Shadow Ops: Control Point

by Myke Cole

  Hayes jerked out of Britton’s grasp with such force that he upset the TV.

  “Fix him,” Marty said again, “or Goblins stop work again.”

  Hayes steadied the TV and glared at Marty. “We’ll fire you and throw you out! You can try your luck with the Defender tribes! They’ll kill you for working for us.”

  Marty pursed his lips and wiggled his ears in what Britton assumed was the equivalent of a human shrug. “You get more Goblins for work. Easy, yes?”

  The captain paused, fat cheeks quivering, before rolling his eyes again, reaching forward and placing a thick hand on Britton’s face. The man’s skin stank of sweat and Cheese Puffs. Britton had to force himself to keep from pulling away as the magic did its work. The Healer only kept his hand there for an instant before pulling it away, but the pain was still intense. Britton touched his face. His fingertips told him the lip had been healed only partially, he could feel a notch in the flesh as it slid over the stub of a re-formed tooth.

  The captain was already turning and moving behind the partition, throwing it aside as he went. “Now get the hell out of there before I call the MPs!”

  He drew the partition shut, but not before Britton saw the room behind it. The cold emanated from a small industrial chiller, cooling the space enough to make the captain’s breath mist. Stretched out before him were more rows of metal hospital cots, covered with Goblin corpses in various states of dissection. A few held other creatures; Britton saw several he couldn’t recognize, but spotted two demon-horses, one missing its hooves and tail. Across from it was a smaller version of the bird he’d gated into the convenience-store lot, nailed upright to some kind of frame. Its throat was tacked open, an empty gray hole. Two tables had been pushed together to support a giant gray snake, a large portion of the scales sliced out of its back, leaving a black patch beneath. The partition fell, cutting off his vision.

  He took a step, but Marty gripped his elbow with surprising strength and led him out of the tent. His face was set, but Britton could see the grief there, mingled with resignation. “No anger,” Marty said.

  “Christ,” Britton breathed. “What the hell are they doing in there?”

  Marty made his Goblin shrug again. “Srreach,” he said. It was a moment before Britton realized he had tried to say “research.”

  On Goblins? On the indigenous population? He looked again at Marty, noting his drawn brows, his half-lidded eyes. He looked exhausted. And sadly resigned, Britton thought. How the hell can he work for an army that does this to his own people?

  The silence grated at him. “He didn’t even finish my lip,” Britton finally said, touching the newly uneven surface.

  “Fixed okay,” Marty said. “No more trouble.” His narrow shoulders were thrown back, making him look taller, regal. He shrugged the sad look away.

  They reentered the phlebotomy and urinalysis tent, and Marty collected his sample tray from one of the orderlies and turned back to Britton. He fixed his mask back over his face with his free hand, small and meek as ever.

  “Fixed okay,” he repeated. “Fitzy is asshole. Sorry.”

  Now that he had seen the deference with which the other Goblins treated Marty, he could no longer miss it. In tiny ways—the distance they kept from him, how they inclined their heads as they passed, he noted the difference in rank.

  “You’re an important guy, aren’t you?” he asked, leaning close.

  The surgical mask rose as Marty smiled, then the ear-wiggling shrug yet again.

  “So,” he said. “We no work if I say.”

  Britton nodded, then placed a hand on the creature’s shoulder. The other Goblin orderlies stiffened at the gesture, but when Marty put his hand on Britton’s, they relaxed.

  “Thank you,” Britton said. “You’ve been better to me than any of my own people since I got here, Marty. That means a lot to me.”

  “Same,” Marty hiss-whispered. “All water baby. You, me. Doctor Captain. Fitzy.”

  “Fitzy is asshole.” Britton chuckled.

  “Yes,” Marty said, “but water baby, too.”

  Britton nodded reluctantly.

  The Goblin smiled. “Follow. I show you.”

  Britton followed him out of the urinalysis section toward the entrance, where they turned down another narrow aisle to a smaller attached tent under the sign reading BURN UNIT.

  The room was more crowded than the rest of the hospital, with nurses and orderlies squeezing between beds pushed so tightly together that there was little room for the tables piled with equipment. Marty made his way to a bed where a young man lay asleep under a thin blanket, his vital signs pinging faintly on a monitor.

  “That’s…Lenko, right?” Britton asked. “The guy who got tagged by indirect the first night we met…”

  Marty nodded. “You save him.”

  “No, Marty. Come on. You saved him.”

  “Soldiers anger. Not want me. You save him.” He pulled back the blanket to show the specialist’s legs and hips, covered with hairless skin, pink and shiny under the light.

  “Healer fix burn. But Lenko now sick underneath. Healer not help that.”

  “An infection?” Britton thought of Dawes as Lenko moaned in his sleep, twitching.

  Marty wiggled his ears. “Sick. Maybe he live. I see every day.”

  Britton looked back to Lenko, watching his face, seeming even younger in sleep.

  “Marty, you’re the fucking man, you know that? You’re amazing.”

  “You fixed. I work. Bye-bye,” Marty said, smiling.

  He turned away, one gnarled brown figure among many, carrying his specimen tray out of the tent, around a corner, and out of sight.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  WORM

  “Whispering” is as deceptive a term as I’ve ever heard. “Hammering” is more like it. How about “will crushing” or better yet “mind control.” Let’s call this thing what it really is. You are taking a creature, stripping of it of its free will, and overriding it with your own. You are making it a slave. We outlawed that among humans. It’s high time we did it with animals too.

  —Arnold Dishart, Vice President

  People for the Moral Treatment of Animals (PMTA)

  Swift avoided Britton the next morning, but Britton caught him casting furtive glances his way. Swift’s smoking anger still lurked below the surface, but Britton felt it cowed for the moment. Because now he feels that he needs me. Because now he knows I could be a potential way out of here. Seems like just about everybody’s got a use for me.

  Wavesign continued to work on his magic with no appreciable results. Britton took it upon himself to join Therese, trying to talk him down from the emotional surges that were too strong for even the Dampener to manage properly. Only Britton and Therese were willing to withstand the soakings anyone working with him had to endure when his magic went wrong. While working with Britton, Wavesign lost control of his vapor cloud and generated a small river, which flowed around him, soaking Therese, Britton, Swift, and Pyre to the ankles. Britton chuckled, and Swift kept silent; but Pyre cursed and slapped Wavesign on the back of his head. “Fucking A, man! It’s cold enough out here already!”

  Wavesign looked horrified and humiliated, and Britton paused. Are you going to take that? He waited another moment, and realized that, yes, Wavesign was going to take that. Just as Therese opened her mouth to say something, Britton stepped forward and cuffed Pyre on the ear, sending him staggering backward. “You touch him again, and wet feet are going to be the least of your problems.”

  Pyre looked up at Britton, stunned, his mouth dropping open. “Maybe all this babying him doesn’t help, you ever think of that? Maybe what he needs is a firm hand.”

  Britton snorted. “Look around you, genius. He’s in a prison. A military prison. That a firm enough hand for you?”

  Salamander jogged over. “Problem, gentlemen?”

  Britton shook his head.

  “No problem,” Pyre said, cupping his ear and walking
away, making an exaggerated showing of shaking off his soaking feet. Salamander nodded and returned to the rest of the group.

  “Why do you put up with that?” Britton asked.

  “Whatever,” Wavesign said. “It’s not…it’s…just. I can understand where he’s coming from. It’s annoying.”

  “Sure, but that doesn’t mean you deserve to be treated like that,” Britton said. “You’ve got to stand up for yourself.”

  “Are you okay?” Therese fussed over him, but Wavesign pushed her hands away.

  “It’s fine,” he said.

  “We’ve been at this for a while,” Britton said. “What do you think is holding you back?”

  “It’s like I’m in a circle,” the boy confessed. “The magic comes to my feelings, you know? It comes when I’m sad. So what do you do when you’re sad all the time?”

  Britton looked over at Therese. “I guess you have to think about what’s making you sad and try to make peace with it.”

  “I appreciate your help, you know,” Wavesign said, barely a whisper.

  “You’re helping me, too,” Britton said. “In a lot of ways, I’m lucky. I Manifested as an adult, and a trained soldier at that. I have a lot of advantages you don’t. Watching you deal with all that teaches me how it’s really done.”

  Wavesign was quiet. Therese punched him in the shoulder. “Talk to us, Ted. What makes you sad?”

  The boy rolled his eyes and pitched his voice low, looking up at where Swift and Pyre stood talking with the rest of the No-No Crew. Peapod spoke to Pyre, her voice low and admonishing as she gestured at Wavesign. “When I came up Latent,” Wavesign said, “my brother hauled me into the woods and kicked me around pretty bad. Told me not to come home. Cops picked me up walking along the road. I like it here, honestly. It’s better than what I had. But…still…” He cuffed at his face, so constantly beaded with water that it was impossible to tell if he was crying.

  “It’s not a family, is it?” Britton asked.

  Wavesign nodded. “My folks weren’t nice. My mom died when I was too young to remember, and my dad took a strap to me most times. My brother was just doing what he knew they always wanted.”

  “He got rid of you,” Therese said.

  Wavesign nodded.

  “What he didn’t do was lock you in your room and call the SOC,” Britton added.

  “So?” Wavesign asked.

  “So, maybe, deep down somewhere, he wanted to protect you,” Britton said.

  Wavesign shrugged.

  “Even with everything your family did to you,” Therese said, “it’s okay to miss them.”

  “Not them,” Wavesign said bitterly. “My grandma and my cousins. My friends at school.”

  Britton thought of Cheatham and Dawes, Rob Dausman, even the snarling Stanley Britton. He thought of movie theaters and shopping malls, Monday night football in the squadron break room, burgers grilling outside. All that was beyond him, all the smiling faces he’d felt sure would be an e-mail or phone call away for the rest of his life.

  When he looked up, Peapod stood there. She worked to find words, her excruciating discomfort apparent in her shifting stance. “Pyre’s sorry,” she said. “You’re a good guy, and you didn’t deserve that.” She looked over her shoulder at Pyre, who made eye contact with Wavesign and nodded curtly.

  “You’re still part of the crew,” she added.

  That’s the problem, Britton thought. But now wasn’t the time to say anything about it.

  “Ready for another try?” he asked.

  Later, as Britton and Therese took a break, leaning against the front of one of the Quonset huts, Britton decided to take the plunge.

  “So, Therese. Do you remember asking me earlier why I didn’t try to use my gates to escape?”

  “Because you have a bomb in your chest,” she said without hesitating.

  “How the hell did you know that?”

  “Swift isn’t exactly reticent,” she said, laughing. “Everybody knows. He already asked me if I could get it out.”

  It took Britton a moment before he could speak, but Therese shook her head. “I’m sorry, Oscar. I’m getting there, but there’s a big difference between closing a bullet hole and moving something out of a heart ventricle while keeping the thing beating. I’d probably kill you at this point. I need time to get better. I need practice.”

  Britton sighed. “How much time do you think?”

  “Healing gashes or knitting veins isn’t too tough, but the complicated organs—the heart, the brain, they’re tricky. If your muscle doesn’t function for a moment, or if a vein has a bulge in it, that’s not the end of the world. Not so with your heart.”

  “So it could be a while.”

  “A long while. I’m sorry. I don’t get a lot of practice in here.”

  “They’ve got a cash, Therese. I’m sure they could use your help in there.”

  “I’d have to raise the flag, Oscar,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

  She’d have to be willing to be the SOC’s instrument. She’s not.

  Are you?

  They both stood in silence while Britton grappled with the surge of emotions the conversation had brought. Perhaps it was the effect of the Dampener, but did he actually feel relief? Are you actually glad that running might not be an option? Deep down, do you really want to stay?

  Therese caught her breath, and Britton looked up to see Scylla making her exercise round again. She paced toward him confidently, her guards towing behind, giving her a wide berth.

  “Good morning,” she said. Her voice was serene.

  “What do you want?” Therese asked.

  “That’s unkind,” Scylla replied. “I’ve just wished you joy of the day, and you treat me as someone who would do you harm.”

  “You’re a murderer,” Therese replied. “Everybody knows what you did.”

  Scylla laughed. “Am I?” She gestured at the guards lining the wall, the soldiers patrolling the SASS grounds. “These men have slaughtered Goblins by the score, tracked down so-called Selfers for the crime of being born with an ability they didn’t ask for. I killed my mortal enemies, who deprive me of freedom and dignity. Can I help it that the weapons I have at hand are more powerful than theirs? How can you murder soldiers? They’re paid to kill their enemies and to be killed by them.”

  Britton shook his head. “What do you know about sol-diering?”

  She turned to Britton, held his eyes. “I didn’t ask the SOC to chase me down and capture me. I didn’t write the unjust laws, and I had no say in their implementation. I defended my rights and my freedom, as Americans have done since this nation’s founding. Who can blame me for that? I’m not dropping bombs on schoolyards and hospitals, like your army did in the old War on Terror. I kill my enemies, same as you do.”

  She turned back to Therese. “You’re a gifted Physiomancer. Perhaps knitting flesh has made you averse to tearing it. I understand that, and it speaks well of you. I only hope you will consider that sometimes, in war, bloodshed is justified. I take no joy in killing, Therese. Try, if you can, to think better of me.”

  And then she was gone, the guards goading her along, leaving Britton to marvel at her words.

  Coven Four sat in the OC. Britton cradled a head that felt the size of a bowling ball and weighed twice as much. He clutched a bag of ice over his left eye, swollen shut by one of Fitzy’s expert strokes. Britton tried to contain his disappointment. There was no way Captain Hayes would ever help him. The fat, self-interested Healer didn’t appear to be anyone’s friend but his own. To even ask him would be too great a risk. Therese was his only hope if he was to have any chance of escape, and who knew how long it would take until she could help him?

  And what about Swift, Wavesign, Peapod, and the rest of the SASS enrollees? What about Truelove and Downer? If he could get out of there, would he take them with him? Would they want to go?

  More importantly, did he? The truth was that he was getting better. Would life on
the run, even free life on the run, be an improvement?

  The officers were beginning to accept the idea of a newly reconstituted Shadow Coven’s frequenting the establishment. While they gave the group a wide berth, they didn’t evacuate the premises. Richards had summoned one of the abundant rats on the FOB to perch on his shoulder, where it worked diligently, building an impressive cowlick out of his curly red hair.

  “It’ll be okay,” Truelove said, looking Britton over anxiously. “Marty’ll get off in a few and meet us here. He’ll fix you up.”

  “Dear God,” Britton muttered. “It feels like somebody put a spike in my eye.”

  Richards laughed. “Stop being such a baby. You’re Shadow Coven now, baddest of the bad and all that, right? Have a drink and suck it up.” He motioned to Chris, who poured him a tumbler of something that Britton downed too quickly to taste. It burned his throat and belly, but he felt better.

  “Aren’t we not supposed to hang out with Marty?” Britton asked. The thought made him uneasy. He’d come to rely on the Goblin’s kindness, a rare ray of sunshine in the otherwise bleak landscape of the FOB.

  “I guess,” Truelove said. “But I’ve never seen Fitzy come in here. It’s not our fault if Marty decides to come in on his own, right?”

  “Regs are regs,” Downer said.

  “Regs are guidelines,” Britton said. “People bend them all time. I don’t think I ever drove a car a day in my life without speeding, and that’s probably true for 90 percent of the drivers out there.”

  “I never did,” Downer said.

  “That’s because you aren’t old enough to drive,” Britton growled. “Besides, you saw Harlequin stick up for him before. Harlequin outranks Fitzy.”

  Downer blushed at the mention of Harlequin. “I am so old enough to drive.”

  Britton’s head throbbed. “Fitzy is a real piece of work,” he said. “I better get this MAC down fast, or I swear he’s going to kill me.”

  “MAC? Damn. My training is just a lot of boring chemistry,” she said. “It’s kicking my ass, but not in the same way as you, it seems.”

  “How does that work for Sentient Elemental Conjuration?” Britton asked, glad to get past the tension. Downer’s mindless devotion to SOC doctrine burned him.