Control Point

by Myke Cole

  The thing beneath him ceased struggling and he stood, stomping hard on its face, his stomach lurching at the crunching sound beneath his heel.

  He opened a gate beside Truelove and emerged. Fitzy leapt between them, waggling a finger. “He’s off-limits. Go dance with the dead.”

  Britton turned just in time to dodge another leaping kick. He slid to one side, opening a gate in midair. The zombie passed through it, and he let it shut, kicking the next one hard in the chest and driving it back into its fellows.

  Britton began to find his rhythm, the magic integrating seamlessly into the dance of the MAC. A corpse punched at him, he caught its arm, opened a gate and flipped it through, closing the portal on its shoulder, leaving him holding the limb, which he turned to fling in the face of his next assailant. It fell backward, decapitated by another gate as it tried to rise.

  The remaining corpses paused, spreading out to circle him again, advancing more cautiously. Britton backed toward Truelove, careful not to get too close. “Can’t we talk about this?” he asked.

  “Not a chance,” Truelove answered, grinning, “unless you want to surrender.”

  One of the corpses took a tentative swipe at Britton, who chopped down hard on the wrist. The hand hung askew as the thing backed away. “Nasty,” Britton hissed. “Seriously, Rictus. With all due respect, that’s disgusting.”

  Truelove laughed hard, his hands dropping to his knees. The circle of zombies paused.

  Britton threw open another gate, pushing the magical current through it. He felt the penned dogs and roped one easily. The gate shimmered and spit it out. It snarled at the alien smell of the animated corpses and sprang, seizing one by the throat. Britton dove over it, scissor-kicking a zombie in the face and sending it rolling. He spun as he landed, sliding a gate like a cleaver down the line of the circle, cutting through three more. He sprang after the gate, shutting it just as he emerged on the last corpse, grabbing it by the throat and lifting it off the ground. Its dead face was blank, its little legs kicked at him. He squeezed the thin neck, like chilled rubber. It stank of chemical preservatives.

  He wrinkled his nose. “We done here? I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Fitzy nodded, and Truelove lowered his arms. The corpse went limp in Britton’s grip, and he dropped it, wiping his hand on his trousers.

  Fitzy began to gather the broken corpses and drag them into a pile in the corner, where two soldiers moved them onto the discarded tarp. A fresh pallet was wheeled in through another entrance. “Give me a hand here, it’ll go faster,” Fitzy said. A few of the corpses had traces of the white paint that dotted Marty’s face and completely covered the Goblin sorcerers they had fought at the LZ.

  When the floor was clear, Fitzy called for another round, doubling the number of zombies. Britton flew through the fight, the gates opening and cutting with fluid precision. “Zombies are inefficient,” Fitzy commented. “The real enemy will be smarter and harder. Remember that and don’t get cocky.”

  What real enemy? Britton thought. What could possibly be nastier than that blob of flesh we just took out?

  But despite Fitzy’s warning, Britton found it hard not to get cocky. He slid the gates around like giant razors, dispatching his opponents five at a time. My God, he thought, finally appreciating the power of GIMAC. I am truly beginning to master this. I’m a one-man army. I have rescued hostages, I have taken out a Render who flattened an entire NYPD SWAT team. By the end of the third round, he toyed with the corpses, gating in and out behind them. He pulled one into the loading bay, threw it to the dogs, then leapt out behind another, dropkicking it into its fellows before gating back out of sight.

  By the end of the practice, he felt as if he were flying. Truelove threw his hands up. “Enough,” he said, “uncle.”

  Fitzy clapped lightly, one corner of his mouth slightly twisted. “Adequate.”

  Britton nodded gratefully and clapped Truelove on the shoulder. “That was kick-ass, man. Seriously.”

  Truelove grinned, transforming his face, showing some of the confidence Britton expected in a man his age. “You made pretty short work of the whole crew.”

  “Yeah,” Britton agreed, “but it won’t be like that when you let ’em loose on a real enemy. Man, it’s going to scare the crap out of them!” It wasn’t idle praise. He remembered the dead faces circling him, empty eyes staring.

  Truelove grew pensive. “I’ve never been in a real battle. I mean, nothing beyond these little raids.”

  Britton clapped him on the shoulder. “Neither have I. I don’t think wars are fought like that anymore. It’s no big deal.”

  “I think it’s a big deal,” Truelove said. “We still work for the army, you know? What if we have to fight hundreds of people, like the training we just did, only real?”

  “Then we figure it out as we go,” Britton said. “It’s serious, but that doesn’t mean it has to be heavy.”

  “What was it like when you rescued those hostages?”

  Britton thought about it for a moment. “It’s like what you think it would be like. Shouting, confusion, terror. But you just follow your training, and everything sort of snaps together and works.”

  “It works for you,” Truelove said.

  “It’ll work for you, too.” Britton nodded. “Hell, it already did.”

  “What if it doesn’t?” Truelove asked.

  “That’s why we work as a team. So we can lean on each other.”

  “I wasn’t a lot of help back there, in the sewers.”

  “Are you kidding me? If you hadn’t held that blob in place, I would never have had the chance to get Downer what she needed to finish it off. We did it together, Simon. It wouldn’t have worked without all of us.”

  “It wasn’t enough to stop her…” He trailed off, but Britton knew what Truelove was picturing. Downer on the ground, her lower body twisted and bloody.

  “That’s combat, Simon,” Britton said. “It’s messy and dangerous, even when things go off perfectly. It’s the business we’re in. Downer is alive because of you. Remember that.”

  Truelove looked silently back at him, eyes grateful.

  “I’m going to shower and get changed,” Britton said. “I’ll meet you at the OC, then we can grab chow?”

  Truelove nodded. “I’m gonna stop by the cash first. That fight gave me a splitting headache. Lemme see if I can get a couple of aspirin first.”

  Britton accompanied him, hoping to see Therese or Marty. They approached the hospital just as the flaps whipped open, a squad of MPs rushing through in helmets and body armor, carbines slung across their backs.

  Struggling in their arms, hands zip-cuffed behind him, was a Goblin contractor. The squad dragged him away from the cash, long feet trailing in the mud.

  Britton looked to Truelove, who shrugged. He turned to one of the orderlies, who was retrieving the tent flap from where it had snagged on one of the support poles. “What the heck was that?”

  The orderly shrugged. “Entertech Goblin contractor. They busted him stealing from the cash.”

  The worm, Britton thought. Marty tried after all. That outstanding, sweet, fantastic little bastard. In spite of everything, he still tried, just because I asked him to.

  “What’ll they do to him?” Britton asked.

  “Fire him, I guess,” the orderly replied. “He stole some kind of experimental medication from the Special Projects tent. You know Goblins. They’re hooked on sugar, caffeine pills, any kind of stimulant. It was only a matter of time.”

  Britton’s stomach lurched. He turned to Truelove. The Necromancer had turned pale.

  “They’re firing him,” he said. “Oscar, they’ll kick him out of the FOB.”

  “So?” Britton asked.

  “So,” Truelove answered, “he’s a collaborator. This base is surrounded by hostile tribes. He’ll be dead before he makes it twenty feet.”

  Britton rushed through the flaps. He fumbled through the receiving area, pushing past se
veral nurses who yelled at him, making his way to the urinalysis section. Marty was nowhere to be seen, but one of the Goblin orderlies recognized him and sat him on a folding chair while he disappeared. He returned a moment later with Marty in tow.

  Britton gripped his elbow urgently. “I need to talk to you.”

  Marty nodded and pulled Britton through the back of the tent and out into a muddy, but private section.

  “Okay,” Marty said, his eyes huge with concern. “No anger. Okay.”

  “It’s not okay,” Britton whispered fiercely. “That Goblin, you sent him? For the worm?”

  Marty smiled.

  “Thank you, Marty, but…”

  “Thank you,” Marty interrupted. “I thank you. You help me first.”

  “Marty, they got him. They caught him.”

  Marty nodded. “Okay. He mine Logauk.”

  Britton looked at him, uncomprehending. Marty tapped his eyelids, then put his hand behind his neck. “My Logauk. He mine…” He paused, searching for the word. “…my contractor?”

  “He works for you?” Britton remembered the respect Marty commanded among the Goblin orderlies in the cash, how he had threatened the Physiomancer with a work stoppage.

  “But they caught him! They fired him! Truelove says he’ll be killed!”

  Marty shrugged. “Sorrahhad fight. No like Mattab On Sorrah. We help.”

  “These Sorrahhad will kill him?”

  Marty nodded. “Maybe he get home. Long walk.”

  “Marty, thank you for trying to help me. But I didn’t want anyone to die. For me, it’s a big deal when someone dies…even when that person works for you. Even when it’s your…Logauk.”

  Marty’s forehead wrinkled. “No understand.”

  “Just promise me. Promise me that you won’t do anything else that risks getting someone fired. I can’t…I can’t have that.” He thought of the cop in Shelburne. He thought of his father.

  “Forget the whole worm thing. I don’t care about it anymore. God! I was such an idiot. I should have said something before you sent him to…we’ve got to help your Logauk…do you know any…”

  “Spending quality time with your boyfriend?” Britton jumped as Fitzy’s voice sounded from behind him.

  “Got a little banged up in the training with Rictus, sir,” Britton said. “Ma…this contractor has a knack for helping me out after I’ve taken a drubbing. I use him following most of our MAC sessions. I’ve come to rely on him.”

  “Come off it, Keystone,” Fitzy said. “I know this little piece of Goblin filth drinks with you in the OC every night. Do you think I’m stupid? I’ve allowed it thus far because I thought it might be good for you to learn a bit about the indig here, but I’m putting the hammer down now. No more fraternization. You know it’s not allowed, and I’m done looking the other way. I catch this pointy-eared little terrorist in the OC, and I’m gonna have all your asses for breakfast. That clear?”

  Britton boiled, leaning hard on the Dampener to keep his surging emotions in line. He pushed past Fitzy, heading for the exit. Maybe there was still time to help the Goblin.

  “Don’t even think about trying to help that little thief either,” Fitzy called to his back. “He’s been fired and turned loose. That’s all, no punishment. Even someone as softhearted as you should be pleased with that.”

  “He’ll die out there, and you know it,” Britton said.

  “Maybe he should have thought of that before he decided to get high off our supply,” Fitzy said, crossing his brawny arms. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’s a quarter mile outside the wire by now. There’s no way you could find him if you tried. Let it go, Keystone. You told me that you’d made your peace with us, that you’re a company man now. I believe you. Tonight, you’re going to put your money where your mouth is.”

  CHAPTER XXV

  RAID

  I get the whole right to protest thing. That’s real nice. It’s also real antiquated. This ain’t Martin Luther King out there. Some of the people in that crowd have the ability to level a city block. You can worry about civil rights after the mission debrief. For now, civil disobedience is still disobedience. You bring order to this chaos any way you can.

  —Captain “Ridgebreaker” (call sign), Alleged mission prebrief

  “Burning Man Incident,” Black Rock Desert, Nevada

  At 0200, Britton opened his hooch door to see an electric cart idling, with Downer behind the wheel.

  “Ready?” the girl asked him.

  Britton nodded, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “Been working with Fitzy all morning. He said I could take liberty for the rest of the day if I came and got you. Apparently he’s got a recon gig for you,” she said.

  He looked up at the sky, lit by the weirdly large moon and spray of stars. “You call this morning?”

  Downer ignored him.

  “You wanna drive?” She gestured to the cart and shrugged when Britton shook his head. “Good, I like driving.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “I am, after all, old enough.”

  Britton smiled and huddled next to her while the cart bumped its way toward the flight line. He watched her, so excited to be driving a stupid electric cart, amazed by how young she was.

  He looked down at her legs. Therese had done her work well. There was no sign of the damage the Selfer’s Rending magic had done.

  “Are you…okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Downer asked.

  “Come off it, you know why.”

  “I’m fine,” Downer growled, her eyes fixed straight ahead. “We did what we had to. I got a little sloppy is all. That won’t happen again.”

  Britton wanted to put his hand on her shoulder, to tell her he was her friend, that she wasn’t fooling anyone with the tough-girl act, that it was okay to be who she was, a scared kid who had gotten badly hurt. But he could tell by her tone that it would only drive her further away. So, he nodded.

  “What’s the op?” he asked, keeping his voice businesslike.

  “Damned if I know; I salute smartly and do my job.”

  “Listen to you,” he said. She wants to be treated like an adult, to be taken seriously. You can do that much for her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You sound like a military officer, saluting smartly.”

  She grinned. “I do?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. You’ve really come along. Dropped all that weight, too. You’re a shadow of your former self.”

  Downer beamed in the starlight as the cart jounced. Her short hair framed a face that would be pretty when she got a bit older. The fat was truly gone now, hard training and military chow making her lean. “Thanks, Osc…Keystone,” she said. “Kind of wish my mom could see me now.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She was always…you know, she was just really religious. She never found out I was a Probe. Well, she probably did, but that was only after she thought I was dead. She was a megabitch. She’s probably glad to think I’m dead.”

  “I know what you mean,” Britton said, thinking of his father.

  “But now I’m doing good work, I’m helping out. I think if my mom could see that, it might…you know.”

  “Change her mind about you.”

  Downer nodded, her voice grew pensive. “She never thought much of me. Used to call me her ‘little piggie.’ Mostly I think she was mad because I never took to church the way she wanted me to.”

  “It was like that for me, too.”

  “Your mom?”

  “My dad. He was a real piece of work. He was pretty religious, too, and he never liked me.”

  “Does he think you’re dead?”

  Britton waved a hand at the concrete barricade wall, hidden in the shadows beyond the rows of tents and converted trailers. “He’s out there somewhere, probably in some monster’s belly.” He remembered Stanley’s wide eyes as he looked beyond the gate, the keening of the approaching demon-horses. His poor mothe
r. Where was she now? I never got to say I was sorry to her, either.

  “You gated him out here?”

  He nodded. “In front of my mom. Right before I ran.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Well, it’s all behind you now,” she said. “You got a presidential pardon, same as me. Harlequin says we’re all legal now. Totally in compliance.”

  He shook his head. “Why do you think this whole operation is so secret? The confidentiality agreements? Why we’re contractors instead of SOC? This whole thing is completely illegal.”

  She looked dead ahead, her lips pursed, searching for a reply. He regretted his words. She was a Selfer, same as he, ripped out of any sense of home. She’d found one there, and he supposed, so had he. And just like him, she’d proved herself. She’d used her magic to do some good. She deserved the absolution that brought.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “This country was founded on breaking a law. Sometimes laws don’t get the job done. Sometimes it takes brave people to do that.”

  “Harlequin said we’re all in compliance,” she repeated.

  “He wouldn’t steer you wrong.” He looked over at her. “And he seems to really like you.” He had no evidence of that, but it had the desired effect, and Downer smiled broadly. Britton understood. Harlequin was an impressive figure even to an adult; how much more so to a young girl?

  “You got a boyfriend?” he asked. He instantly knew he had erred. He had meant to flatter her, but she grew quiet, her face clouded. Idiot, he said inwardly. Your team gunned him down.

  “I’m sorry,” Britton finally said. “It was stupid of me.”

  “Nah,” Downer said eventually. “He was stupid. He was just a kid. He smoked and stuff. Things are different now. I’m trained, and I’ve grown up a lot. Tom was nice, but he wasn’t really good with his magic the way…you know, the way some people are.”

  The way Harlequin is, Britton thought.

  “Being young doesn’t necessarily make you stupid,” Britton said. “He was probably doing the best he could, just like you.”

  They rode in silence the rest of the way to the flight line. Three helos—two Apaches and a Blackhawk—were spun up and awaiting them.