He lay on his cot, staring at the corrugated metal ceiling and remembering his mother. His mind returned to her eyes, staring at him in horror and realization.

  The 158th. His mother. Dawes. He had lost them all. He gripped the coarse blanket, balling it in his fists.

  Was this it? Was this his life from here on? It can’t be. You’ve got to get out of here.

  His mind returned to the ATTD, holding him as surely as if he were surrounded by bars.

  Find a way. You have to find a way to get that thing out.

  As the first streamers of dawn filtered underneath the door, Britton heard the triple succession of booms that marked another attack. The sirens sounded far away, and he didn’t even budge at the tremors, surprised at how quickly he had become inured.

  The next morning, he found the inside of the chow hall was much as he’d come to know from other bases. Long tables backed up to a line of metal trays piled high with steaming slop that could scarcely be called food. The line was manned mostly by Goblins in paper hats who endured the sullen looks of their customers with resignation. Britton got himself a foam tray piled high with a yellow slurry that roughly approximated eggs and some sausage patties as chewy
as old spare tires, then sat at a bench that quickly cleared of other occupants as soon as they saw his uniform. A moment later, Truelove appeared and sat across from him.

  “Good morning,” the Necromancer said. “You fill out your time sheet?”

  Britton paused, eggs steaming on his fork. “Time sheet?”

  “You’re not a soldier anymore,” Downer said, plopping down beside him. “Contractors get their time sheets audited daily.”

  “Make sure you fill yours out like clockwork, or Fitzy’ll have your ass,” Truelove said. “Apparently there’s a new admin colonel here. He’s a real hard-ass about accounting, and he comes down hard on Fitzy when things slip. Fitzy always makes sure it rolls downhill to us.”

  “When do I meet this famous Fitzy?” Britton asked.

  Truelove examined his watch. “It’s 0615, which gives you fifteen minutes. There’s a terminal in the MWR where you can do it electronically. Just put in your social security number and eight hours for yesterday. Make sure you do it before bed from now on. “

  Britton stared at him, expecting a joke. Truelove didn’t laugh.

  Britton sat at the terminal in the Morale, Welfare, and Recreation tent, struggling with the irony of filling out a time sheet in the middle of a war zone. He was still laughing to himself as he stepped out of the tent and nearly bumped into a man who more than made up for his lack of height in sheer muscle. His head was shaved as bald as Britton’s, gleaming in the rising sun as if it had been oiled. A tight moustache was parked on a stern upper lip. Dark, deep-set eyes stared into Britton’s, showing a hint of amusement. The hard line of a mouth was all business. The man wore a Shadow Coven uniform, the Entertech logo noticeably absent. Instead, the striped bar of a chief warrant officer adorned the peaked ball cap. Britton could feel a slight magical current off him. The Suppressor’s armored fist, gripping its clutch of lightning bolts, marked the left of his shirt. A star crowned the fist, a laurel wreath spanning beneath.

  “Morning, Novice,” the man said. “I’m Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons. You can call me God, or sir, whichever is easier. Got your time sheet filled out?”

  Britton towered over the man by nearly a foot. “Yes, s…” He stopped himself before completing the honorific. He had been an officer before and was presently a civilian contractor. Thus he was unsure if the man deserved the honorific.

  “Sir,” the man finished for him. “You’d better get used to it. You’ll be saying it a lot. Did you fill in the proper task number and authorization account for each day worked?”

  “Sir?” Britton asked.

  “I take your charming but clueless expression to mean that you have no idea what I’m talking about,” Fitzsimmons said.

  “I saw those fields on the time sheet, sir,” Britton answered, “but I didn’t know what codes to put in.”

  “And why the hell not, Novice?” Fitzsimmons asked. “Surely you’ve read sections nine A and B in the manual that I left on the rack in your hooch. Had you bothered to perform the requisite reading required by your job, which, might I remind you, your conditional pardon depends on, you would have found those sections entitled ‘timekeeping’ in twenty-four-point font.”

  “Sir,” Britton explained, “that manual was enormous, I didn’t have a chance to…”

  “Is that a fixed or rotary wing whine I’m hearing, Novice?” Fitzsimmons asked. “Do you honestly think I give a rat’s ass for whatever bullshit excuses you care to mine at this particular moment? Ooooh, I was really tired, sir. That manual was just too big, sir. Like I give a fuck about any of that.”

  Britton swallowed his anger and nodded. Such treatment might work in boot camp, but he was a former officer and pilot and not even in the army anymore. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll go check the codes in the manual right now.” He turned his back on the man and moved toward the P pods. He’d barely taken a step when the chief warrant officer slapped him in the back of the head so hard that he stumbled forward. Britton whirled, the Dampener easing the magic that flowed along the current of his anger.

  “I was warned that you weren’t very smart,” Fitzsimmons said, moving so close that the brim of his cap touched Britton’s chin. “I also heard that you assaulted a chief petty officer last night in an effort to assist a damned Goblin. You also used your magic under unauthorized circumstances before we’d had a chance to enroll you in the SASS. Not off to a very good start, Novice. So, no. You don’t get to go check the manual now. Instead, you get to do fifty push-ups, and I’d like to hear you say ‘sir’ at the end of each count off. On my deck, right now.”

  Britton looked down at the thick mud—wet, chilly, and at least four inches deep. For a moment, his composure failed him. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  Fitzy grabbed Britton’s balls, squeezing hard. Britton howled, pushing him backward, and letting the surge of magic flow through the Dampener’s wall. The man smiled, and Britton felt his magical current roll back as the Suppression took hold.

  Fitzy kicked Britton hard in the knee. As Britton doubled over, he grabbed his neck and slammed a knee into his stomach. Britton fell face-first in the mud and struggled to rise out of the choking thickness. He could feel Fitzy’s boot on his back.

  “Count off, Novice!” the chief warrant officer roared. “I don’t have all damned day!”

  “Fuck you!” Britton struggled, but Fitzy’s boot held him down with surprising strength. He leaned down and pressed a fingertip into the base of Britton’s neck. Pain blossomed into numbness. Britton’s face dropped into the mud, and Fitzy held it there. Just when he felt he would choke, Fitzy let him lift it a few inches. He gulped air, swallowing mud in the process. He sputtered, choking.

  “Count off!”

  Britton tried to speak but couldn’t find the breath. His face went down in the mud again until his universe shrank to a pinhole filled entirely by the need for air. His throat burned. His lungs swelled. When he thought they might burst, Fitzy let him raise his head.

  “Count off.” Fitzy’s voice was calmer.

  Britton got his arms underneath him, but his veins felt full of lead. He managed one agonizing push-up. “One.”

  “One what, Novice?”

  “One, sir.”

  “That’s better. The agreed number was fifty.”

  Britton thought of air and how badly he wanted it. His peripheral vision filled with onlookers, but he swallowed his pride and channeled his rage and humiliation into his arms. He collapsed at thirty-two, his chest a flaming wreck. Fitzy took his boot off his back and Britton rolled over, coughing.

  “You still owe me eighteen, but I’ll collect later, Novice. On your feet.”

  Chastened, Britton rose, gasping. He remembered his time as a butter-bar lieutenant straight out of his commissioning. He’d been dressed down and humiliated in front of a crowd before. He stared straight ahead, ignoring the eyes around him. He knew when he was beaten.

  “We have an understanding?” Fitzy asked.

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Outstanding, Novice.” He gestured past the chow hall. “About half a klick down that way you’ll find a checkpoint. The guard there will let you in. There’s a muster field just beyond it. You’ve already met Downer and Truelove. Form up with them when you arrive. Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Much better, Novice. That mud looks fantastic on you. It’s an outstanding reminder of the fact that I am your government customer and a very demanding one at that. I’m going to expect top-notch customer service from you, and you wouldn’t want me to have to let your project manager know that I’m dissatisfied with your performance, would you?” He tapped Britton’s chest meaningfully. Britton felt the ATTD nestled in his heart beneath his sternum.

  “No, sir.”

  “Make tracks, Novice. I’ll meet you there shortly.”

  Britton trudged through the ankle-deep mud down the track beyond. It wasn’t the beating that angered him most though he felt his mag
ic surge at the thought. It was the comment about defending Marty. Britton already had an inkling of the status Goblins held at the FOB, and it felt far too close to the way Selfers were treated in his own world. So far, Marty appeared far more decent than most of the humans he’d met on the FOB.

  At the end of the track, a small plywood booth held a single SOC guard, shivering in his mud-spattered parka. The area beyond was screened by two corrugated metal doors on wheels, topped with barbed wire and protruding from ad hoc walls of concrete blast barriers and piles of sandbags. A huge yellow sign hung from one of them, bearing the SOC arms. RESTRICTED AREA: APPROPRIATELY BADGED SOC PERSONNEL AND CONTRACTORS ONLY. ABSOLUTELY NO FOREIGN NATIONALS OR SOURCE-INDIGENOUS CONTRACTORS PERMITTED WITHOUT ESCORT.

  Britton cleared the mud off his badge, but the guard was already opening the gate at the sight of his uniform. Britton stepped past and into a broad field, nearly stumbling as his feet touched hard ground. Beyond the gate, the earth was dry and smooth as a hardwood floor. Goblin contractors toiled in small teams along the edges of the square, keeping their eyes scrupulously on their work, their minders watching them closely.

  The area before him looked like a holiday campsite, with ten low, star-shaped buildings clad in cheap vinyl siding abutting a parade ground. Each entrance was marked by a swinging brown sign. Britton scanned them; one read COVEN 6. CAMELOPARDALIS. Below that, in smaller SCRIPT—NOTHING IS BEYOND OUR REACH! Beneath the writing was a stylized image of a giraffe stretching its long neck toward an apple on a branch. Coven Five bore the image of a belching furnace with the words FORNAX. HELL HATH NO FURY! Coven Seven fielded the image of a swan, beneath which was written: CYGNUS. GRACE UNDER FIRE. Here was an arrow in flight. There a peacock with feathers spread in a glorious sunburst.

  The Covens had begun to assemble, each clustering around a yellow pennant stapled to a wooden pole. Each bore the image of the Coven assigned to them. Behind each Coven stood a Suppressor, the fist-lightning symbol on a black band around his upper arm.