by Myke Cole
“Well, no,” she admitted. Her face went pensive, then she flashed him a smile that showed the dazzling beauty she would one day become. “But I’m learning to.”
But in the end he didn’t go back to his hooch; his feet took him back down the same muddy lane, tracking slowly toward the cash. Why was he going? He wasn’t hurt that badly. Despite Downer’s mothering of him, he would do much better with a nap than a doctor.
It’s Therese, he admitted. You want to see her.
And what was wrong with that? She was a beautiful woman. And so what if he ran into Marty? Screw Fitzy and his idiot no-fraternization policy. What was he going to do? Fire Britton? Kill him? The man was a drunken bully. Britton knew how to deal with bullies.
But as he searched deeper, he knew that he wasn’t being honest with himself. He wanted to see Therese. There was something he had to know.
Britton pushed through the plastic flaps and between the rows of metal hospital beds that clustered under the canvas. He tapped a passing corpsman on the shoulder. The man turned, took in the Shadow Coven uniform, and took a hasty step backward.
“Sir?”
“Heard you’ve got a new Physiomancer on staff. I need to see her.”
“She’s real busy, sir.”
“And our Coven commander is real insistent we get proper care. He’s also real ornery. Your call.”
The corpsman paused a moment before nodding. “Follow me, sir.”
Therese turned out to be in the Burn Unit, just a few paces away. A quick scan of the ward showed that Specialist Lenko had been moved elsewhere, but Britton only had eyes for Therese. She bent over an unconscious patient whose face, neck, and arm were a mottled mass of charred skin. Her eyes were closed as her hands roved over the burned tissue, leaving pink, healthy skin beneath.
He positioned himself on the opposite side of the bed and waited. In a moment, Therese opened her eyes, meeting his. A broad grin spread across her face, and she nodded at him.
“My hero returns.”
He grinned like an idiot. “So, when do you get off?”
“I can take a few minutes if you’d like to get caught up,” she said. She crossed to him and began to run her hands over his bruised arms, which tingled with warmth as her healing magic penetrated into them. “Oh God, Oscar. You look like hell.”
“They’ve been working me pretty hard,” he managed, closing his eyes and basking in the feel of her eddying magic and his knitting flesh.
“Come on,” she said.
He nodded, and she led him through a series of canvas-covered walkways to a heated tent, where long wooden tables had been laid out. Medical workers, military and contractor, human and Goblin, were spread out among them, eating and chatting. Britton sat down on a bench and was surprised when Therese slid along next to him, her knee bumping his.
There was a long silence as they stared at one another. Britton was surprised at how easy it was to be quiet with her, just sitting and enjoying the shadows playing over her cheeks and the hollow of her throat. At last, Therese blushed and broke the silence. “I go back to the SASS about once a week to check up on folks, and you’ll be pleased to hear that Wavesign’s fine,” she said. “They didn’t allow it at first, but I put up a fuss, and they caved. You’d be amazed how much leeway they give you when you’ve got a rare and valuable talent.” She smiled.
“Tell me about it,” Britton said. “You’ve been working with Marty?”
“The Goblin?” Therese clapped her hands. “He’s so great. He’s been showing me around since I got here, helping me. I figured he was someone important in his tribe. The other Goblins pretty much bow to him.
“How’s Downer doing?” she asked.
“Fine, I guess. She won’t say a word about it. You’re an amazing healer, Therese. There’s no evidence she was ever hurt, but…” He tapped his head.
“She’s a strong girl,” Therese said. “She’ll be okay.”
“You think?”
“She has to be; this is her life now.”
There was an awkward silence. Britton drummed his fingers on the table. “Therese, …”
“What, Oscar?”
“Are you happy that you, you know, raised the flag? That you agreed to cooperate?”
Therese was silent for a moment. “On the whole, yes. I mean, Hayes is a bastard, and there’s a lot of admin BS to put up with, but overall, I like it. Even if I disagree with the overall organization, even if they basically own my life, in the end my magic still helps people. People are alive and whole because of me. I can sleep at night knowing that.”
Britton nodded, silent.
“What about you?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “At first, I was sure I was doing the right thing. I mean, Swift is so stupid and useless, and he’s dragging Wavesign down with him. After we saved those marines, I really thought I’d made the right call. When we took down that Selfer in the sewers…she was like a demon out of a nightmare. After that, I was absolutely sure we were on the right side. I felt like you do now, that I was ultimately doing good, that in the balance, it was right to cooperate. But they’ve got me killing the natives here now. They treat Marty like dirt. And in the end, I can’t shake this feeling like no matter how much good I’ll do, I’ll always belong to them. Fitzy called me a weapon the other day. I don’t know if I can live like that.”
“You sound like Scylla,” Therese mused. Britton’s blood ran cold at the comment.
Because he knew he was Scylla to them, fine enough when he was cooperating but standing by to be lobotomized once they decided he was more trouble than he was worth.
She noticed his expression and squeezed the back of his neck. “Oh God, Oscar. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
He shook his head. “It’s nothing. I know she’s nuts, and I know she’s a murderer. But you have to admit that some of the things she says make sense. I guess that’s what scares me.”
She asked me to help her escape. She can take this bomb out of my chest if I do.
“Therese”—Britton turned to her—“you said before that you needed time to get good enough to get this thing out of my chest. Are you good enough now?”
She placed his hand on his chest and paused, eyes closed. “I can…see it. Man, whoever put it in there was good. Molding heart flesh is tricky stuff, at least when you’re trying to keep it beating.”
“Can you do it?”
“I don’t know, Oscar.” She shook her head. “To be honest, it’d be a long shot. Even if I was confident that I could do it, you’d need something for the pain. It’s going to hurt like hell. You’re not going to be able to gate anywhere if you die of shock.”
He winced. “It didn’t work out so well the last time I had someone steal from the cash.”
“Goblin contractors don’t have the access that I do. I’d just need some time. I’d also need some time to do the work.”
He paused. “What happened to Specialist Lenko?”
“Who?” she asked.
“He was in the burn unit…”
“Oh,” she said. “They moved him. We’ve got the burns covered, but there’s an infection. I boosted his immune response, but it’s touch and go right now. You know him?”
Britton shook his head. “Later. We’ve been talking way too long. I should let you get back to work.”
No sooner had he spoken than Captain Hayes appeared at their table. “Everything all right in here?”
“Fine, sir,” she answered. “We’re just finishing up.”
“You disappeared from the floor, Therese. We just had a Humvee hit outside the wire. You’re needed back in trauma.”
“Be right there, sir.”
“That fat bastard,” she muttered after he’d left. “I haven’t seen him help a single patient since I’ve been here. He’s always back in the Special Projects tent. What the hell are they doing back there?”
Britton stood, thinking of the report he’d rea
d on Scylla. “Research,” he said. “And they wonder why half the countryside is up in arms against them. We meet in the OC for drinks most nights. Can you make it there?”
“Things get insane here at night, Oscar. That’s when most of the attacks happen, and the worst of the wounded come in.”
He paused at the exit. “It’s really good to see you again, Therese.”
She smiled. “Get out of here. I’ll get to the OC tonight if I can. If worse comes to worst, you know where to find me.”
And Oscar Britton grinned.
Because he did know where to find her, and while it wasn’t a way out of there, it was something.
CHAPTER XXVII
MESCALERO
Anticipating future theaters of war is the responsibility of every staff officer. The twenty-first century saw the addition of space and cyberspace to the traditional realms of air, sea, and land. It is time for us to begin consideration of arcane or magical space as an arena where operational preparation of combat environments should be considered. Much study is still needed to illuminate this developing field, but as a nation, we can only gain by getting out in front of the planning process before our enemies do.
—Lieutenant Scott Dyson, United States Navy
Final paper for Master’s of Strategic Conflict Studies
Maritime College of the Armed Forces
Britton sat in the OC with the rest of the Coven, celebrating their new skill. Truelove flirted hopefully with Downer. Richards, more than a little tipsy, Whispered a tufted squirrel up onto the bar, where it urinated enthusiastically in Chris’s direction while the bartender growled and idly threatened to chuck them all out. Britton’s stomach churned as his eyes swept the Coven. These people were his friends, weren’t they? The army might own them all, but they could still care about one another.
He brooded over his conversation with Therese. What if she could get the ATTD out? Did he really want to go? Britton felt the pride again, the sense of belonging. Despite the bomb in his heart, despite Fitzy’s continued abuse, he was beginning to make a home there. He had raised the flag, he had made the decision to work with and for the army. Whether he was a weapon or a valued member of a team, what difference did that make? Wasn’t this better than a life spent running?
From the moment he leapt through the gate from Dawes’s bedside, his magic had owned him, driving him from hole to hole. He had saved the lives of those marines. When one really considered it, he’d saved the lives of everyone involved in that operation. He’d done it again when they’d battled the Selfer in the New York City sewers. He looked again at Downer’s functioning legs. There were good people still breathing because of what the SOC had taught him to do with his magic. Despite the shock of the engagement, his skirmish at the Goblin fort had left his heart singing. He had mastered his abilities. He had, almost single-handedly, faced an army and beat them, getting his team out scarcely harmed.
The SOC had taught him how, and they still had more to teach him.
Was the SOC really so terrible? They hadn’t murdered Downer after all. They had, in their own way, saved her. When he really thought about it, he supposed they’d saved him, too.
He stared moodily into his drink. But he couldn’t ignore Fitzy’s drunken threats against Marty, the useless murder of the Goblins in the fortress, or the report strewed on Hayes’s desk, detailing plans to slice into Scylla’s brain. Her words rang in his ear. How could he live as if he belonged to these people? Who knew what they would ask him to do next? It was only a matter of time before he was tasked to hunt down Selfers who weren’t monsters like the Render in the sewers under New York, but decent people like him, saddled with abilities they hadn’t asked for, who didn’t want to be under the army’s thumb.
His gut twisted. But how could he give up all he had learned? All he had yet to learn? And just when he was finally getting good?
He swore.
“You okay?” Truelove asked. Britton reflected on how far the small Necromancer had come, his confidence improving daily. Any irritation at being disturbed fled at the sight of his face, friendly and open.
“Yeah,” Britton said. “Just thinking about when I was running is all.”
Downer looked at him quizzically. “Why bother? You’re not running anymore.”
Truelove punched Britton’s shoulder, then blanched as Britton turned toward him. “Sorry.”
Britton smiled. “No, you’re right. I’m not running anymore. It’s okay. “
Truelove brightened instantly. “Damn right it’s okay. Chris! Another round.”
Britton’s improved mood led them to drink enthusiastically, and they reported to trailer B-6 with slightly aching heads the next morning. Fitzy leaned against the whiteboard. A pale, thin-lipped man in a brown uniform stood beside him, the newcomer’s shoulder patched with an eagle surmounting a buffalo. Gold script curled beneath the symbols— UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR. BUREAU OF INDIAN AFFAIRS.
“Morning, campers,” Fitzy said, pleased at their surprise. “Allow me to introduce Captain Day from BIA’s law-enforcement division. Command has, despite my better judgment, determined you to be at a stage in your training where you can be of use to your country in something more significant than mucking about sewer systems or beating up on the locals here.
“The Great Reawakening has given a lot of people some funny ideas. The funniest are held by the Mescalero band of the Apache nation, who occupy a substantial swath of New Mexico. These folks got the idea that not only is their territory autonomous, it’s sovereign, and they fully seceded from the United States of America. The first thing their tribal council did was to legalize the use of magic in the confines of this supposed sovereign state, with results that you have seen. The death toll in this insurgency currently stands at over two thousand US armed services personnel, with an additional five hundred sworn law-enforcement officers and an undisclosed number of civilian advisors.
“Even worse, this minority of Selfers keeps the majority of law-abiding Apache from living in peace with us. They want to return to the ‘old ways,’ whatever the hell that means, and consider anyone who doesn’t agree with them as an enemy collaborator worthy of death.
“Keep that in mind when you consider the crocodile tears of all these sympathizers who’d like to see these folks cut loose. Unregulated magic is a pretty idea for those who don’t have to deal with it, but I’m sure Captain Day here will agree that the real thing is nasty business.
“You’ve got a rare opportunity to stop this death toll in its tracks, and Captain Day is going to tell you how.”
“Gentlemen.” The BIA captain’s voice was high and nasal. Britton couldn’t tell whether or not he deliberately ignored Downer’s gender. “We have a rare opportunity to make a serious dent in the enemy’s order of battle. The tribal council’s most important general is a Selfer called Chatto.” Captain Day turned to the overhead-projection image displayed on the whiteboard. It depicted a man with old eyes. His leathern, wind-scoured skin made his age difficult to discern, but his long black hair, tied with a red bandanna, looked thick and young.
“Don’t get nostalgic for the noble savage getup. This man is personally responsible for the Ruidoso massacre, including taking out the airlift that went in for the survivors. It remains the biggest tragedy American first responders have ever suffered. Chatto’s capture could lead to a ton of actionable information that we could use to wrap up this firefight once and for all. More importantly, Chatto is a rallying point, and taking him out of the fight would seriously lower enemy morale.”
“So, why now? Why’s he suddenly vulnerable?” Britton asked.
“Chatto cast off his wife when she decided she wanted to join the modern world. Cut her up pretty bad.” He toggled the projector and the image changed to a young Apache woman whose beauty had been marred first by hard living and further by livid scars running up her nostrils.
“Apache custom is to slit the noses of women who betray their husban
ds. They call her Nalzukich now. Means ‘slit-nose.’ That he let her live is amazing enough. But now he’s shown a real soft spot. Their daughter just got her period, which gives them four days to have her blessed by their Gahe. Chatto invited Slit-Nose to the ceremony.”
Captain Day toggled the projector again. “She got there early and sent us this video.” The screen displayed a wide stretch of dried badlands under a blanket of bright stars. Scanty scrub growth competed with dry rocks to cover the space. The image looped, again and again. Captain Day looked expectantly at Britton. “We have no idea where it is. But we were hoping it wouldn’t matter.”
Britton watched the video loop and imagined the freezing cold on that near-desert plain. He pictured the smell of dried sage, the allure of the distant stars. He felt his magic pulse expectantly and nodded. “It won’t.”
Captain Day grunted. “In and out. We want Chatto alive if possible, but we’ll accept his death if you can recover the body. It’s critical that all the Mescalero people know he’s down, but not how he got that way. Alive would be better because Chatto can hopefully confirm some ideas we have on where the heart of the insurgency is located. Slit-Nose will meet you at the infil point and take you to the ceremony. There’ll be one Gahe there, but that shouldn’t…”
“We don’t speak Apache, sir,” Britton interrupted, to a frown from Fitzy.
Captain Day nodded. “It’s what they call their ‘Mountain Gods.’ ”
Britton recalled a black form, nearly too fast to follow, flashing across a video screen. He shuddered, remembering flashing teeth.
Captain Day patted the air with his palms. “They look scary, but their bark is worse than their bite. Trust me, this’ll be a cakewalk.”
Cakewalk, Britton thought, remembering Dawes burned body. I’ve heard that one before.
“I’ll come along to translate,” Day went on, “but once you make the assault, I’m hanging back. I wouldn’t want to get underfoot.”
Yeah, I bet you wouldn’t, Britton thought, seeing the fear in the man’s eyes.
