Shadow Ops: Control Point

by Myke Cole

  Britton closed the gate and leapt off the tower as Harlequin screamed, tackling the Aeromancer in midair and opening a gate beneath him just before the stone chairs.

  Harlequin’s body cushioned his fall, but both men still hit the ground hard enough to jar them apart, just as the explosion of the crashing helicopter caught them. The blast drove them against the base of the great tree as the Blackhawk slammed into the SOC force, turning over and catching fire as it spun among their ranks, its half rotors ripping themselves to fragments on the ground and tearing the soldiers apart. The shock wave struck Britton like a massive hand, forcing him up against the tree trunk and singeing his eyebrows. His head fetched up against the hard trunk, and he saw stars. His whole ear filled with a ringing buzz, and the angry wound on the other side of his head wept blood and rang in agony.

  He sat against the tree trunk, all strength gone from him, shaking his head. As his sight cleared and the ringing began to fade, he noticed something strange.

  Silence.

  No gunshots. No crackling of arcing electricity or whooshing flame. The field of battle was quiet, with the occasional moan coming from the gory path left by the Blackhawk’s ruined impact. The aircraft was buried halfway through a small two-story hut, which had collapsed over it, the thatching burning brightly. The APC had been knocked over on its side, the turret popped off and smoldering. Sarah Downer scrambled in the wreckage, her enemy forgotten, desperately trying to haul broken beams off the crushed bodies of soldiers.

  Britton slewed his head to the right. Harlequin stirred weakly on the ground, blood running from a gash in his head, half-conscious. Behind them, Therese, Swift, Peapod and a few others had begun to stand, their faces streaked with blood and filth, their mouths open in shock.

  Harlequin began to prop himself onto this elbows. Britton shot out a bootheel and caught him in the temple, knocking him back into oblivion.

  Pyre lay a few feet before him, sprawled on his side. His eyes were open, seeing nothing.

  Fitzy. Fucking Fitzy.

  Britton launched himself to his feet, running to the wreckage.

  He found Fitzy lying on top of two dead soldiers. His wounded arm had been burned to a stump from the elbow down, the wound mostly cauterized, but still leaking blood. Ribs protruded from his ruined side. He groaned, his eyes darting around, his good arm scrabbling in the dirt, searching for a weapon. Truelove was pushing himself to his feet behind him, swaying, blood streaking his shredded uniform. Richards sprawled beside him, his charred body cut neatly in half by a chunk of the helo’s tail boom.

  Britton staggered a few more steps and collapsed on top of the chief warrant officer, his knee slamming into the broken ribs and eliciting a weak moan.

  “Kill you,” Fitzy whispered. “Fucking kill you.”

  Britton leaned in and whispered back, “You’re done killing.”

  Fitzy grinned at Britton’s closeness, then moved his good arm with sudden speed to his belt, hauling out a small knife and lunging for him. Britton twisted aside, and the slim blade found his thigh instead of his side, gouging out a furrow of flesh.

  He screamed and head-butted his former instructor, who sprawled in the dirt, spitting blood. He tried to open a gate and found that Fitzy, for all his injuries, could still Suppress him. He looked around for a weapon and settled on a fragment of the helo’s rotors, its jagged edges sharp. He snatched it up as Truelove regained his senses, and their eyes met. They held stares for a moment while Fitzy flailed weakly beneath him.

  Finally, the Necromancer nodded and turned away.

  Britton raised the rotor fragment over his hand.

  “Fuck you,” Fitzy snarled.

  “No,” Britton answered. “Fuck you.”

  He brought the sharp edge down across Fitzy’s throat, suppressing the instinct to look away as the hot blood washed over him. The magic tide rushed back to him as Fitzy gurgled his last.

  A few soldiers began to rise from the ruined swath left by the Blackhawk’s path, but were set upon by Goblins, screaming and dragging them back down to the ground, spears leveled at their throats. One of the Goblins dashed from the crowd, a chunk of stone held high over his head. He moved to one of the soldiers, raising the rock to dash his brains out. Marty barked an order from his position behind the stone chairs. The Goblin paused, looking askance, and Marty repeated himself until the creature reluctantly lowered the stone.

  Britton examined the knife wound in his thigh. The gouge was deep, gently oozing blood around the edges, but he wouldn’t bleed out anytime soon. He tried to stand and found that he could, though his legs shook. Therese could heal him later. For now, he reached out, grabbing Truelove’s arm.

  “Stay with me,” he said, as the Goblins converged on the survivors.

  He looked for Downer, but was distracted by Harlequin, who had begun to stir against at the base of the tree, pushing himself onto his elbows. Britton took a limping step toward him, savoring the trip.

  Somehow, they had won.

  Swift reached Harlequin before Britton, leaping over the stone chairs and putting a bootheel on the Sorcerer’s neck. The flames were out, but they had left Swift’s chest badly burned, the swallow tattoo disappearing under charred skin. His black hair had melted to the sides of his face. One eye drooped into a track of burned skin that Britton knew would scar terribly.

  Peapod appeared behind him, Marty at her side. Swift winced with each step, the side of his face twitching uncontrollably.

  Therese knelt at Pyre’s side, weeping.

  The Goblins had rounded up what remained of the soldiers and were dragging them into the plaza. They came without protest, shaking their heads in disbelief that they could have been beaten. One stumbled and was rewarded by a jab from a spear in his buttock that drew blood. Downer stumbled along with them, a Goblin helping her along with thumps of his spear butt.

  Britton could feel the Aeromancer’s flow, but Harlequin was in no condition to muster any magic. Swift put his boot on Harlequin’s throat and loomed over him.

  “You recognize me, you fucker? Look at me.”

  Harlequin groaned, opening his eyes but managing little more than slits. He tried to raise his head and failed, dropping back in the dirt.

  Swift rotated his foot, tearing away skin. “Open your fucking eyes! Look at me!”

  Harlequin managed to open a single blue eye, but there was no recognition there.

  But Swift only went on. “It’s me. Remember? You killed my girlfriend and my child. I killed myself trying to fucking earn somebody. When I was about ready to give up, I met Shai. So you killed her. Do you like me now? I’m a fucking product of your goddamned system.”

  He spoke so quickly that drool escaped from the corner of his mouth, his words running together, scarcely understandable as his voice rose. “But here’s the best part. You lose. I’ve got you, and I’m going to kill you so slowly and horribly that before I’m done, you’ll spit on your precious laws just for a momentary break in your suffering. You fucking son of a bitch, I am going to kill you. I am going to kill you. I am going to kill you.”

  Britton paused, stunned by the depth of Swift’s hatred. He could feel Swift’s current gathering like a tidal wave, a well of potential energy bubbling beneath his skin. He must have been burning with it. Would he go nova? Harlequin seemed to feel it, too, and began to thrash weakly back and forth under the pressure of his heel. The Goblins had returned to the plaza and stood staring frankly at him, waiting for his next move.

  Britton had no love for Harlequin, but he felt Fitzy’s blood still warm on him. The sensation made him feel ill, weak. Harlequin was a bastard, but he was not Fitzy. Britton opened his mouth to say something but stopped. Swift’s scarred face and insane rambling made him terrifying. If Britton spoke, he might divert some of that insensate rage onto himself. He didn’t know what Swift would do.

  Downer had no such compunction. She shrieked and shook free of her captors, racing to Harlequin, her hands outstret
ched. “Don’t you hurt him!” she screamed. “Don’t you hurt him!”

  Swift’s eyes never left the Aeromancer, who had recovered enough to prop himself onto his elbows, his head bending back under the weight of Swift’s boot. Swift merely stuck out one hand, pointing at Downer.

  A bolt of lightning sprang from his hand, catching her full in the chest. The Elementalist flipped over backward, her screams abruptly becoming a choking croak. She slid in the mud, the stench of cooked meat rising from her.

  “No!” Britton cried, interdicting Swift’s magical current. The strength of it nearly overwhelmed him, and it took him several seconds to properly Suppress Swift.

  Downer writhed on the ground, alive but hurt badly. Truelove rushed to her side, cradling her in his arms.

  Swift felt the Suppression take hold and whipped his head toward Britton, snarling. He bent, in one fluid motion, grabbing Harlequin’s throat with one hand and yanking his pistol from its drop holster with the other. He stood again, the pistol barrel hovering rock steady over the Aeromancer’s face.

  “I don’t need magic to do this,” he said. His finger tensed on the trigger.

  “Don’t!” Therese raced between them, hooking an arm under Harlequin’s armpit and hauling him upright. Harlequin Drew magic to him, but Britton met his eyes and shook his head. “You do, and you’re dead, pal.”

  Harlequin didn’t release the magic, but neither did he Bind it to anything.

  Swift didn’t move, pointing the gun doggedly over Therese’s shoulder. “Get out of the way,” he said. “You saved our lives, and I don’t want to shoot you, but he’s not getting away.”

  Therese only stood, shaking her head silently.

  Britton looked down at Fitzy’s gore splashed across him and felt sick with himself. Rage had overcome him, and he had murdered the chief warrant officer. Therese wouldn’t permit that. Not when a man was too weak to defend himself. She was better than that.

  “No, Swift,” Therese said. “We’re letting him go.”

  She gestured at the few remaining soldiers, hemmed in by Goblin spears and staring wide-eyed at the confrontation. “We’re letting all of them go.”

  Swift’s voice was flat, the rage gone stale. “I’m not kidding. Get the fuck out of the way.”

  “We came here to escape,” Therese said. “We’ve done that. Killing more people won’t accomplish anything.”

  Britton spoke up, hoping the words would shrug off some of the shame he felt. “That’s what Selfers do. We’re not Selfers, Swift. We’re not the SOC. We’re the real good guys, and it’s high time we started acting like it. I’m through with magic as a bludgeon. It stops here. He goes free, back where he came from. They all do.”

  He met Marty’s eyes as he said it. He knew he couldn’t speak for the Mattab On Sorrah, but he also knew he couldn’t permit them to kill captured prisoners, no matter how angry they were over the attack on their village. “All water baby, right?”

  But Marty only nodded, speaking quickly in his own language. There was a chorus of angry cries from the assembled Goblins, with a few of the white-painted sorcerers stepping forward, flapping their hands at him, but Marty silenced them with a few barked words, his command presence back again.

  “All water baby,” he said. “Always help.”

  “We’ve all lost something,” Therese said to Swift. “Killing him won’t bring anyone back to life.”

  The pistol didn’t waver. Swift’s face was inscrutable, his voice a tired croak. “You’re going to have to kill me if you want him to live.”

  Therese paused, shook her head, then stepped away from Harlequin, spreading her arms and moving to stand beside Britton. “I’ve had it with killing,” she said. “You do what you have to, Swift, but you can’t fight the whole world, not forever. Sooner or later, you have to accept things as they are, stop bitching, and start the hard work of changing stuff.”

  Swift’s lip curled, he pressed the gun forward, and Britton tensed for the ringing shot, for Harlequin’s body to jerk and slump. He closed his eyes and sighed.

  Silence.

  When Britton opened his eyes Swift had lowered the gun. His eyes were on his feet. Two drops tapped on his boot tips. Tap. Tap. Tears, Britton realized.

  “Fuck,” was all he managed to say, barely a whisper.

  “Don’t think I don’t appreciate the gesture,” Harlequin slurred through split lips. “But it’s not my call. I’ll be back, Oscar, for you and your friends. This won’t change anything. I’ll come for you.”

  Britton crossed to Swift and took the pistol from his hands. Swift gave it up willingly, his grip limp and spent. His eyes remained fixed on his feet.

  Britton swallowed. Felt his gorge rise.

  Because there was one more killing that had to be done if they were ever to be safe.

  Britton turned, dropping Swift’s Suppression to open a gate directly before the chair where Billy sat, his mother’s elephantine arms pale around his neck. His vacant blue eyes widened, his mouth working in shock at the sight of a gate not of his own making. He whipped his head from side to side, pulling one of the leads loose. His mother fumbled to reconnect it, her cat’s-eye framed glasses going askew. Harlequin stiffened, but he lacked the strength to do anything.

  “I’m sorry, Billy,” Britton said. “It’s the only way.” He made his single shot count, putting the bullet squarely between the Portamancer’s eyes. His head snapped back, coating his mother’s floral print dress with gray matter. Britton shut the gate before her screams could reach him.

  He dropped the pistol as if it were diseased. “No,” he said to Harlequin, when he could finally bring himself to speak. “I don’t think you’re coming for anybody. Not anymore.”

  Therese approached Swift, placing a hand on his burned face, the magic flowing out and smoothing the skin into shiny pink patches. “It’s okay,” Therese whispered. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “How can it ever be okay?” Swift whispered.

  Therese was silent, as was Britton. I don’t know how it can ever be okay, Britton thought. But at least now we’ve got a chance to try to get it there.

  Britton pictured a trip to Washington, DC, he had made in high school. He snapped the gate open, the image of his memories playing true. The front lawn of the White House was clearly visible through the shimmering surface of the portal. Crowds of onlookers gawked and pointed from beyond the iron fence.

  “Off you go,” he said to Harlequin, shoving him toward it. The Goblins followed suit, prodding the remaining assaulters forward at spearpoint. “Maybe you can explain to them what you’ve been up to. I’ll be watching the newspapers for your quote. Best of luck with that.”

  Harlequin glanced over his shoulder at Britton as he went. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Something new,” Britton answered. “Go back to your masters. Tell them that their precious regulations are no longer valid. Tell them there’s a new way.

  “From now on, Latent people get a real choice. And I don’t mean a choice between soldier and Selfer. Tell them if they don’t get my message out, I’ll do it my damned self. You can’t stop me from doing the one thing you fear the most: telling the truth. I can make sure that people know about the Source, the FOB, what you really do with Probes, everything.

  “And this. Tell them I’ll be visiting them real soon to discuss the new order: President Walsh, Senator Whalen, all of them. They have this one chance to do the right thing. After that, I’ll visit the newspapers and TV stations. They don’t get to decide how magic is regulated anymore. You know why? Because I can be anywhere at any time, I can spread the word. I can show everyone the world they’re so desperately trying to hide, and there’s no way they can stop me.”

  Harlequin nodded, the corners of his mouth rising slightly. “You’re one hell of a dreamer, Oscar. I’ll be seeing you real soon.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Britton said, as the Aeromancer stepped through the gate, the
rest of the assault force in tow. Sirens had already begun to sound outside the White House fence, and Britton could see white-shirted police pushing their way through the crowd.

  When the last of the soldiers was safely through, he closed the gate and stared out over the ruins of the village. Already, the wreckage of the helicopter had begun to cool, and several Goblins picked through it or hauled off the small children who were playing too close to the remaining fires.

  Behind him, Britton could feel the gazes of what remained of the group he’d led out of the wreckage of the SASS: Therese, Swift, Tsunami, Peapod. He could hear Marty speaking in soothing tones to his tribe, who were crowding closer. Truelove cradled Downer, still unconscious. Britton could feel the tension of their expectation, waiting for his attention.

  But he took a moment before that next step, inhaling the intensified smells of the Source. The air was still thick with the stench of blood, fear, oil, and spent gunpowder, but underneath it was something sweeter, a light odor that spoke of the hearths in the houses still standing, of the buds on the old tree behind him that had been spared the fire, of the acres of grass and foreign trees just outside the palisade wall.

  Oscar Britton took a deep breath and turned to face the coming dawn.

  GLOSSARY OF MILITARY TERMS,

  ACRONYMS, AND SLANG

  This novel deals largely with the United States military. As anyone familiar with the military knows, it has a vocabulary of acronyms, slang, and equipment references large enough to constitute its own language. Some readers may be familiar with it. For those who are not, I provide the following glossary. Many of these terms are fictional. Many are not.

  ANG—Air National Guard.

  AOR—Area of Responsibility.

  Apache—An attack helicopter, also known as a helicopter gunship.

  APC—Armored Personnel Carrier.

  ATTD—Asset Tracking/Termination Device. A beacon/bomb that can be placed inside a person to track their movements and, if necessary, to kill them.

  Blackhawk—A utility/transport helicopter.