by Myke Cole
Stanley screamed weakly, beating uselessly against the bone spike that kept him pinned to the wall. Bookbinder gestured from the corner of Thorsson’s eye, pointing one hand toward the door and the other at the Physiomancer. Thorsson gasped as he felt his own tide flood back into him. The Sculptor snarled as his own form coalesced, retreating back into itself. The extra fist released his neck. The bone spike retreated, dropping Stanley Britton to the floor. His torso re–formed, the actual meat of him only grazed by Thorsson’s two shots. He launched himself forward, reaching for Thorsson, screaming to the guards outside.
“I’ve got him!” Bookbinder howled, tackling the Physiomancer sideways, driving him into the wall, just as the door flew open and the Suppressor came stumbling into the room, pistol drawn. Thorsson whirled, slamming the butt of his own weapon into the man’s face, feeling an eye squelch under the gun’s impact. The Suppressor began to howl, and Thorsson kicked him squarely in his chest, driving him back into the guards who now crowded the hallway outside, as he Drew his magic hard and stepped out after them. He could hear Bookbinder and the Physiomancer grappling behind him, cursing and punching, but he couldn’t deal with that now.
He stepped out into the hallway in time to see eight Marine guards coming at a run, leveling their rifles. The Suppressor knelt before them, hands clasped to his crushed eye, calling on them to shoot.
Men following orders, Thorsson thought. Just as I’ve always done.
He closed his eyes and Bound his magic to the air, agitating the molecules until they blazed, the hallway filling with sizzling lightning. Gunshots rang out and he waited for bullets to tear through him. He heard the crack of chipped masonry as they collided with the walls around him, felt the stirring of the air as they passed him. At last, the hallway fell silent and the stink of cooked meat and ozone reached him. He kept his eyes closed until he turned back into the cell. He opened them to see that the Sculptor, his magic restored by the Suppressor’s death, had sprouted eight additional limbs, crushing Bookbinder to him.
A bolt of lightning leapt from Thorsson’s hand, engulfing the Physiomancer’s head. The Sculptor went rigid, his head smoking, until the extra limbs went limp, and Bookbinder staggered backward, breathing hard.
“Jesus hopping Christ, what . . .” Bookbinder said, staring at the thing’s corpse, still now, the head burning brightly.
“No time,” Thorsson said. “Get Stanley and come on.”
Bookbinder nodded and yanked Stanley up to support him over his shoulder. The older man screamed as he came upright, blood pouring from the wound. “He’s going to bleed out. I’m not sure if it perforated his lung.”
“Nothing we can do now,” Thorsson said, stepping into the hallway. “Follow me . . . and . . . don’t look if you can avoid it.”
The hallway was a charnel house. Thorsson picked his way over the cooked bodies of the Marines, still smoking from the lightning storm’s aftermath. Servicemen. Just following regs.
Walsh’s words echoed in his mind. Sometimes being in charge requires you to make hard choices, and sometimes those choices cost lives. If you hesitate to make those calls, you can lose more lives than you save. FOB Frontier was an entire division.
He heard Bookbinder catch his breath as he came out into the hallway, and they made their way farther down the corridor, past a stenciled sign on the wall reading prisoners 2 and 3. The second cell was unguarded, but the third had a Suppressor crouched in front of it, back flat against the door. “Don’t, sir,” the young man begged Thorsson. “If you let him go . . .”
“You can Suppress him or you can Suppress me,” Thorsson said without breaking stride. “The difference is that I’ll give you five minutes to get topside and start running. Make the call, Lieutenant.”
The Suppressor didn’t hesitate, bolting past Thorsson, picking his way past the bodies and jumping into the elevator.
“I figure we’ve got about two minutes,” Thorsson said as he turned back to the door. “Now, I’ve just got to figure out a way to get this open and . . .”
A blazing rectangle of shimmering light sliced through the door’s right edge, sliding up and around until it had neatly carved it off its hinges. The block of metal stood for a moment before slowly drifting forward to slam on the floor with a boom that echoed down the length of the hallway.
“Well,” Thorsson said, “that solves that problem.”
Oscar Britton stood in the doorway in the same orange jumpsuit.
His eyes drifted immediately over Thorsson’s shoulder to his father, pale and sweating, suspended between Bookbinder and his own hand on the corridor wall. “Dad?” Britton whispered.
“Dad!”
He raced to the man’s side.
“Oscar . . .” Stanley said. “Did you . . .” he began, then his speech faltered, and he slumped, caught by his son before he could hit the floor.
“What’s going on?” Britton looked over his father’s shoulder.
“We’ve got to get him to a doctor!”
“We’ve got about a minute before the whole US military comes pouring out of that elevator, Oscar,” Thorsson said. “You need to get us out of here now, or we’re all dead. I can explain everything once we’re safe.”
Britton hesitated, staring.
The elevator chimed down the hallway’s length.
“Thirty seconds, Oscar.” Thorsson said. “I’m not Suppressing you. If you want to run, I won’t stop you. But there’re a lot of soldiers who will die if you don’t help.”
Britton nodded, and a gate slid open behind Bookbinder. The colonel spun and gasped.
“Go!” Thorsson said, pushing the man through, then gesturing to Britton to follow along with his father.
The elevator chimed again, the doors sliding open. Thorsson saw men with guns begin to pour into the hallway as he stepped through the gate himself, gesturing to Britton to shut it behind them.
They stumbled into a clearing at the center of what looked like the set from a Renaissance faire. The clearing was dotted with earthen huts and surrounded by hand-built structures, rammed earth for the most part, with thatched roofs. Packed-dirt paths intersected them, dotted with herb gardens. A low wooden palisade wall was visible in the distance. A pool of clear water snaked its way across one side of the clearing, and a large central fire pit dominated the middle.
All around them, goblins were stopping in stunned amazement, leaping backward from the gate suddenly standing in their midst. A few leveled spears, the majority simply stood, openmouthed.
A few of them took off running, shouting and waving their arms.
Britton closed the gate and opened it again, this time on the bowl of rose moss in the Vermont forest where he’d hidden before. “Be ready to move,” he said. “I’m not sure what kind of welcome we can expect.”
The goblins began to chatter at him, clustering forward.
Thorsson saw one white-painted sorcerer among them, felt the eddying of magical currents farther out, but none moved to Suppress them. The faces around them were open.
“Oscar,” Thorsson said. “What the hell did you take us here for? We don’t have time to—”
Britton cut him off with a wave of his hand. He gently laid his father on the ground. “He needs help, and he needs it now. I’m not doing a damn thing for you until he gets it.”
A moment later, a large cluster of goblins arrived and began pushing their way to the front of the throng of the creatures that was gathering around them. Several warriors mounted on wolves led them, waving scavenged carbines or spears to clear the onlookers out of the way. Behind them, Thorsson could see the white-painted heads of a group of their sorcerers. In the midst of them was a solitary figure, his dotted scalp marking him as their Hepta-Bak, their prince and leader.
Thorsson Drew his magic and took a step back, letting lightning sizzle along his clenched fists.
Bookbinder marked the move. “Should we be worried here?”
“We’ll know in about three se
conds,” Britton said, moving closer to the gate. “Just be ready to move through there if . . .”
And then his face melted into a smile.
The crowd parted, revealing the goblin contractor that Thorsson knew used to drink with Shadow Coven in the Cash. The tiny creature looked positively regal now, wearing a fur-trimmed cloak and carrying a short spear. His head and face were covered with patterns of swirling white dots.
“Marty!” Britton shouted. “Man, it’s good to see you.”
The goblin smiled and came forward. “Uskar,” he said. “I think you die.”
“So did I,” came a woman’s voice. The Physiomancer Therese Del Aqua stood at the goblin’s side. Her hair had been combed into haphazard braids adorned with leather thongs that suspended feathers and beads. She wore a leather dress in goblin fashion. Beside her came that damned Swift, the head of the No–No Crew. He saw the last remnant of Shadow Coven, Simon Truelove. One side of the Necromancer’s body was painted white, and he was robed in leather sewn with bronze discs like an indig.
Therese started forward, arms outstretched. “We thought you were dead, Oscar. We thought we were trapped here, and you were dead.”
Britton permitted her the briefest embrace. He spoke quickly, pushing through a throat choked with emotion. “I thought I’d never see you again, either.” He pushed away from her with an effort. “But I need your help. This is my dad. He’s hurt bad, please.”
Therese leaned over Stanley, Thorsson could feel her magic Drawing hard, Binding into the wounds. Truelove came along beside her, grabbing Britton’s hand and pumping it, grinning like a fool, speaking so quickly that Thorsson could barely follow him. “I can’t believe you’re alive! Marty took us in. There was some trouble at first, but he handled it. We thought we were stuck here forever.” He paused. “Where’s Sarah? What happened to her?”
Britton sighed. “I’m sorry, Simon. She stayed. It was her call, and she made it.”
She’s detained, being questioned. Even I couldn’t get to see her, Thorsson thought. They didn’t trust her, either.
Swift smiled at the sight of Britton. Then his eyes swept over Harlequin, and he snarled, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Thorsson remembered their last encounter and Suppressed his flow, drawing his pistol and sighting down it at the Aeromancer’s scarred forehead. “Don’t,” he said. “There’s no fucking time.”
The goblins raced to Swift’s side, leveling spears and shouting at Thorsson.
“Everyone settle down!” Bookbinder called out. “I’m Colonel Alan Bookbinder, commander of FOB Frontier. We need your help.”
Stanley was sitting up, patting Therese’s hand, thanking her in a brittle voice.
“It’s okay,” Britton said. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but these men just broke me out of prison. How the hell did you find my father? Dad, I thought . . . I thought you were dead.”
“Later,” Bookbinder said. “The FOB is completely cut off. We’re late to get help to them as it is. All those people are going to die when it’s overrun. There’s only one way to get them out of there, and I’m afraid you’re it. We can deal with everything once they’re safe, but we need to do something now. Like, right now.”
Britton cursed, turning in a tight circle, hands on his hips.
“Come on, Oscar!” Stanley called to him, also standing.
“Oh, you’re one to fucking talk,” Britton yelled back at him, tears in his eyes. “After everything, you show up at my cell door needing help? And now you want me to work for the army again?”
“We’ve got some talking to do,” Stanley said, “but there’s no time for it now. For now you need to know that the reason we never got along is that I taught you too damned well. You knew how to make the right call even when I forgot.
“Well, you know what the right call is here. You have to help them, Oscar. No son of mine would turn his back on so many people in need, no matter what they’d done to him. The army may have turned you out, but you’re still an officer in your bones. The Brittons have been officers for five generations. That never changes no matter what the army says.”
Oscar Britton swallowed and looked away. “No time, Oscar,” Harlequin said. “We need to go right now. Take us to the FOB.”
Britton hesitated. Stanley put his hands on his hips. “Damn it, Oscar! I didn’t just spend I don’t know how long clawing a life out of this fucking wilderness to come back here and watch you walk out on your countrymen! Now you cowboy up and do the right thing!”
Britton looked from his father to Thorsson and shook his head. “Looks like Dudley Do–Right went rogue. How does it feel to be a fugitive from your government, Harlequin?”
“I’m doing the right thing,” Thorsson answered, “so I’d say it feels just fine. I’m guessing you felt the same way when you got out of the FOB.”
Britton nodded. “I did.”
“Well, we’ll talk about that. But for now, we need to get to that FOB.”
“We’re not finished!” Swift shouted, stepping around the earthen wall. “We’ve got business!”
“No, you don’t,” Britton shouted at him. “Right now, the only business is saving that base.”
He turned toward Swift again but was intercepted by Therese, who dragged him into another embrace, clutching him tightly.
“Oh, God, Oscar. I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead, and I wasn’t going to get a chance to . . .”
Britton allowed himself to bury his face in her hair for a moment. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay. We’ll . . . we’ll . . .”
An obvious cough from Bookbinder brought him back to himself. He stepped away from her with a will. “Later,” he said.
It’s always later.
“Can you convince some of these indig to help?” Bookbinder asked.
“Let’s see what we’re up against first.” Britton said, opening a gate. “We’ll have to head back to the Home Plane first. These things only work between worlds.”
“Fuck you.” Swift took a tentative step forward, then checked himself as Thorsson raised his pistol again. “We’re not helping you.”
“I am,” Therese said.
“Thank you,” Bookbinder breathed.
Britton shook his head. “I’ve dragged you around enough. I thought I’d lost you all back there in New York. I’m not gating you into a potential war zone without a look-see first. Stay here. I’ll be back when I know what the story is.”
“I’ll talk to Marty,” Therese said. “I’ll tell them to be ready if you need us.”
“Will they help?” Bookbinder asked.
Therese nodded. “It’s their religion. They have a commandment to keep you safe. They’re already skirmishing with the Prendehad Defender clans on a daily basis.”
Bookbinder looked incredulous.
“She’s right,” Truelove said. “I’ve been learning about their religion. They don’t get many Necromancers out here, so . . .”
Britton silenced him with a wave. “You can tell me after. For now, let’s go. Everybody stays here. Dad, you too.”
Stanley Britton laughed over the chorus of protests. “The hell I will. I’ve been fighting to get back to you for months. I’m not letting you out of my sight until we put paid to this mess and go find your mother.”
Britton shook his head. “No, Dad. Christ, I thought I’d killed you once. I’m not going through that again. I promise you, we’ll be back. Just sit tight. Can you just listen to me this once?”
Stanley made to argue, but Thorsson waved him down. “No time, damn it!”
Swift’s eyes never left Harlequin, but he stayed put as Britton rolled open another gate, stepped through, and looked around. “Okay,” he said. “It’s clear. Follow me through, and we’ll gate to the FOB from there.”
“Be ready,” Bookbinder cautioned them. “We have no idea what we’re walking into.”
Chapter XXVII
Relief
Sir, our presence in the Source is absolutely vital to continued combat overmatch capabilities in the arcane domain. Every day the special projects activity at FOB Frontier is in operation, we make leaps forward. We are discovering entirely new schools of magic. We are learning how to adapt the flora and fauna of that plane to augment systems in every arena, from medical to offense to logistics. The FOB’s existence is a boost to our military capabilities far beyond any technological breakthrough in history. It is critical to this nation’s continued security to expand the base, and ensure our adversaries do not gain a similar foothold.
—Lieutenant General Alexander Gatanas
Commandant, Supernatural Operations Corps
Briefing to the Senate Appropriations Committee (Special Session)
The FOB’s main plaza was unrecognizable. The MWR and DFAC tents were gone, the entire space given over to a vast Terramantic garden. Rows of fat fruits and vegetables trotted out in all directions, basking in magically warmed air. Bookbinder counted at least five cisterns bubbling freshwater in just the first sweep of his eyes across the ground before him.
Gunfire rattled faintly in the distance, followed by the crackle-boom of magical lightning. Bookbinder didn’t hear any air traffic, which was unusual when the enemy was on them.
They must be running seriously low on fuel. Or aircraft. A few soldiers gaped as they stepped through the gate, first raising weapons, then lowering them at the sight of Bookbinder.
“Sir!” said an air force tech sergeant, trotting toward them.
Bookbinder’s gut twisted at the man’s appearance. He was unshaven, sunken-eyed, and filthy. “We thought that . . .”
Bookbinder stopped him with a wave. “I’m fine. We’re bringing help. What’s the SITREP?”
“We’re in a bad way, sir. Pretty much out of ammo and medical supplies. We ran out of food ages ago.” He gestured at the gardens around them. “We just regrew this last night. They burn it up pretty much every time they come. It’s touch-and–go, sir.”
