by Myke Cole
Britton followed Truelove’s lead before deciding it was ridiculous. He opened his mouth to order a drink when the door banged open, and three more figures entered.
The first was a Goblin, small even for its race. It wore blue surgical scrubs, its broad, three-toed feet bare. Its bald brown skull was covered with a small blue surgical hat and a face mask that hung from a large, pointed ear. Tiny white dots covered its forehead and cheeks.
Behind the Goblin stood a young girl in a Coven Four uniform—the left pectoral showing the four elements surrounding a central eye. She was in the prime of adolescence, slightly chubby. Her head had been recently shaved.
Recognition hit him as she approached, smiling at Truelove.
He’d last seen that face slicked with sweat, panting in a stairwell, where a nine-millimeter round had taken a bite out of her side.
Harlequin entered behind her, seeing the recognition on Britton’s face and smiling ruefully.
The marine officers muttered at the new arrivals, glaring hard at the Goblin. “…that Coven. Hang out with those freaks. You believe that?”
The girl looked at them, and the marines suddenly found the depths of their drinks fascinating. Her eyes returned to him, and Britton felt himself swamped, unable to speak. Alive? She was alive? He started to stand, reach out for her, then thought better of it and sat down.
“You must be the new arrival,” the girl said.
Britton ignored her, holding Harlequin’s eyes. When he could finally speak, he said, “But you killed her.”
“This is your basic problem,” Harlequin said, “which I thought I made clear on the ride out to Portcullis. You think you’re so much smarter than everyone else.”
The girl looked askance at Harlequin, who smiled. “This is one of the assaulters who took you down. Turned out to be a Probe himself.”
The girl turned back to Britton, her eyes widened. She swallowed but said nothing.
“I’m…” What could he say? “I’m sorry.” The words came out in a rush. “I didn’t want to…I had to.”
The girl opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. She looked at her feet.
“I don’t believe this,” Britton said.
“Believe it,” Harlequin said. “While you’re at it, believe that you wasted a lot of time and effort and hurt a lot of people unnecessarily by running. If you’d just done the right thing, we’d have taken care of you. But you decided that you knew better. Did you honestly think we kill Probes, particularly Porta-mancers? Christ, Oscar, it’s possibly the rarest and most powerful school of magic. We’re not just going to chuck that in the trash.”
“You faked her death,” Britton said. “You kidnapped her. That’s slimy even for you. How’d you manage it?”
Harlequin shook his head. “A good magician never reveals his secrets, Oscar. And considering that the law would have given her death, we figured taking her into custody was a step up.”
“It’s all right,” the girl said in a voice that didn’t sound like it was all right at all. She pulled up a vacated stool. “It’s better than running. They train you and have your back. We’ll be real Sorcerers now.” Her words were rote, wooden.
“How many times did you make her repeat that?” Britton asked Harlequin.
Harlequin shook his head. “So much smarter than everyone else.”
Britton framed a retort but was cut off by the girl’s quavering voice. “Sarah Downer,” she said, extending a hand.
The gesture took all the fight out of him. So brave. She’s been ripped from her moorings, same as you. And she’s so much younger. Yet here she is, swallowing her fear and offering her hand to the man she knows shot her.
Shamed by her bravery, it took him a moment to take her hand. “Oscar Britton,” he said, overwhelmed.
Harlequin chuckled at Britton’s stunned expression. “Take a lesson from young Downer here. She seems to have figured out some things you’d do well to imitate.”
Downer lit up at the compliment, her pale cheeks blushing as she studiously avoided looking at him.
Britton stared at his lap, speechless. Was it possible that Harlequin was right? The SOC hadn’t killed her. Was there a method to their madness? Could they be the good guys after all? He shook the thought away. His anger returning at the sight of her reaction to Harlequin’s compliment. “She’s just a kid,” he said. “You scared the crap out of her. You’ve probably been interrogating her nonstop since I ran. Are you surprised she’s supposedly ‘come around’?”
Harlequin shrugged. Downer blanched, and Britton’s anger immediately gave way to shame again.
“You know, for a so-called kid, she’s a hell of a lot smarter than you, Oscar,” Harlequin said as he leaned down to help the Goblin onto the stool beside Truelove. Downer rushed to help, her eyes fixed firmly on the Aeromancer. Truelove grinned, slapping it lightly on the back and turning to the bartender.
“You know I ain’t gonna serve him,” the bartender said, gesturing at the Goblin.
Truelove looked studiously at his lap, but Harlequin folded his arms over his chest. “And you know I’m not going to ask you twice, Chris.”
The bartender bristled, but Britton could see the fear in his eyes. “I’ll leave. You can serve him your damn self.”
“I think we can manage opening a couple of beer bottles. If you’d care to take your useless ass off to bed, I’d be delighted to oblige,” Harlequin said.
Chris threw down his bar cloth and strode around the bar. He thrust an angry finger at the Goblin, who sat passively on his stool, ignoring him. “You know he’s a damned spotter. Hell, he’s probably running weapons out to the tribes. I can’t believe they let him work in the cash. Who knows how many people he’s poisoned?”
“Entertech and the army seem to feel differently,” Harlequin said. “Now get lost before Simon brings your great-grandma out here to lecture you on the pitfalls of bigotry.”
Chris turned purple but shuddered at Harlequin’s words. He stormed out, the last of the marines on his heels.
Harlequin groaned and shook his head. Truelove slid off his stool and went behind the bar. He rummaged around, producing two long-necked bottles of cold beer and a cup, which he set in front of the Goblin.
“You’ve got to cut Chris some slack,” Truelove said haltingly, clearly uncomfortable from the confrontation. “The tribes don’t take kindly to our presence here. Most folks at the FOB have a tough time distinguishing between the Goblins that work for us and the ones trying to kill us.”
Britton grimaced as Truelove found a container of sugar and filled the cup halfway, following it with water until the cup brimmed—a soupy white mess. The Goblin reached forward, grinning like a child, and grabbed it in his wrinkled, three-fingered hands.
“Okay, Sarah,” Harlequin said. “I’ve got to get to the flight line before I miss my helo out. You all set?”
“Yes, sir,” Downer replied. “I’m good, thanks.” She didn’t sound good at all.
“Don’t stay up too late.” Harlequin winked. “You’ve got to be up bright and early tomorrow now that you’re all here.”
“I won’t, I promise,” she said, sounding so young that Britton felt like his heart would break.
Britton marveled at her girlish obedience. This was the Selfer who’d taken on an entire assault force? Who’d almost killed him? He looked over Harlequin’s smart uniform, pressed and polished to perfection despite the mud that spattered them all. Britton could only see the man who’d hounded him, but he guessed that man would do for a confused teenaged girl. Nothing could make a kid turn her coat like puppy love.
“Jesus, Harlequin, she’s just a kid,” Britton said, instantly regretting it as Downer’s face curled into a frown.
“She’s a kid who can teach you a thing or two,” Harlequin said. “Magic forces us to grow up faster than normal. If I were you, I’d stop thinking I was so damned smart and start paying attention to how things are done in this brave new world.
Otherwise, you’re in for a rough adjustment.”
He went out into the night, leaving the OC to Truelove, Downer, Britton, and the Goblin. They sat in silence before Truelove shrugged and tapped Britton’s knee.
“Welcome to Shadow Coven,” he said. “The new Shadow Coven, anyway. We’ve just been reconstituted.”
“Reconstituted?” Britton asked, scarcely able to take his eyes off Downer, to believe she was alive. She sat silently, looking lost. Britton wanted to talk to her but didn’t know what to say, and was grateful for Truelove’s nattering, which kept the shocked silence at bay.
“The last outfit apparently deployed to a bad end. They won’t give us the details,” Truelove said, smiling grimly. “We’re still short, unfortunately. You’re looking at all of us. Well, there’s Richards, but he’s passed out right now.”
“Him, too?” Britton asked, indicating the Goblin, who snorted busily at his cup of wet sugar.
Truelove smiled indulgently at the creature. “Nah, Marty’s just a friend.”
“Marty… ?” Britton asked.
“His real name is tough to pronounce,” Truelove said. “Nearest I can figure it’s Mardak Het-Parda. Everybody calls him Marty.”
Marty snorted again, looking up at the sound of his name. “Umans no talk me,” he said. “Only you and Doctor Captain.” His voice hissed from his nose, harsh and nasal.
“I’m Oscar,” Britton said, unsure if he should shake hands. “Nice to meet you.”
“Uskar…” the Goblin said, sounding so much like the demon-horses that Britton started.
“You speak English pretty well,” Britton said to the Goblin, who smiled, wiggling his long ears.
“Better than any other Goblin we’ve got,” Truelove said, beaming with pride. “They use him sometimes to do ’terp work, you know, interpreting, with detainees and tribal delegations. But most of the time he works in the cash. He’s really good with the local flora, and I swear a feel a slight current off him. I think he’s got a touch of Physiomancer in him.”
Britton concentrated, but felt no current coming from the Goblin. Perhaps it was overwhelmed by Downer’s and Truelove’s strong magical tides.
“Of course, they don’t call themselves Goblins,” Truelove said, embarrassed. “I really shouldn’t, it’s not nice. But you start to fall into it since everyone around you does.”
“No angry,” Marty hiss-whispered. “Goblin okay.”
“What do they call themselves?” Britton asked.
“Water baby!” Marty said.
“Like that,” Truelove said. “Near as I can tell, he means children of the stream. I think it means they came from magic.”
Marty nodded, slurping the last of the solution in his cup. Britton frowned.
Truelove smiled at his reaction. “They didn’t have sugar before we came here. They absolutely love it. We keep them clear of alcohol, they can’t process it. Even one sip makes them falling-down drunk. A full glass can kill them.”
Britton shook his head. He looked down at his beer, then cracked it open. “Nothing for you?” he asked Downer, trying to break the silence between them.
She shook her head. “I’m not old enough to drink.”
“I’m not going to tell anyone.” He looked a question at Truelove, but the smaller man only looked down at the bar.
“It’s against regs,” Downer said, frowning. “Harlequin says we’ve got stick to the regs from now on.” Again that wooden voice.
“Harlequin’s not here,” Britton replied. “When I last saw you, the regs didn’t mean a lot to you.”
He meant it good-naturedly, hoping to coax a smile from her, but Downer flushed. “That was a long time ago.”
“That was a day ago,” Britton said, “maybe two.”
“Harlequin said you might talk like this,” Downer retorted. “Sticking to the regs is what makes us different from Selfers.”
Britton knew better than to argue with the patronizing certainty in her voice. What teenagers didn’t think they knew everything? Cut her some slack. She’s been through hell, and is less equipped to deal with it than you are. You put the damned bullet in her. You owe her for that.
Unable to think of a way to recover from the rising tension, he took a swallow of his beer and turned to Truelove instead. “So, Shadow Coven?”
The small man nodded. “Each Coven gets a name and number. We’re Shadow Coven. Entertech contractors, all. Welcome to the company. We’re the one Probe Coven in the whole SOC.”
Prohibited schools. Britton suddenly realized the significance of Harlequin’s comment about Chris’s grandmother. “You’re a Necromancer,” he said to Truelove.
Downer brightened, grateful for the change of subject. She pointed to the floor beside the bar. “Come on, Simon, show him.”
Truelove’s pale cheeks went crimson. He looked uncomfortably at Downer from beneath his narrow brow, and Britton thought he caught of glimpse of the same smitten look Downer had showed to Harlequin.
Pushing the thoughts away, Britton followed Downer’s finger to the floor. A largish roach lay there, crushed flat by an uncompromising combat boot.
Truelove shrugged again and stared at it. Britton felt his tide ratchet up. The broken, flat insect peeled itself away from the ground and stood, one broken leg remaining in the dirt and another dangling by a thread of chitin. It bowed to Britton, shedding the broken leg in the process, then turned a graceful pirouette on the bottom of its abdomen before flopping over on its back.
“Impressive,” Britton said.
“It’s just Physiomancy in reverse,” Truelove said. “They do live flesh. I do the dead stuff.”
“How about you?” Britton asked Downer, trying again. “You’re an Elementalist.”
She didn’t give him a chance. “How about you?”
Britton barked a nervous laugh. “Portamancy.”
Downer worked to keep from looking impressed and failed. “Fitzy said as much,” she said. “We didn’t believe him.”
“Fitzy?” Britton said.
“You’ll meet him tomorrow,” Truelove said. “Don’t mess with him. He’s not a nice man.”
“Fitzy is asshole!” Marty chirped proudly. Downer and Britton laughed, but Truelove looked embarrassed. “I’ve been trying to stop him from doing that …It just makes things harder on him.”
“Is he an asshole?” Britton asked.
Truelove shrugged uncomfortably. “He’s a good instructor, he’ll help you get a handle on your magic.” His eyes brightened behind his thick glasses.
“Gate magic,” Truelove said. “That’s amazing.”
Britton sighed. “Believe me, I’d rather be flying helicopters. That’s what I joined the army to do.”
Truelove’s eyes widened farther. “You were a helo pilot? That’s awesome! What’d you fly?”
“They had me in Kiowas. I wanted Apaches, but I didn’t have enough time in. I Manifested before I could get re-assigned.”
As Truelove interrogated Britton about flying, Downer eyed him intensely. Britton did his best to pretend he didn’t notice and focused on answering Truelove’s enthusiastic questions—covering everything from training to flight mechanics—but the line of conversation frustrated him. He wanted to talk about magic and the Coven and was grateful when Downer cut in.
“You can’t control it, can you?” she asked.
“No,” Britton admitted, “not yet.”
“We go to the SASS tomorrow. Fitzy says we’ll learn there.”
“Suitability assessment,” Truelove offered. “They test your loyalty and teach you to get control of your magic. They enrolled me when I first got here. Since you’re a contractor, you don’t have to raise the flag.”
“Raise the flag? What the hell are you talking… ?” Britton asked.
A crackle sounded outside, followed by a boom that shook the flimsy plywood walls, resulting in a minor avalanche of license plates.
“Medic!” a voice screamed from outsi
de. “Medic!”
By the time they raced outside, two more booms had sounded, each farther away than the last.
The line out of the chow hall was gone. The front of the tent smoldered gently, melted canvas and plastic sending up wisps of foul-smelling smoke. Dark clouds drifted apart above them, far lower than any cloud should have been. The ground was rent and smoking, a deep, charred groove that ran the length of where the line had been.
Two twisted, man-sized masses lay in the trench, burning brightly. Just beyond them lay a young soldier. Two of his comrades were already stripping off his smoldering camouflage trousers. The bottoms of his boots had been blown off. The soles of his feet were burned an angry red dotted with black.
Marty let out a high-pitched squeak and ran to the man’s side. He muttered to himself in his own language, his long fingers moving over the wounds. The men kneeling at the wounded man’s side paused in shock before the larger one—a navy Seabee with hulking shoulders, reached out and belted Marty across the face, sending the Goblin sprawling.
“Get the hell away from him!” he shrieked. “You trying to finish him off?”
The other soldier cursed and returned to the wounded man’s side. He continued stripping off the burning trousers, revealing the charred and bubbling flesh that had once been a pelvis. “Medic!” he cried again. “Somebody get a fucking medic!”
“He is a damned medic,” Britton said, helping the Goblin to his feet and pushing him forward. “He works in the cash, for chrissakes.”
The kneeling soldier ignored him, but the Seabee took a step forward. Britton saw the anchor pinned on his white hard hat—marking him as a chief, senior enlisted, and not to be trifled with. “He’s a fucking Goblin, and he’s going to kill him! Hell, he probably called the strike!”
Britton stabbed a finger into the man’s chest, pushing him backward and sending his hard hat tumbling. “He’s not even fucking Latent, you jackass.”
The Seabee surged forward, fist cocked. Britton stepped into the punch, letting it collide with his shoulder and catching the smaller man by the throat. The magic surged along the current of his rage. It came to him wildly, pulsing and erratic. Instinctively, Britton reached for it.
