by Myke Cole
But his feet wouldn’t stop moving until the screaming became a gurgling sigh, followed by silence. He stopped, only a few hundred feet from the trailer, able to see the external sodium light glinting in the dark, beset by clouds of insects, drawn by its false-moon promise.
The light cast a sick, yellow sheen on the trailer door as it slid open, and two soldiers emerged, silhouetted against the blackness, dragging something lumpen and wet into the light.
A man followed them out, wiping his hands on his trousers, breathing heavily. He moved toward Britton, lighting a cigarette as he came. The man almost collided with him in the darkness, then fell back a step in surprise. The light from the cigarette showed the pale, doughy cheeks and blue hospital scrubs of Captain Hayes. The Physiomancer was covered in gore. His scrubs were so plastered with blood that they looked metallic under the moonlight. He gave Britton an exhausted smile.
“You should get to bed,” Hayes said. “You’re going to be a busy boy tomorrow.” He pushed past Britton and made his way out of P block.
Britton knew he should say something, impede Hayes’s progress, do anything other than stand there dumbly, staring at B-6’s now-closed door. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He felt drained of all energy. I did this. As surely as I saved the lives of those marines, I cost that man his. People die in war. Criminals pay for their crimes, sometimes with their lives. So why does this feel so wrong? He didn’t know what Hayes had done to Chatto behind that trailer door, but he could imagine.
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t work with or for these people. No matter what Therese or the rest of Shadow Coven are doing, I have to go. I have to find a way out of here.
Britton didn’t sleep another wink that night. His mind raced with escape plans. He couldn’t go to Scylla, and Therese wasn’t ready to help him yet. Where would he run to? After what he had seen at Mescalero, the Selfers trying to rape Downer, could he ever take refuge there? He lay awake, brainstorming, and was dizzy from fatigue when Fitzy finally came for him, near sunset on the following day.
“Got some more work for you,” the chief warrant officer said. “Follow me.”
They mounted one of the ever-present electric golf carts and buzzed back into the training area, following signs for the Terramantic Engineering Range. The cart bumped to a stop just as the sun was dipping below the horizon, washing all in shades of simmering orange. A broad field was stripped bare of plant growth, the dry ground randomly soaring upward into earthen bridges and ramparts. A giant length of wall ran ten feet, trailing off into mud. A tank stood on it, empty and silent, treads peeking over the edge.
Fitzy got out of the cart and beckoned to Britton, making his way toward a long wall of raised earth.
“I was hoping for more time, but the old man says we’ve gotta be ready to jump as early as tomorrow.” He paused at the wall’s edge. A white sign admonishing all that only authorized personnel were permitted behind it had been driven into the ground. “Now, I know we normally use videos to give you a read on an area you’re gating into, but this is an important run, and the brass wanted to be absolutely sure. So, this time we’re giving you a simulated environment. You’ll be gating in at sunset, so we need you to get it read now.”
The other side of the wall was a hastily constructed mock-up of a hotel entrance. Groups of contractors were still assembling a sweeping arc of broken pavement covered with sand and scrub cacti. The white paint on the broad awning was badly chipped and pocked with bullet holes. The sliding glass doors were covered with metal strips. A circular driveway, broad enough to host a fleet of vehicles, sported barricades of tires topped with barbed wire. Toppled statues, their arms adorned with bronze feathers, lay heaped beside the doorway. Wooden masks obscured their faces.
The SOC had gone so far as to pipe in smells. Britton noted the brimstone stink of diesel generators, burned rubber, and spent cordite.
“This is where the council is hiding out?” Britton asked. “Or does this have something to do with how the Apache are getting their Mountain Gods over to the Home Plane? Maybe this is how they talk to the Goblin tribes?”
“It’s not your job to worry about what it is or isn’t, Keystone. It’s your job to familiarize yourself with this set and gate your Coven to the infil point on command. You’re lucky; we were going to use this to run exercises, but it turns out Chatto confirmed our suspicions, and we’re going before his reporting gets stale. You have to admit, a physical mock-up beats the hell out of a video.”
Britton faced Fitzy. The chief warrant officer looked small, his bald forehead sheened with sweat.
“These aren’t Goblins, sir. These are Americans.”
“You’re goddamned right they’re not Goblins,” Fitzy seethed. “You’d better keep that thought foremost in your mind when we run this op, son. Grabbing Chatto is going to seem like a picnic compared to what we’re going to face when we walk into the viper’s very nest.”
“Americans, sir,” Britton repeated.
“Selfers,” Fitzy snapped back, “and therefore dead. Did you forget ol’ tons o’ fun you tackled down in those sewers? Did you miss the point of those videos we showed you? You were not pardoned to pontificate. You were given a second chance to follow orders and do your damned job. Is that perfectly clear?”
A tool. A weapon. Not a person. Remember that.
Britton stared at him for a moment before turning back to the staged scenery before him.
After a moment, Fitzy shifted uncomfortably behind him. “Got it?”
Britton nodded.
“Are you sure? You’ve got it fixed?”
Britton turned to face him again. He gestured to his eyes, letting the malevolence show. “Solid, sir. I’m good to go.”
Britton brooded over his drink in the OC that night, the tension around him palpable. His mind wrestled with escape plans, all of them ending with his heart exploding. The rest of the Coven felt it. Truelove sat nervously beside him. He tried starting a conversation twice, both times with nervous platitudes, before Richards drew him off.
All the training. All the excitement. All the pleasure that had grown from mastering his magic. For what? Killing his own people? The darkness congealed in his mind. He’d half a mind to confront Fitzy, Suppression or no, and give him the drubbing he deserved. He’d die, to be sure, but it seemed that he’d have to choose between that and being a murderer anyway. Maybe death was more honorable.
Only the thought of Therese kept him seated and docile. He had her back. That was something. There was a possibility that, with time, she could get him out of there. But how long would it take before she felt confident to help him? And what would they make him do in the interim? Scylla had promised to help him right now. All he had to do was get the Suppression off her for five minutes.
He could feel Downer’s eyes on the back of his head. He was killing the joy she felt at her own burgeoning skill, and she resented it. Please, he thought. Don’t say anything. Just leave me alone tonight.
“What is it now?” she asked.
“I’m in no mood, little girl,” he answered.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
“I’m warning you. Leave me the hell alone,” Britton said, turning to face her.
Richards and Truelove stood. “Easy, you two,” Truelove said.
Britton held the Necromancer’s eyes. “Shut the hell up.”
Truelove turned and swallowed. Richards stood still behind him, a hand on his shoulder.
“What is your problem tonight?” Downer asked. “Are you still pissed about the assault? Because you need to get the hell over that.”
“Forget it,” Britton said.
But Downer’s hackles were up. “What, then?”
“Nothing.” He swallowed hard, trying to suck down the simmering resentment. It’s not her fault. Don’t take it out on her. But he saw her as she was — completely sold on the SOC’s bill of goods. A little while ago, you were running. There’s no zealot like a new con
vert. The thought infuriated him. She didn’t care what she belonged to so long as she belonged somewhere. Are you so different?
“Tell me,” she demanded, “or else get over yourself and apologize to Rictus.”
“Did you miss the screaming last night? Am I the only person on earth who heard it?”
Truelove looked at his feet. Downer’s face fell. “That’s not our business.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Britton asked. “It’s not only our business. It’s our fault!”
“You don’t know what happened,” she said, shaking her head.
“No, you’re right, I don’t know what happened. But I’m not retarded, so I can hazard a fucking guess. And, surprise, surprise! Fitzy had me prep for our next op.”
Downer’s anger vanished. She pressed forward, Truelove and Richards coming with her. “Seriously? What was it? When do we go? What are we doing?”
“That’s what you care about?” Britton asked. “Never mind the screams in the night. What’s our next op?”
“Damned right that’s what I care about!” Downer said. “What is it?”
He shook his head. “It’s…forget it. Fitzy probably doesn’t want you to know.”
“Fuck that! You can’t pull that crap! You have to tell us now.” She tugged on his arm.
He jerked his arm away, standing. Downer leapt back, frowning.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know! It’s fucking Mescalero, all right?” he said. “Are you happy now?”
“What, the reservation again?” Richards asked.
Britton nodded. “Yeah. I recognized that…casino or resort or whatever. You know, the one from the news.”
“I knew it! That’s Apache Selfer HQ!” Downer jumped for joy. “Holy crap! Chatto talked! He rolled over and gave them up!”
Britton snarled. “Are you kidding me? Do you realize what they did to him to get him to talk? You were crowing about protecting your country. You went on and on about narcoterrorists or pirates or whatever bullshit you were into.”
She looked at him, uncomprehending.
“These are Americans!” he raged. “This is our own country! We’re not going to China or Somalia, you idiot! We’re going to New Mexico! They tortured that guy all night, and we lay there right next to it, and we didn’t do anything!”
Downer shook her head. “Sometimes you have to break eggs to make an omelet. Did you forget the videos? They’re Selfers…”
“So were you just five damned minutes ago! And those videos are bullshit! Half the people we took out going after Chatto were girls! Little fucking girls!” Britton shouted, taking a step forward. Richards put a hand on his chest, and Britton slapped it away, sending him backward into Truelove. Both sprawled against the bar.
An instant later, the mud floor rose up into a fist that gripped Britton’s throat.
“Don’t,” Richards said, leaning against the bar. “Not another step.”
Britton opened a small gate, severing the fist at the wrist. The dirt fingers fell away from his neck. Then Britton felt his magic roll back, and he turned to Downer.
“That’s right,” she said. “You think you’re such hot shit because Portamancy is so rare? Without it, you’re just a bruiser. And there are three of us. We can all Suppress now.”
A little girl, a pasty nerd, and a doughy older man. Britton thought they’d need three more if they wanted to take him on. An instant later, he regretted that thought. As badly as the anger choked him, what was he going to do? Pummel a little girl because she was doing as she was told? Because she’d found the home he wanted for himself? The SOC wasn’t going to make him kill his own countrymen. But neither was it going to make him swat little girls.
“Forget this,” he said, turning to the door. “You can go rampaging through a reservation if you want. This isn’t what I signed up for.” And just what the hell do you think they’ll say? “Oh, that’s fine, Oscar. You can sit this one out. Maybe you’d prefer some other missions that you find more personally agreeable.” They’ll pop that cork in your chest, or you’ll wind up in a blue hospital gown like Billy.
He hauled open the door just as Downer fired back a retort, but Britton didn’t hear it; his attention was completely fixed on the scene outside.
Fitzy knelt over Marty, who sprawled in the mud that had frozen hard in the cold air. The chief warrant officer’s fist impacted the Goblin’s oversized head again and again, sending it bouncing off the ground. Marty’s shoulders were limp, his eyes shut. His mouth trickled blood.
Behind Fitzy, two MPs stood impassively, carbines cradled in the crooks of their arms.
Fitzy snarled, incoherent words punctuated each blow. His face was a shade of purple visible even in the darkness.
And then Britton’s legs were moving.
Behind him, Truelove shouted a warning, but Britton was already throwing his shoulder into Fitzy, knocking the Master Suppressor off Marty’s chest and sending him sprawling. Britton could smell the whiskey even from that distance. The MPs started forward, noted the Shadow Coven uniform, and paused.
“What the hell are you doing?” Britton shrieked at Fitzy, who had begun to scramble to his feet. He knelt at Marty’s side, chafing the Goblin’s wrists. “Marty! Are you okay? Marty!” The creature stirred weakly, groaning.
Britton looked up just as Fitzy’s boot swung toward him. It was too late to dodge, but he managed to catch the blow mostly on his neck and shoulder. He launched over Marty and skinned his hands, choking on the dust kicked up by the impact.
“I told you he wasn’t supposed to drink with you,” Fitzy said through clenched teeth. “This little fucker was on his way here from the cash. Not sure what it is you people don’t understand about orders, but we’re going to get that straightened out right now.” He started toward Britton, who rose to his feet.
Out of the corner of his eye, Britton spotted Truelove dragging Marty out of the way. The MPs looked on, amused.
“You’re going to beat him to death for trying to have a drink with his friends?” Britton raged.
“No, I’m going to beat him to death for eating the eyes out of the still-warm corpse of an American soldier!” Fitzy hissed. “And when I’m done, I’m going to teach you some manners.”
He turned toward Truelove. “Get the hell away from him, needledick. He’s got dues to pay.”
Truelove dropped Marty and scrambled backward on his skinny buttocks. “Sir, it’s a custom! They do it to honor their dead!”
The wheels clicked in Britton’s mind. He remembered the young specialist’s burned body in the cash, Therese standing by. Lenko must have died. Oh God, Marty.
“Good,” Fitzy said, reaching down to grab Marty’s ankle. “You love them so much. You can eat this piece of crap’s eyes right after I kill him.”
And then he was sputtering, with Britton’s arm locked around his neck. He punched Fitzy hard in the kidney, and the chief warrant officer dropped Marty, grunting.
“You’ll have to kill me first,” Britton whispered in his ear, then he pivoted his hip, slamming Fitzy face-first into the dirt.
The chief warrant officer lay there for a moment, stunned. The rest of Shadow Coven stood openmouthed. The MPs started forward, but Fitzy began to rise to his hands and knees. He waved a hand at them, and they stopped, looking askance.
Fitzy slowly got to his feet, shaking his head. He spit out a tooth, a trail of blood making its way slowly down his cheek. The face above it was scraped raw, mud caking the wound. One eye was already beginning to swell shut.
“If that’s what you want,” he whispered, “who am I to deny you?”
He spread his hands, and Britton felt the Suppression take hold as Fitzy started forward. Rage countered the alcohol, making him incredibly fast. He threw a jab at Britton’s face and followed with a kick as soon as Britton had swatted it aside. The boot tip caught him in the thigh, sending him staggering backward, his aching leg buckling under him.
“You’r
e fucking dead, you sack of shit,” Fitzy said, advancing. “I tried. I really did. But some people absolutely cannot be taught.” He pumped a right uppercut at Britton’s jaw, but it was a feint. The real blow hammed down from the other hand as Britton caught his right wrist. It collided with his ear, filling his vision with stars and sending him down to the mud again.
Britton kicked out blindly and caught Fitzy’s ankle. Fitzy cried out in pain and dropped, breaking his fall with a sharp elbow colliding with Britton’s ribs. Britton gulped for oxygen, drowning in nausea as he struggled to pull away from Fitzy’s oppressive weight. The chief warrant officer sprawled on him, smothering him with his bulk. His hands, raw and mud-crusted, found Britton’s throat and began to squeeze. Britton locked his hands on Fitzy’s wrists, shaking left and right, but the chief warrant officer’s grip wouldn’t move. The gulping continued, the nausea intensified, the world shrank to a gray tunnel. The vise constricted until his neck registered only a steady fire that vanished beneath the desperate cry for oxygen.
Britton hammered his knee upward, finding soft flesh again and again. Fitzy only grunted, then shouted something to the MPs, and then all sight and sound was gone as Britton’s lungs cried out for air. He’s really going to kill me. He’s really that crazy. This is how I die.
And then, suddenly, the pressure was gone. Pain awakened him. His neck was a ring of fire, his head stuffed with molten lead. Fitzy’s weight lifted off him. Britton’s ears filled with the sound of roaring blood, his eyes with blurry light. He rolled onto his stomach and retched, struggling to his hands and knees as vision returned.
The roaring sound in his ears resolved into words. Fitzy’s voice. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”
Truelove answered, stumbling over the words. “I can’t let you do this, sir.”
Britton stood, his vision slowly coming clear. Fitzy had backed up to the corner of the chow-hall tent. Before him, bright tusks glittering, lurched the embalmed corpse of the silver boar from the OC. Truelove stood behind it, hand outstretched. Fitzy kicked at the animated corpse experimentally, then jerked his boot back, the sole gouged by the sharp, metallic bristles.