by Myke Cole
Harlequin followed Britton’s gaze to the Goblins and smiled. “You’re not the only Entertech employee we’ve got working out here. The indig are decent workers, when they’re not stealing supplies or spotting targets for their brethren outside the wire.”
The Humvee passed through a checkpoint, then rattled to a stop outside a forty-foot shipping container, gray paint rusting off its ridged metal sides. P-4 was stenciled on the door. The flat roof was piled high with sandbags; more were stacked haphazardly around the sides. A small wooden staircase, stained dark with moisture, leaned precipitously away from the doorway before drowning in mud. Beside it stood a giant concrete staple, piled high with sandbags. A red-and-white sign reading BUNKER hung from the top. Several more identical converted containers stretched away in a row.
“Home, sweet home,” Harlequin said. “Chow hall’s up the road about a hundred yards. Latrine and showers are the other way just as far. DFAC is twenty-four/seven for sandwiches and cereal, standard mealtimes if you want indig serving you freshly grilled cats and dogs. Your supervisor will be meeting you outside the MWR tomorrow morning—0630 sharp. I recommend you get cleaned up, fed, and rested. Entertech’s a demanding company. They’re going to expect you to hit the ground running.”
Britton stepped out and nearly lost his boot to the thick mud. He turned to look up the track and froze. Three men were crossing the lane, military uniforms faced with red edging and gold buttons, the Indian flag stitched onto the shoulder. Their heads were wrapped in white turbans. Neatly trimmed beards hugged their chins.
Britton blinked at what glided along beside them. It towered over the makeshift structures, huge shoulders surmounting a chest as broad as a coffee table with biceps the size of footballs on at least a dozen pairs of arms. The torso terminated in a snake’s tail, as thick as an oil drum and trailing off out of Britton’s view. The vaguely humanoid collar sprouted into a bevy of snake’s heads on spear-length necks. The creature was covered in gleaming, jewel-like scales, shading from purple-green at the heads to jasmine-pink along the tail. An arsenal of swords, axes, and bladed discs were thrust haphazardly into a red silk sash around its waist.
A few of the heads swung his way, tasting the air with varicolored tongues as the party passed.
Harlequin tapped Britton’s shoulder. “I forgot to mention. FOB Frontier is a combined operation. The Sahir Corps are just one of the foreign attachés we’ve got here. You’re not to have any contact with them unless specifically authorized.”
The SOC Captain turned to Rampart and nodded. Britton felt the magical tide flow back into him, strictly controlled by the Dampener. Harlequin leaned forward and tapped his chest. “No more Suppression,” he said. “Just remember, we’ve got our eye on you. The FOB’s roughly thirty square miles. Your ATTD pops anywhere outside that zone, even for a minute and…” He grinned.
“Boom,” Britton finished for him.
“The Dampener should cover you for the next couple of days at a minimum. If, God forbid, you feel like you’re being overwhelmed anyway, just get down in the mud and shout ‘Suppress, Suppress, Suppress!’ with all you’ve got. I assure you that you will never be out of earshot of someone with significant Suppression capabilities anywhere on this FOB, day or night.”
“Sounds more like a warning,” Britton said.
“Take it however you like,” Harlequin said. “Good luck in your new career. I have to say I’m very pleased that you elected to cooperate with us. You were a talented soldier, and I have every confidence that you’ll be just as good in your new role. Just remember what I’ve been telling you. Stick to the regs, and everything will be fine. The rules are in place to protect you. Don’t mess with them.
“Remember, outside the MWR tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
The Humvee rolled off, spraying mud that covered Britton from the thigh down. The sky stretched above him, nearly cloudless. The Source’s curious sensory intensity magnified everything. The smells of overcrowded latrines and mechanical-grade grease assaulted his nose, strangely beautiful in their magnitude. Soldiers griped, and vehicles rumbled in musical concentration. The sun shone as uncomfortably big and brilliant as the moon.
The inside of his container was carpeted in mud-stained blue and occupied by a particle-board desk, closet and dresser. A metal-framed army cot occupied one wall under the light of a single, long, fluorescent bulb. An army duffel rested on the bed, packed with rough linens, towels, and a toilet kit. The duffel also contained a dark gray ball cap with the Entertech company logo and two identical sets of clothing—khaki cargo pants rife with ammunition pouches and clip-points for carabiners, and skintight black shirts. The shirts were blazoned on the right shoulder with a subdued American flag, white on black. The left shoulder was stamped with the SOC arms. Over the right pectoral, a ghosted star emerged from behind a crescent moon. Over the left pectoral was another symbol he knew was unique to him—the outline of an arched doorway.
Britton rolled his eyes. That’s hardly keeping my ability a secret.
Beside the duffel lay a massive binder, as thick as a telephone book, crammed with papers. PERSONNEL MANUAL—SPECIAL REGULATIONS FOR ENTERTECH PERSONNEL SERVING IN FORWARD AORS. Britton leafed through it, then tossed it aside. It would take him a week just to read a quarter of it.
He trudged through the mud toward the shower, looking for exits. They were letting him walk around unsupervised. There had to be a way to escape. He felt the flow of the magic still surging through him, kept in check by the Dampener. He could try to open a gate. Heck, he probably didn’t even need to. He’d been on enough military installations to know how poorly guarded they could be. He could probably just walk off base. But then what? He’d be in unfamiliar country already proved hostile, and they could set off the ATTD the moment he appeared outside their designated perimeter.
He racked his brain for an answer and kept returning to the same thing—a hard steel transmitter packed with explosives deep inside his heart. There was no escape. That’s bullshit, he thought, there’s a way, and you will stay on the throttle until you figure out what it is.
He crowded in with a dozen soldiers, shivering under cold water that poured from black bags insufficiently warmed by the sun, cringing with each breeze blowing through the gaps in the tarp walls. They griped enthusiastically, whining about chow and the lack of women. If not for the magical tides flowing around him, there was no way to know he wasn’t in a regular army FOB.
Just as Britton finished washing, a SOC Hydromancer joined them, warming the water with a gesture to collective cheers. By the time he’d dressed and taken a few steps, Britton was filthy again, the bits of gravel and scrap wood laid across the track failing to stop the mud from spurting with every step, sticking to clothes as if it possessed a will of its own.
Britton shook his head and headed toward his container, when suddenly his feet steadied. He looked down to see the mud firm up into a proper road. The dirt leapt from his boots and trousers, spraying into a cloud of dry dust.
A stocky SOC lieutenant brushed past him, grinning. His huge size and oak-tree pin marked him as a Terramancer. Britton nodded thanks. At least they’re not all like Harlequin out here.
He flopped onto the thin mattress without bothering to set the sheets. He tried to figure a way to defeat the ATTD, but fatigue overwhelmed him, and in moments, he was swamped in dreamless sleep.
He woke in blackness, shivering in air gone frigid. He changed into the only clean clothing available—the odd uniform he’d found in the duffel. Still groggy, he pulled on his coat and stumbled down the muddy steps.
The night was alive with stars, the massive moon bright enough to read by. Britton stumbled backward, his reaction dulled by grogginess, as two soldiers on off-road motorcycles sped past.
“Cold, huh?” came a high, nasal voice. Britton turned to face a young man in glasses so thick that his brown eyes looked huge, swimming in fishbowls. He was tiny, his brown hair only coming up to Britton’s che
st, his skin so pale that it practically glowed in the moonlight. His uniform, identical to Britton’s, flapped off his scrawny frame. A stylized skull grinned from his left pectoral.
“Uh, yeah,” Britton said, pulling his coat more tightly around him. “You work for Entertech, too?”
The man’s reply was cut off by a whooshing sound followed by an explosion. Britton saw a fireball bloom off in the distance. A siren began to wail, followed by a woman’s calm voice over a loudspeaker. “All FOB personnel, all FOB personnel. Take cover. I say again, take cover. FOB Reaction Force, action stations. I say again, action stations.” Another whoosh. Another explosion. Britton turned for the bunker.
“I wouldn’t bother,” the man said, putting on a brave voice, but clearly rattled. “The Goblin Pyromancers conjure flame strikes from the sky or just outside the walls. If you get tagged, a bunker isn’t going to help. Might as well enjoy the night as best you can. If it’s your time, it’s your time, right? Just don’t go anywhere. The MPs get annoyed if they catch you walking around during an attack.”
Britton started as another explosion bloomed a bright fireball skyward, much closer that time but still well distant. He heard the grinding of rotors as a pair of Apaches streaked over the barricade wall, searchlights flashing beneath them. The sirens stopped, and there was a curious silence, broken only by a distant shriek and muttered cursing. An electric cart whined down the lane, forcing Britton and the young man to retreat up the steps. The cart was piled with Goblins in jumpsuits, shouldering shovels and hammers. An improvised flatbed held a mound of tools and extension cords, as well as two human guards—feet dangling off the back. It raced down the lane and turned onto a side street. A platoon of MPs coming from the opposite direction turned to run behind it.
The young man shrugged, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Happens most nights, sometimes a few times a night. You get used to it.” He extended a hand. “Simon Truelove.”
Britton’s grip enveloped Truelove’s tiny hand. “Oscar Britton, nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to Contractor Row,” Truelove said, indicating the row of converted trailers, “or you can call it P block, if you’re so inclined.”
“All the contractors live here?” Britton asked.
“All the magic-using ones, yeah. Right now, that’s just four of us, including you. The rest of the P pods are occupied by regular SOC Sorcerers. Fitzy is on the end closest to the DFAC.”
“Fitzy? Pea pods?”
Truelove smiled nervously. “You’re half-asleep, aren’t you?”
Britton nodded, rubbing his head. “I guess my sleep patterns haven’t been consistent, lately.”
Truelove let out a honk of a laugh. “I was heading down to the Officers’ Club for a drink. We meet up there most nights. Why don’t you come along? You can meet the rest of the Coven and we can explain everything to you.”
Britton followed him down to the road in the direction of the chow hall. The mud track ran several hundred yards, punctuated on either side by identical trailers converted to living quarters, each with the letter P stenciled on the doors, along with ascending numbers.
“P pods,” Britton said.
Truelove nodded. “The O pods are just outside our checkpoint. There are some joint service troops and big army types, but you’re in the middle of SOC territory here. We don’t go out to the rest of the FOB, and they don’t come here.”
Twice they passed burned pods. A Goblin crew worked on one under the watchful eye of their minders, clearing debris and spraying flame-retardant foam from a tank on the back of their electric cart. The female voice broadcast again. “All clear, all clear, all clear.”
The lane was unlit, and when a wandering MP challenged them with “ID, please, sir,” Britton recoiled in surprise. Truelove flashed a badge for the MP’s flashlight, which was covered in colored gel to preserve his night vision. After Britton tapped his empty pockets in a vain search, the MP, a mere silhouette in the moonlight, reached out for the badge around his neck and nodded, satisfied. “Thanks, sir. Mid-rats ended an hour ago, but you can still grab a sandwich.”
“Midnight rations,” Truelove explained.
“So we’re in the same…Coven?” Britton asked. “I noticed the uniform.”
Truelove nodded. “Coven Four, that’s us. We’re the contractor unit. Covens are like squads in the SOC. We catch some crap for it. You know, bloodsucking contractors, but you get used to it. For one thing, we’re not under the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”
“…and we can drink,” Britton said.
Truelove honked laughter again. “All the officers drink here. SOC isn’t under General Order One out here in the Source.”
Truelove’s voice trembled. At first, Britton thought it was the cold, but the edge in his next comment revealed it as excitement. “Man, Oscar, I’m really glad that you’re here.”
“Why’s that?”
“Your timing is perfect. The two of us have been stood up for a month, just going over basics. They’ll put you and Downer in the SASS, teach you the basics, and we can get started right away.”
Britton opened his mouth to ask another question as the track gave out into the wide dirt square where the chow hall stood, well lit by bright sodium arc lights. Other vast tents bordered the square—what Britton guessed was the Morale, Welfare, and Recreation building, the Post Exchange, and the gym. Britton scanned the square once more before realizing what was missing—the Army Post Office that was standard on all military installations.
Even at that late hour, a line snaked out of the chow hall’s main entrance. They wore an assortment of uniforms, gym gear, civilian jeans under light coats. Goblins scuttled in and out of a side entrance, carrying pots and crates bulging with food. A few of those on line noticed Britton and Truelove and tapped buddies on the shoulders, whispering. In moments, the tail section of the line was doing its best not to obviously gape at them and failing miserably. A few junior Seabees, navy construction-battalion workers in hard hats, pointed before being abruptly silenced by their chiefs.
Truelove shook his head at the line. “Sorry, Oscar. You get used to it.”
“It’s the uniforms, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, they kind of freak people out.”
“Why?”
Truelove looked at him before shrugging an apology. “They didn’t tell you? We’re the Probe Coven. That’s why it’s all contractors.”
Britton stared for a moment. “I had an inkling when they didn’t kill me. I’ve seen them kill Probes, especially when they fight.”
Truelove nodded sheepishly. “The SOC bends the rules sometimes. I guess they think that so long as we don’t work for the government, that’s okay. I didn’t run or anything. Not like you did.” He looked at his feet, embarrassed. “…I don’t judge you or anything. It’s all fine with me. I just called the SOC hotline as soon as I Manifested.”
“But you’re a Probe. Didn’t you think they’d kill you?”
Truelove shrugged. “I didn’t think about it, honestly. What choice did I have? You can’t run from the SOC.” Britton didn’t know how to respond, so he turned to the Officers’ Club, marked by a stencil-painted wooden board—cobbled together from plywood sheets to form what looked like a giant one-room schoolhouse. The roof was scraps of corrugated plastic sprayed irregularly with fire-retardant foam.
Beside the door, some enterprising navy Seabees had built a small plywood pedestal, to which they’d affixed their emblem, a worker bee wielding a tommy gun and construction tools in its six legs. A cigar protruded from the grim mouth. CAN DO SINCE 1942! the logo read. A silver statue of a huge boar topped the pedestal. Its giant ridged back glinted in the hard light, the metallic bristles sharp as needles, so fine they swayed gently with the breeze. The long tusks curled between snarling teeth to sharp, brass-tipped points. Its silver eyes seemed to be glass.
“It’s real,” Truelove said. “I know it looks like a sculpture, but I saw them take it down i
n the woods between the LZ and here. We’re mostly confined to the FOB, but you get out once in a while. The Source is an amazing place.”
The wind picked up, and Truelove tugged him inside. Interior and exterior were equally ramshackle. Pressboard tables and chairs had been slapped together around the mud-spattered floor. One wall was covered in license plates from various states in varying degrees of rust consumption. A tall bar, also made from license-plate-encrusted plywood, stood before a giant mirror draped with the flags of the five uniformed military services. An American flag hung beside a corkboard covered with photographs. An old Wurlitzer-style jukebox blared country music from the corner.
The Officers’ Club was crowded, some in and some out of uniform—looking every bit as tired and disheveled as those on line for the chow hall. A few of the barstools stood empty. A coast guard ensign in rumpled blue utilities stood to grab another drink from the bar, his eyes falling across Britton and Truelove.
He froze, staring.
A moment later, an army captain followed his gaze. He shifted in his chair, tapping a buddy on the shoulder, and gesturing. Within moments, all talk, clinking of glasses, and stubbing of cigarettes had stopped. The only sound in the Officers’ Club was the upbeat two-step belting from the Wurlitzer—the singer reminding the audience never to forget the old dirt road in their heart of hearts.
Truelove self-consciously made his way to the bar, muttering apologies as the room began to empty until only a few die-hard marine officers sullenly occupied a table near the door.
Britton joined Truelove at the bar but kept the marines in his peripheral vision. The bartender, a pale-faced, ginger-haired Entertech contractor, glared at them, muttering into his beard. Truelove looked embarrassed but didn’t dare ask for a drink.