Shadow Ops: Fortress Frontier-ARC (pdf conv.)

by Myke Cole

  Britton walked over to him, head down. “You get on the wifi okay?”

  The young man nodded absently, not looking up from his work.

  “Then I’m sorry I have to do this.” Britton reached over and yanked the laptop away from him, ripping it free from his power cord. “I’ll make good on it, if I ever can,” he said to the man, who fell backward off his chair and began to scramble to his feet, shouting. Britton opened a gate back to the Source and stepped through.

  He paused in the grass outside Marty’s village long enough to cast a glance toward it. It was quiet, torchlit, seemingly peaceful.

  If Marty had been unequal to the crisis Britton had stirred up, it didn’t show from this distance. Britton added making it up to Marty to the long list of things he needed to do if he could ever get his feet under him, and opened a gate on a dark corner beside the elevator bank in the Brooks Memorial Library, just a little way from the coffee shop he’d just visited.

  The library was shuttered and dark. Britton could see lights in the offices upstairs, hear voices and footsteps, but the stacks and desks on the ground floor were empty. He stepped through the gate and into the shadows pooling by the elevator shaft. He listened to the voices overhead, making sure he was alone. His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, and he traced the outline of the reference desk, the silent monitors atop it. Nothing moved.

  He slid down to a sitting position and opened the laptop. He toggled the wifi and connected to the library’s network, opening a Web browser, careful to avoid looking at anything else on the machine. Just because he was a thief didn’t mean he needed to be a snoop. He couldn’t avoid seeing the photograph the owner had put on the desktop. It was a shot of the young man he’d stolen the computer from sitting at a desk in front of an empty classroom, looking over his shoulder, grinning at the camera. A banner hung on the wall, depicting a stylized white steeple on a green background with the letters UVM beneath. Probably a graduate student or adjunct professor at the University of Vermont, Britton thought. The campus was just a fifteen-minute drive from the house he’d grown up in though he’d never considered going there, his desire to get away from his father far too strong. Britton doubted the poor guy could afford a new laptop and briefly considered leaving it behind once he’d finished, with a note to return it to its owner. He bet the folks working at the library were honest enough to do that.

  But the SOC was clever enough to perform electronic forensics on it as well, maybe skillfully enough to figure out where Swift was. He couldn’t risk it.

  A thief then, and a real one. Hopefully, that guy had rich parents or renter’s insurance. He sighed and did a quick Internet search on the words “gate” and “White House.” A number of stories came up, and he clicked on a campaign video by one of President Walsh’s front-running opponents in the upcoming election, Senator Ahmad Fareed.

  Words scrolled across the screen. senator ahmad fareed competed with ghosted text reading honesty, integrity, and straight talk. Fareed’s photograph appeared, a sallow, craggy-faced man with a genuine smile and earnest brown eyes.

  The film cut to Senator Whalen, Chairman of the Reawakening Commission, standing behind a podium. General Tommy Arrow, the Air Force Chief of Staff, stood at the microphone. the government lied about watergate and nanny gate. here’s what they say about gate-gate. The film cut to cell-phone videos of wounded Supernatural Operations Corps assaulters, led by a battered Harlequin, limping onto the White House lawn. Behind them stood the gate that Oscar Britton had opened after defeating them. White-shirted Secret Service agents milled around them, unsure of what to do. Crowds pressed against the lawn’s iron perimeter fence, snapping photos.

  Britton turned the volume down so that only a whisper of sound reached him.

  Then he chuckled. Gate-Gate.

  That was a nice touch.

  General Arrow’s voice cut in, flinty and commanding. “What you’re seeing is nothing more than air force experimental technology that deals with the logistical challenge of transporting large bodies of troops. Arthur C. Clarke once said that ‘any technology, if sufficiently advanced, is indistinguishable from magic.’ What you’re seeing here is just that, advanced technology, not magic.” do you believe him? Scrolling text asked.

  Senator Whalen’s voice came in. “Portamancy remains a Prohibited magical school, and the United States government does not traffic in it.” do you believe her?

  The film showed a sober-looking man in a gray suit and red tie stepping up to the microphone. howard hand, the text read, ceo—entertech corporation.

  “I’m afraid that this incident is the fault of a few negligent and overly enthusiastic contract engineers,” Hand said. “I want to assure you that the responsible parties have been disciplined, dismissed from Entertech, and are facing prosecution for unauthorized disclosure of classified information. Entertech remains committed to an ongoing and productive relationship with the military. ‘Serving those who serve’ has always been our motto.” do you believe him?

  The video cut to Fareed, seated behind a cherrywood desk against a backdrop that unmistakably evoked the Oval Office.

  “I don’t believe a word of it, and neither do you.” Fareed’s voice was honest, endearing. “It’s time for the Walsh administration to stop treating us like we’re fools. No technology can do what thousands of people saw on the White House lawn that day. If the military is using prohibited magic, then it’s time that Senator Whalen and her inner circle of spooks came clean and faced punishment for their actions. With the Selfer insurgency raging and spilling off the reservations, can we really afford more lies?

  Can we afford another four years of incompetency covered by secrets?”

  The screen froze, Fareed’s winning smile against the backdrop of an American flag. “Senator Ahmad Fareed,” an announcer said, “straight talk, clean government. Now that’s real magic. Paid for by Senator Ahmad Fareed for President.”

  Britton smiled. I really did it. I gave Walsh a bloody nose.

  Hope surged in his chest. Maybe he really had a chance here.

  Maybe a weakened and defensive Walsh administration would negotiate with a dynamic and well-organized Latent-rights movement.

  He logged onto Yippee. com, navigating to the search engine’s free email service. He wracked his brain for the email account and password he’d agreed on with Swift. He swore under his breath, digging into the depths of his mind and finding only fatigue. If he’d forgotten it, he’d never find the Aeromancer again. And who could blame him? He’d just barely escaped with his life from one of the nastiest Sorcerers in creation. If only Swift had been there. He could have used his lightning in that fight . . .

  Lightning. His memory made a sudden leap and brought the account to the surface. Britton breathed a sigh of relief and typed !!!LightningBug123!!! into the logon id field. The password came quickly once he remembered the user name, and he only had to hold his breath for a brief moment before the screen flashed and opened to his email account.

  There were two messages waiting. The first was from Yippee. com, welcoming users to its free email service. The second from Bug, Lightning. The name associated with the account.

  Sent to itself.

  Britton’s could feel his pulse pounding as he clicked on the message.

  Better than expected. You’re a legend to these people, Oscar.

  Waiting for you.

  Below that were instructions on how to find them.

  Britton allowed himself a long sigh of relief, finally admitting to himself that, if he hadn’t gotten this email, he was out of ideas, had no clue where to go next.

  But that was no longer a problem.

  It would be good to keep the email account, just in case he needed to get in touch with Swift again. But the SOC was all over the Internet. Britton had to assume that any hint of their location would be found sooner or later. He couldn’t risk it.

  He read the until he had it memorized. Then, he deleted the email, then the
entire account. He opened a gate back into the Source, took a long last look at the library’s soft darkness, the comforting, familiar sound of people at work, and stepped back through.

  Chapter XI

  Tunnels

  Some have theorized that the American creative spirit and unrestrained imagination made them “early adopters” of organized magic, which has given the US a decided advantage. There’s a kernel of truth to this, but it shouldn’t be overstated. The Taiwanese “Seven Sages of the Willow Grove” have changed the cross-strait balance of power. India’s rapid development of the Sahir Corps effectively ended the Kashmir conflict overnight. Sudan is both reunited and purged of Islam because of the military applications of their animist magic users. It is the unique blend of military hardware and a defense budget greater than the next ten nations combined that makes US magical operations so unstoppable. But that is not the same as a pure magical edge, and policy makers need to keep this in mind when engaging with foreign partners on a contingency basis.

  —Li Kuo

  “American Magical Dominance in the New Century”

  Foreign Policy Magazine

  Britton smashed the laptop to pieces against a rock, then ground the fragments under his bootheels until there was little left of it but powder. If the SOC was somehow able to locate the broken remains of that computer, they’d have a devil of a time getting anything out of it. Sorry, pal, he thought to the young man he’d stolen it from. I needed it more than you did.

  He opened another gate and stepped back into the rose moss bowl in the Green Mountain National Forest, less than a three-hour drive from the library he’d just stood inside.

  The fire was out, the blackened logs sending streamers of smoke up into the night sky. The tall trees blotted out the stars, and he paused until his eyes adjusted. He made out Truelove and Therese, crammed into the sleeping bag alongside Downer, huddled under a pile of every spare scrap of clothing they could find.

  Britton grunted, satisfied. They looked warm.

  The sleeping bag rustled as Therese rolled over at the sound of his boots crunching toward them. “It’s me,” he said quietly.

  “I’ve got good news.”

  Swift’s instructions were clear. The Canal Street subway station had a “chamber” formed by a construction project that had never been completed. It was just off the platform edge on the Brooklyn-bound side. The Houston Street gang would take care of the security camera and send someone to check on the space every night around midnight for the next two weeks. They’d check less often after that.

  He must figure if we don’t make it by then, we’re not going to.

  The problem was Downer. She emerged from the sleeping bag, pale and groggy. Therese’s magic had sealed the wound across her chest, but all was clearly not well. “I’m fine,” she said, but her teeth were still chattering, even after he rubbed her wrists and felt that she was perfectly warm.

  “Did you try again to help?” Britton asked. He winced at his tone, his voice sounded harder than he intended in his concern for Downer.

  If Therese noticed, she didn’t react. “The Gahe . . . put something in her. Something from the Source, something foreign. I can heal her flesh, and I’ve boosted her immune system to fight it, but this is . . . different.”

  “What? How is it different?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “The Source is a new world. That means new bugs. You have to figure there are bacteria over there, maybe living on the Gahe’s claws, that we haven’t encountered before. Whatever it is, it’s powerful and resistant to magic. If I had a strong Terramancer to work with, that might help. Who knows? Maybe she’d respond to conventional antibiotics.”

  “Is she going to be okay?”

  Therese smiled wanly. “I hope so, Oscar. Hanging out in the woods here sure isn’t helping.”

  Britton nodded. “Okay, we know where we need to be, so let’s get moving.”

  “Let me fix your face, first. It’ll hurt again, but . . .”

  “Leave it, I’m the most recognizable of all of us. I can stand being ugly a little while longer until we know we’re in a safe place.

  “Or are you missing my pretty face?” He smiled, aware of how horrid the sight must be from the sensation of his lips stretching tight across his altered features.

  Therese’s smile was genuine this time. “Maybe just a little.”

  Britton felt the smile expand, then a cough from Downer wiped it away. He was wasting time. “Do you know the New York City subway system?”

  She shrugged. “A little. I can get around. We’re going to need money to buy a fare.”

  Britton grimaced. “I had to steal some poor guy’s laptop just to check the email account. I don’t want to start robbing cash registers now. Let’s just get there, and I’ll figure it out. There’s got to be a way I can gate us in.”

  Therese thought about it. “This is the great thing about New York. There’s so many people and so much craziness that we’re not going to stand out at all, even messed up as we are. We just need to get to deserted platform late at night and jump the turnstile. People do it all the time.”

  “Well, I only know one way in,” Britton said. “So that’s where we’re going to have to start.”

  He called to Truelove and Downer and opened a gate back into the Source. Downer stood quickly, swayed a moment, then shook her head and walked through straight-backed.

  “Leave your packs. It’ll only draw attention,” Britton said once they stood outside the palisade wall of Marty’s village.

  “Maybe we could spend the night there,” Truelove said, pointing to the village. “Maybe Marty could help Sarah? Maybe they have someone there who knows how.”

  “No way,” Britton said. “You two are persona non grata with those goblins. You almost started a riot the last time you were there. I don’t think a couple of days have made much of a difference. Marty had his hands full as it was dealing with the aftermath of that fight, and I don’t want to go making the trouble any worse. If we’re going to find help, it’s going to have to be with the Houston Street gang.” Besides, Swift said that I’m a legend to them. If he’s telling the truth, we can expect a warmer welcome there.

  Truelove started to say something, then stopped.

  “What?” Britton asked.

  “It’s just . . . Oscar, it’s Swift.”

  “I know,” Britton sighed.

  “He’s . . . he’s kind of nuts.”

  “No, he’s not nuts. He’s pissed and irrational and grief-stricken. But I never thought he was crazy. I think we can trust him to act in his own self-interest.”

  “He’s not crazy,” Therese agreed. “Just hurting.”

  “He’s just an asshole,” Downer added.

  Truelove smiled at her, then turned back to Briton. “Yeah, but what’s his self-interest in this case? All he wants is to kill Harlequin . . . and that’s just a start. Then he wants to bring the whole government down. Walsh, Whalen, all of them.”

  “Right. And he knows he’s got a better chance to do that if I’m in his corner.”

  Truelove looked doubtful.

  “Anyway, what other options do we have?” Britton asked.

  “We can’t sit out here freezing our asses off, and I’m not going after Scylla again right now. It was wrong of me to ask you to come along for that. That was my fight.” He looked over Truelove’s shoulder at Downer.

  “I’ve got no regrets,” Downer said, shivering. “That crazy bitch needs to be put down.”

  Therese said nothing, only looked over at Downer, eyes wide with concern.

  “We’ve got to get shelter and proper food and rest,” Britton said. “And if we’ve got a chance to really change things, Houston Street is as good a place to start as any. I’m open to ideas if you’ve got any.”

  After Truelove was silent, Britton looked to Downer. “Any ideas, Sarah?”

  Downer hugged herself. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

 
; “We need to get out of the cold, Oscar,” Therese said.

  Britton nodded and opened another gate.

  They stepped into the subway maintenance locker where he’d run the mission against the Selfer and later dropped off Swift.

  The interior was pitch-black.

  Britton opened another gate to give them a little light and gently tried the handle. It opened on a well-lit platform entrance, just inside the turnstiles. There was an empty attendant’s booth on the other side, the bulletproof glass scratched with graffiti. Britton began to open the door and step out of the locker, then suddenly jerked back, raising a finger to his lips.

  “What?” Therese whispered.

  “There’s a cop,” Britton said. “Just standing guard. In . . . tactical gear. Looks like SWAT.”

  Therese nodded. “They’ve got them at all the stations now. It’s a reaction to Houston Street. They know they’re in the tunnels and at least want to make a show of trying to do something about it. Is it just the one?”

  Britton peeked back out the door. The cop leaned against the turnstile, helmet tucked under one elbow, using the edge of his body armor to prop up his double chin. He looked bored. Britton pulled back into the locker. He risked a glance in the other direction. The platform looked empty.

  “Just the one.”

  “I’ve got this,” she said, pushing Britton aside and gently peeking out the door. She concentrated, and Britton could feel her magic gathering. A moment later the cop lit up a streak of curses, hand flying to the small of his back. “Goddamn it!” he swore. He lurched around the turnstiles for a moment, trying to massage his lower back through the body armor before giving up and making for the staircase out of the station, calling into his radio.

  “Let’s go,” Therese said. “I don’t know how long it’ll be before they replace him.”

  “I thought you swore to never . . .”

  “Relax, Oscar. I just tweaked some muscles around his sciatic nerve. Figured a guy that out of shape would have back problems already. It’ll hurt for a while, but they should be loosening up already. He’ll be okay. Let’s go.”