by Myke Cole
Plug led Bookbinder through the far end of the room and into a sterile-looking examination room, where three doctors waited.
Unlike Doc Thompson, these three wore billowing blue plastic suits instead of white coats. They were businesslike, waving Bookbinder to a cold-looking metal table.
“Please remove your clothes, Colonel.”
Bookbinder hesitated. “Look, I . . .”
“Sir,” said one of the doctors, “the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can get you cleaned up and fed, please cooperate.”
Bookbinder sighed, and the tests began.
The doctors weren’t gentle. Blood pressure, temperature, three different scans. Lights were shone into every orifice and he was poked and prodded for so long that he went numb at his joints.
After he dressed, Plug fetched him back to the same metal chair before the table, on which was a new sheaf of papers.
It turned out to be a multiple-choice bubble sheet attached to a battery of over five hundred questions—all true or false. After a while, all the questions began to blur together, and he filled out bubble after bubble until his hand cramped again.
At last, he stood, stretching as Plug arrived and collected the papers. “Appreciate your patience, sir.”
Bookbinder nodded. “How about a shower?”
Plug sighed. “Just one more round, sir. I know you’re tired, but there’s some concern about the strength of your current and the fact that you haven’t Manifested. The brass wants to be sure.”
“Sure of what?”
Plug shrugged. “Just sure.” He passed Bookbinder a bottle of water and a nutrition bar.
“Hopefully, this’ll tide you over until the test is complete. Follow me, please.”
He led him back outside the barn structure and around back to a clearing in the pines. Dawn was cresting the treetops and illuminating tall, straight trunks and thick clusters of lustrous green needles. The air had a sharp, metallic bite. Wherever they were, it was north of Washington.
Two more men met them in the clearing, both in digital camouflage uniforms. One of them, a thin major with thinner hair, wore the unit patch of the Judge Advocate General Corps. The other was a muscle-bound infantry sergeant.
“This him?” the lawyer asked. Plug nodded.
The lawyer handed Bookbinder a clipboard with yet more paperwork attached. “We need to give you a stress test, sir, one that we hope will help you Manifest your abilities. Shouldn’t take more than ten to fifteen minutes. I’ll need you to sign this consent form before we get started.”
“Stress test?”
“The docs are thinking that you might be an Auto-Suppressed Latency. These are rare, but they happen from time to time. Magic is conducted through the emotional center in your brain, and in order to break the block and bring your current out, we’re going to need to put you under some emotional stress. Don’t worry. If your magic does Manifest, Plug is right here to roll it back.”
The forms were several pages thick, and the sprawling legal speak was impossible to read by the rising sun. Exhausted, Bookbinder signed and initialed each page and handed it back.
“So, what do we do . . .”
The breath exploded from him as the sergeant stepped forward and slammed his fist into Bookbinder’s stomach. Bookbinder collapsed, retching. His current surged as Plug’s Suppression dropped away. He drowned in the tide, unsure if it or the blow to his gut kept him from breathing.
The sergeant slapped him, rocking his face to one side. “Get up, you fucking pussy.”
Bookbinder gasped, “What are you do . . .”
The sergeant’s boot slammed into his balls. Bookbinder vomited in earnest, sprawling on the hard ground, sucking up pine needles as he gasped for breath.
The tide roared, drowning out the sergeant’s next words to a high buzz. Something struck Bookbinder in the back of the head, bouncing his cheek off the ground and leaving his ears ringing.
He lay, waiting for the next blow to fall. When the buzzing finally cleared, he heard the lawyer speaking to Plug. “Nothing?”
“Nothing, sir. His current is completely pegged, but there’s nothing doing.”
“Okay,” the lawyer said. “Get the dog.”
Boots crunched, and someone stepped over him as Bookbinder scrabbled on the ground. “Not . . . I can’t believe . . .”
“Shut up,” said the sergeant, his voice growing distant.
Bookbinder got to his knees as the boots crunched back. He looked up, meeting the watery blue eyes of the lawyer.
When he looked back down, the sergeant stood before him, holding a beagle puppy, much younger than Harvey, on a leash. The little dog cowered.
Bookbinder pushed himself to his feet, knees shaking.
“Look, I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing here . . .”
“We know exactly what we’re doing, sir,” the lawyer said.
“Now if you can just hold on for a moment, we’ll be done.”
The lawyer unsnapped his holster and pulled out his pistol, proffering it to Bookbinder handle first. “Take this, sir.”
“What the hell do you expect me to do with . . .”
Bookbinder heard the cocking of a pistol hammer. The barrel touched the base of his skull. “We really need your full cooperation, sir,” Plug said from behind him. “Now. Take the fucking gun.”
Bookbinder began to tremble. The rumors were true. The SOC really was crazy. He took the pistol, the thick metal handle heavy and unfamiliar.
“Now,” the lawyer said, “shoot the animal.”
The beagle whined, cringing and straining against the leash, its dark eyes huge.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bookbinder asked. “It’s a puppy. I’m not going to shoot it.”
Plug shoved his head with the pistol barrel. “You’re going to do exactly as you’re told, or I’m going to fucking shoot you, sir.”
The tide surged. He struggled for breath. “You people are fucking crazy! You can’t do this!”
“Sir, you’ve got three seconds to put a round through that animal, or I am going to put you out of all of our misery,” Plug said, driving the pistol barrel forward again.
Dear God, he’s serious, Bookbinder thought.
“One,” Plug said.
“Wait, just give me a . . .”
“Two!” Bookbinder swore he could hear the trigger spring creaking backward. The tide swamped him.
“Okay! Okay!” he shouted, he raised the pistol, his hand jerking wildly. His aim flopped like a beached fish, covering the dog, the sergeant, the space between.
He screamed and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Bookbinder stood, his jaw hanging open, tears welling in his eyes. He sniveled, swallowed hard.
“Well?” the lawyer asked.
Plug shook his head. “Nothing, sir. And his tide is the highest I’ve felt in a very long time.”
The lawyer sighed and nodded to the sergeant, who scooped up the puppy, kissed it on the muzzle, and trotted back inside the barn.
“You son of a bitch,” Bookbinder stuttered.
The lawyer patted the air with his hands. “I understand your distress, sir, but your psych profile indicated your biggest limbic triggers were violent confrontation and harm to animals. In order for the test to be effective, we have to respond accordingly.”
“I’ll have your fucking oak leaves.” Bookbinder lunged forward.
Plug seized his arm and hauled him back as easily as he would a child.
“No, sir. You won’t,” the lawyer said, waving the clipboard.
“You agreed to this test in advance and hold us all harmless for any results. I have your signature right here.”
“You fucker.” Bookbinder seethed. “I’ll remember this.”
“Begging your pardon, sir”—the sergeant’s voice came from the barn, gently menacing—“ I’m sure you’ll feel better waiting inside.” Plug’s grip tightened on his elbow, an
d Bookbinder, knew he had no chance against the larger men. They’re real soldiers and you’re a paper pusher. Being right doesn’t make you any tougher. The thought drained the strength from him, and he allowed himself to be led back inside.
He was left waiting for a long time. A female sergeant checked him over and determined that the drubbing he’d taken hadn’t done any lasting damage. After a while, he drowsed. He had no idea how long he slept. When he awoke, a grizzled-looking lieutenant colonel with a broken nose and lantern jaw stood before him.
“How are you feeling, sir?” the lieutenant colonel asked.
Bookbinder cuffed the sleep from his eyes. “Let me guess, this is the patience test?”
The lieutenant colonel smiled. “My name is Seitz. I command here.”
“Well, this is the most fucked–up command I’ve ever seen.”
“We get that a lot from folks just coming out of the stress test. The good news is that you don’t have to deal with my fucked–up command anymore, sir. We have to get you out of here.”
“What’s the bad news?”
“No bad news, sir. You self-reported. You keep your rank and position, but I’m afraid that you’ve been officially diagnosed as what we call an Auto-Suppressed Latency. Your magical tide is stifled.”
“I’m a Latent Grenade.”
Seitz’s smile widened. “We don’t like to call it that, sir, but yes. You could Manifest at any moment, and your current is very strong. The results could be dangerous for you and those around you. You need to be in a facility where we have the resources to properly monitor you and respond quickly in the event of a sudden Manifestation.
“There’s some serendipity here, because we’ve got just such a facility that’s in desperate need of a J1. I just got off the phone with General Dernwood, and she’s approved a lateral transfer. She’s also approved the award of a commendation medal for the great job you’ve done for her at AMC. So the sum total of your Latency is a new job and a positive mark on your record.”
Bookbinder’s stomach went cold. “What’s the bad news? Where the hell are you sending me?”
Seitz handed him another small sheaf of papers. “That’s compartmented information, sir. I just need to get you read into the program first.” The cover sheet of the papers was bordered with blue-and-orange stripes. special access program: frontier, it read.
The thought of any more reading made Bookbinder nauseous.
“Cut the crap.”
Seitz smiled again. “I guess we can just show you, sir. This way please.”
Bookbinder grabbed Seitz’s shoulder. “My family. I need to talk to them. Wherever I’m going, are they going to be able to join me?”
Seitz looked at Bookbinder’s hand, and Bookbinder jerked it back instinctively, then cursed himself inwardly. He outranked this man, and a hand on the shoulder was hardly out of line under the circumstances.
Seitz seemed satisfied that Bookbinder was cowed. “You’ll be able to get messages to your family biweekly, and we’ll see what we can do about reuniting you at some point. Please try to understand, sir. It’s for their own safety.”
Bookbinder saw the lie for what it was and supposed he should have been devastated, but after the past few hours, all he could muster was numbness. The lack of agony made him feel like he was failing his loved ones, and he conjured their faces in his mind, even tried to picture Sarah crying, but there was nothing but the constant thrumming of his magical tide in thrall to Plug’s Suppression.
Seitz provided him with a plastic badge already bearing Bookbinder’s photo and reading lsa portcullis—gate access. The badge warmed at the press of Bookbinder’s thumb, leaving a permanent impression. He signed the signature block on the latest round of paperwork and followed Seitz through a pair of double doors into another room of the same size divided into an armory and firing range on one end and a vehicle park on the other. They stopped before another set of white and diagonal red-striped doors. A sign above read: restricted area—visual inspection of credentials required—21–foot approach zone rigorously observed. deadly force is authorized. you are responsible for your own safety and compliance! Two SOC Pyromancers guarding the door inspected Bookbinder’s badge before a rotating yellow light above the door began to spin, and they were ushered through.
Beyond the doors was another warehouse-sized space, completely dark save for a circle of light illuminating a fat, pale man in a blue hospital gown. Cords snaked from beneath the gown and off into the darkness. A kindly-faced, elderly woman stood behind him, her hair in a tidy blond-gray bun. Her arms were around the man’s neck, whispering soothingly into his ear.
A towering rectangle shimmered into view, unrolling like a window shade. Static light danced across its surface, rippling through the darkness like waves lapping on a shore. Through the portal, Bookbinder could make out a muddy track. Three armored humvees stood astride it, machine guns peeking from the camouflage netting draping their turrets.
Several soldiers, armed and armored for imminent battle, clustered around him. One of them handed a tactical vest and helmet to Plug, which he donned before accepting a carbine.
“Your protective security detail, sir.” Seitz said.
Bookbinder couldn’t take his eyes off the portal. “What is this?”
“This,” Seitz said, “is the new frontier. If you don’t mind, sir, let’s get this convoy under way. The sooner we have you safely at Forward Operating Base Frontier, the better.”
With a nudge from Plug, Bookbinder took a step forward, letting the static light wash over him and feeling his soles crunch on foreign ground.
Chapter IV
Orientation
Magic is an incredibly powerful force, to be sure. But so is military technology. A fire-breathing dragon or a giant roc is definitely a thing to be reckoned with. But put it up against an Apache Longbow? Or an F–22 Raptor? Or even a dedicated scout-sniper with a clear line of sight and plenty of ammo? No contest at all.
—Lance Corporal Jimmy “Gonzo” Gonzales
Second Marine Expeditionary Force, Thirteenth Suppression Lance
Bookbinder stepped out of the humvee and nearly sank to his knees in the muddy lane. Where most of the other structures were makeshift trailers and tents shielded by piled sandbags and concrete blast walls, here the Seabees of the navy’s construction battalions built a shingled awning supported by wooden posts and a swinging screen door keeping out a cloud of weird, varicolored bugs. A suggestion box was nailed next to a hanging sign reading forward operating base—frontier. camp commandant’s office. The font was rustic, evoking a state park rather than a military command post.
Two soldiers awaited Bookbinder. The first was another colonel.
His gray hair was immaculate, his posture perfect. He had the face of an older movie star or a politician—chiseled jaw, serious brow. His combat infantryman’s badge was prominently displayed. The lieutenant colonel beside him was stern-faced, ugly, and shorter. His combat uniform was so mud-spattered that his SOC patch and Pyromancer’s pin were barely visible.
He cracked a sharp salute as Bookbinder approached, but Bookbinder was too stunned to return it, his head still reeling from the briefing he’d been given during the humvee ride from the Landing Zone to FOB Frontier.
Yesterday I was a trapped behind a desk in the Pentagon. Now I am Latent, on a secret base in an alternate magical universe.
Bookbinder managed to put a smile on his face and shake the hand that the sharp-dressed colonel offered him. “I’m Taylor, Camp Commandant,” the colonel said. “Welcome to FOB Frontier.”
He gestured to the rugged looking Pyromancer. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Allen. He goes by his call sign, Crucible. He runs all the SOC operations on the FOB. He also heads up our Sorcerer’s Apprentice Officer Leadership Combined Course. I understand that you must be rather tired and more than a little bewildered by your arrival here.”
Bookbinder nodded, finally returning Crucible’s salute and internal
ly wincing as the lieutenant colonel gratefully dropped his right arm. “That’s putting it mildly,” Bookbinder said.
“There were always rumors of a place like this floating around, but I never believed them.”
Taylor forced a smile. “Well, I don’t need to remind you that the existence of this base and all of the operations here are strictly compartmented, and that your nondisclosure agreement is lifelong.”
Bookbinder bridled. Nondisclosure agreements were second nature to a man with the amount of time in grade that Bookbinder had, and Taylor would know that. “I’m fully aware of my obligations, Colonel Taylor.”
“Outstanding,” Taylor said. “I also want to warn you that this is a combat outpost, and we’re frequently subjected to indirect fire and sometimes direct attacks from the local indig. We employ many of them as contractors out of necessity, but I’ve got my concerns about them. I know you’re anxious to get cleaned up and grab a nap, but I’m going to insist that you have a force protection briefing first. Without direct combat experience, you’re at risk during the initial adjustment period.”
As he spoke, he picked at an imagined speck of mud from his uniform, his hand brushing the combat infantryman’s badge.
Bookbinder had been through this ritual before. One of us has seen action. We both know who that is. Bookbinder felt his face redden.
“Let’s get this out of the way,” Taylor continued. “You’re the highest-ranking officer we’ve had on post in . . . well, barring visits, since I got here. That could potentially cause some confusion for the troops. The smooth operation of this base is my responsibility, Colonel, and it’s of the utmost importance to me that nothing interfere with it, so I want this up front and understood—I command here. I will not have my orders questioned or countermanded in front of the men. I trust we’re not going to have any conflicts over that issue?”
Bookbinder suddenly felt very alone and very tired. The strangeness of his new surroundings and the sudden change in his life had left him disarmed for dealing with the kind of territorial challenges that were his stock–in–trade back in the Pentagon’s halls. He nodded.
