by Myke Cole
“Negative, Harlequin. We’re going to need all the bodies for our after-action,” came the commander’s voice.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Harlequin said, not sounding sorry at all. “Regs are clear. We’re to take custody of any Probe remains. If you have any objections, feel free to take it up the chain. For now, I have my orders.”
There was a pause. “Roger that,” the commander finally replied, sounding furious. “Element status?”
“SOC Element has one KIA,” Harlequin said. “Support Element has one WIA, and one busted chopper. You also might want to get the fire department up here before what’s left of your Kiowa gets cooked. They might still be able to save the school.”
Harlequin looked around at the rising flames. The fight had been finished quickly, but the flames were spreading in spite of the fire retardant soaking the roof. “Not to worry, sir,” he said, reaching for the girl, “the SOC bird will exfiltrate full element and get the wounded to the cash right away.”
Harlequin gathered the girl’s shrouded body in his arms. “I’ll meet you on the ground.” He leapt skyward.
They squeezed ten into a helicopter meant for six, stacking themselves in the open bay, Dawes resting on top. Britton shuddered at the cooked-meat stench. He was under my command. It’s my responsibility. Harlequin warned us to stay away. Why had he even bothered to come? He hadn’t been able to save either kid. It had been useless.
The Kiowa lumbered under the extra weight, circling the burning building and descending toward the Combat Support Hospital among the trailers.
“Fucking Elementalist,” the Pyromancer said. His uniform was perfect, not a strand of his jet-black hair out of place. There was no sign of the blaze that had raged over his body beyond a faint smell of smoke. “Fucking Probe.”
“She was just a kid,” Britton said.
“Then she should have turned herself in. She ran. She went Selfer.”
Britton shuddered as a he recalled the sound of that single gunshot. “Yeah, I just saw how you treat Probes when they’re subdued. Would it have been any different if she’d turned herself in?”
The Pyromancer looked at Britton as if noticing a bug. “With all due respect, sir.” He spit out the word. “Selfers like her hurt a hell of a lot more kids than we just did. She knew the law. She had a choice. She deserved what she got. She killed one of ours and hurt one of yours.”
“The boy hurt my man, not her. Jesus. Anyone can come up Latent at any time. It’s not like she chose this. But Harlequin still shot her in the head while she was lying helpless on the ground. What the hell is wrong with you people?”
The Pyromancer shrugged. “Rules of engagement. That’s lifeblood in this business. Maybe you should memorize them, seeing how it’s your job to carry them out.”
Britton didn’t want him to have the last word. “Still, those kids did pretty good, considering they haven’t had a day of training, and you do this for a living.”
He shrugged. “It’s easy to display great magical power when you’ve got no control, sir. But theatrics don’t win battles. Skill beats will, every time.”
The Combat Surgical Hospital, or “cash,” as the soldiers called it, was assembled in a trailer beside the high school. The firelight danced on its sheer white surface, washed red by the flashing sirens of the South Burlington Fire Department.
A crowd of protestors chanted outside the police cordon, too far for Britton to determine if it was anarchists, Christian conservatives, or environmentalists this time. He could see signs over the police cruisers. MAGIC = SATAN! PRESIDENT WALSH AND ZIONISTS TRAIN TROOPS IN FORBIDDEN SCHOOLS! CLOSE THE SECRET BASE! GOBLINS ARE REAL! WHY WON’T THE GOVERNMENT TELL THE TRUTH ABOUT MAGIC CREATURES?
An army nurse arrived from the Combat Surgical Hospital trailer with a gurney. Britton and Young hefted Dawes onto it, cringing as he cried out.
“What happened?” asked the nurse.
“Selfer Pyromancer cooked him,” Britton answered.
“It’s his lucky day,” the nurse said. “We’ve got SOC burn-trauma with us.” He motioned to a SOC captain emerging from the trailer. The captain ran his hands over Dawes’s wounds. Water droplets formed around him, misting the burned skin. The angry red color began to subside.
Dawes’s eyes opened, fixing on the Hydromancer’s lapel pin. “No!” he shrieked. “Don’t let him hurt me, sir!” he struggled against Young and Britton. “Don’t let him cast no spells on me, sir! I want a real doctor!”
The Hydromancer’s jaw tightened, but he continued to work. Puffs of steam carried the smell of cooked flesh into the air. “That’s all I can do without a Physiomancer, and we don’t have one detailed here. You have to take him inside.”
An orderly helped the nurse lift the gurney and race up the trailer steps, slamming through the door.
The Hydromancer turned to follow, but Britton caught his sleeve. “How’s he doing?”
He looked at Britton with the same contempt the Pyromancer had shown inside the helicopter. “Please, sir,” Britton said. “I can’t lose him.” I lost two kids already tonight.
The Hydromancer’s eyes softened. “The burns dried him dangerously. I moisturized the affected areas and was able to drop the temperature of the burned flesh a few layers down. That should give him a head start. But he’s still going to have to heal normally, and I don’t need to tell you how hard burns are to treat.”
He turned to go, but Britton held his sleeve. “Thanks, sir.”
The Hydromancer nodded and shook his arm free. “Let me get back in there, Lieutenant. Might be there’s more I can do for him after all.”
Britton turned back to his team, but Harlequin, back from dropping off the girl’s corpse, strode in front of them, blocking his view.
“How’s your boy?” the Aeromancer asked.
“He’ll be okay, sir.” Britton bit off the words, not trusting himself to speak.
“He’ll be better than okay, Lieutenant. He’s got a SOC burn-trauma expert on the case. He’s very lucky. Just like you were very lucky to have an Aeromancer between you and that elemental back there.”
Britton felt his temper rise, but his men were watching; it wouldn’t do any good to teach them to be proud. Harlequin was arrogant, but he was also right. The issue of the murder would be for a court-martial to decide.
“Yes, sir,” he said, trying not to sound bitter. “It’s much appreciated.”
“You can show your appreciation by writing the after-action report,” Harlequin said, handing him a packet of papers. “I’ve got to get with public affairs to deal with the press.”
It was too much. “Where do I fill in the information about you killing a helpless captive?”
Harlequin’s smile went vulpine. “Anywhere you damn well please. I can counter with a report of a Probe dealt with according to authorized ROE. I can also put you down for assaulting a superior officer and conduct unbecoming.”
Britton took a step forward, his chest touching Harlequin’s. “Go right ahead. Nothing will make me happier than to tell a court-martial the truth. You better put the rest of my men down while you’re at it, because they saw everything, too.”
“Not too bright, are you? You’ll get your day in court. But there isn’t one in all five armed services who is going to rule against a SOC officer for killing a Probe. You might as well campaign for cockroach rights, you damned idiot. She resisted. If she’d turned herself in, she’d still be alive.”
“As a Probe?”
Harlequin sighed and slammed the paperwork into Britton’s chest. “Just don’t forget; two Selfers employing Black Magic during a lawful SOC assault. They were given ample opportunity to surrender.”
“They were given thirty seconds. And I saw one Elementalist and one Pyromancer. Heck, you just told the TOC that only one was a confirmed Probe, and you only took one corpse.”
“It’s all Black Magic when they run, Lieutenant. You write that report any way you want, but I guarantee you that
public affairs will have a different perspective.”
“I’ll make copies. People will know what happened up there.”
“Yes, Lieutenant, they will. They also won’t give a damn. That’s because they, unlike you, know who the good guys are.”
Britton watched Harlequin’s departing back, biting back a retort. He turned to his team. “Dan, take the guys in there and get everyone checked out. I’ll report to the TOC and get started on this damned report. I’m going to write it as I saw it, no matter what that asshole says. I want to get everyone’s signature. No pressure, you only sign it if you agree.”
Cheatham nodded. “He’s right, sir. It won’t mean a damn thing, you know that.”
Britton shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Yes, Dan. I know that.”
“Dawes’ll be okay,” Cheatham said. “Hightide is the best burn-trauma specialist I’ve ever seen. He was out at our field cash in Baghdad before the pullout.”
“We both know Hightide’s only here in case one of their own gets zapped.”
Cheatham shrugged. “Same difference, sir.”
“If the SOC really wanted to help, they’d send a Physiomancer to fix his face. That’s going to be tough on him.”
“No doubt, but Physiomancers are a rare breed, sir. I haven’t seen a Healer on detail to the 158th in a dog’s age.”
“I’ll put in for him to get Physiomantic treatment later.”
Cheatham shook his head. “That’s a long line to wait on, sir.”
Britton knew Cheatham wasn’t kidding. Physiomancy was a rare talent. Britton shook his head, adrenaline giving way to helpless exhaustion. A girl’s murdered, and the world just keeps on turning, Britton thought. Dawes’s plight added to the load.
“I know you did your best up there, sir,” Cheatham said. “I’ve run with a lot of officers in my day, and even the best lose men sometimes. Dawes signed up for air assault, same as the rest of us. He knew the risks.”
Britton was silent. He knew the warrant officer was right, but it was too much just then.
“That girl, Dan,” he finally said. “I can’t believe that just happened.”
Cheatham nodded. “I know it’s rough, sir. I’m not saying it isn’t. But Probes are Probes, and the ROE’s clear. You know I’ve got your back, and I admire you for what you did and what you’re doing, but she was dead the moment she pulled our Kiowa down.
“That doesn’t mean he’s not an ass.” Cheatham jerked his thumb at Harlequin, standing beside the Kiowa and berating his assaulter, a Rump Latency whose magic had never Manifested powerfully enough to actually use. By law he still served in the Corps, but would never make Sorcerer, and instead toiled among the SOC’s cadre of gunslingers, administrators, and auxiliaries.
“Poor guy,” Britton said. “Shame he’s stuck working for a bastard like Harlequin. He’s got the infantryman’s job without the infantryman’s badge.”
“Or the infantryman’s brotherhood,” Cheatham said.
Britton nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right, Dan.”
“Course I am, sir, that’s why they assigned me to you. Somebody on the team has to know what the hell is going on.”
Britton nodded, trying to accept Cheatham’s attempt to cheer him and failing. “Well, let’s go show some of that brotherhood. I’m camping out by Dawes’s bed.”
Cheatham nodded. “And that means we all are.”
CHAPTER II: LOSS
…that’s crap! What choice do you really have if you don’t want to join the army? Life as a Suppressed Marine is scarcely better than a prison inmate, and the civilian monitoring program at NIH spawns pariahs — broke and ostracized. A choice between bad and worse is no choice at all!
— Loretta Kiwan, Vice President
Council on Latent-American Rights
Appearing on WorldSpan Networks Counterpoint
Dawes stabilized enough to be moved to the proper infirmary at the 158th Fighter Wing. The entire team wanted to join Britton in his vigil beside Dawes’s bed. He had to force them to stow their gear, shower, and change first. Britton skipped the shower and sat in his dirty flight suit, pistol still on his thigh, brooding, as Dawes stirred in drugged sleep.
He permitted himself the luxury of kicking off his boots as he reflected on the girl’s death, too rattled to concentrate on the after-action report. A newspaper lay on the stand beside his chair, the front page reading MESCALERO INSURGENCY FLARES. TWO SOLDIERS KILLED IN SELFER AMBUSH. The article featured a picture of an Apache Selfer, his long hair whipped by a summoned storm cloud. Lightning arced from his fingers.
He looked at the headline. They may send me there someday. How can I go after this?
Eventually, exhaustion overcame grief, and Britton’s head drooped to the windowsill. He was only dimly aware of Cheatham entering with a sleeping bag. “Sent the rest off to bed,” the warrant officer said. “No sense in all of us crowding in here.”
Britton mumbled thanks and drifted off to sleep.
A breeze washed over his face, and the low rumble of the salvage truck woke him. He opened his eyes, looking out the window to the flight line for his battered Kiowa, but there was no sign of the truck. His eyes swept over the digital billboard at the center of the tree-lined swath of lawn abutting the flight line. SOUTH BURLINGTON AIR NATIONAL GUARD, the sign read. 158TH FIGHTER WING. GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS. The readout reported 0200 hours and 33 degrees Fahrenheit. A narrow concrete path led toward a set of trailers. U.S. ARMY SUPERNATURAL OPERATIONS CORPS (SOC), the sign above them read, LIAISON OFFICE.
The rumble that wasn’t a truck engine and the breeze continued. Was Dawes snoring? Britton looked at the bed. Moonlight dusted through the window, outlining all in silver. Dawes slept; Cheatham was stretched in his sleeping bag on the floor.
The rumble pulsed. The gust of air hit him again, warm and foul.
Britton turned and stared into a black shape blocking the moonlight. Behind it, a vague rectangle hovered, its edges indistinct. Light wavered across its surface, dancing like television static. Through it he could see a vast plain, patchy with scrub grass.
Adrenaline bullied sleep aside. He jolted in his chair, and the black shape reared, snorting. Long horns corkscrewed toward him.
His mind recoiled, his skin going cold with shock. This can’t be real.
An instant later, his training bulled the shock aside. Later. Deal with the threat. Go.
He punched the creature hard on the snout, knuckles cracking against a plate of solid bone. The thing grunted and reeled away, stumbling into the corner. It vaguely resembled a bull, bunched shoulders hulking with muscle. Its slick hide shimmered and blended with the shadows, forcing Britton to squint to see it. Its broad snout snuffled, rumbling like the salvage truck.
He heard Cheatham shout, and called out “Give me a damn hand here!” as he pursued the thing, hammering it with his fists. It crouched, curling under the rain of blows. Reality shivered up his arm with each connecting punch. He wasn’t dreaming.
Cheatham rushed to his side, seizing one of the horns. The thing heaved, tossing its head and sending the warrant officer sprawling across Dawes, who awoke with a yell. It stormed toward the flickering portal, which snapped shut, vanishing and plunging the room into darkness.
The creature turned, blinking in confusion. It lowed, a throaty mix of a moo and a growl. Britton drew his pistol and thumbed off the safety as it lowered its head and charged.
He twisted, avoiding the horns and catching the bony plate of the creature’s forehead against his bruised ribs. They howled anew as the thing drove him to the floor. Britton couldn’t see Cheatham or Dawes, and, not wanting to risk shooting them, he pounded its head with the pistol butt, jarring uselessly against the hard bone. He pivoted on his hips, unable to throw the creature off. It drew back its head, jaws opening to reveal rows of dark teeth.
Britton saw Cheatham rising beside Dawes’s bed, well clear. He jammed the pistol into the thing’s mouth and pulled the trigg
er. Its head whipped back and it fell over on its side, vomiting black blood. It lashed its tufted tail, kicked outward, and went still.
He leapt to his feet, training his pistol on it. His vision grayed out, and he awakened to a sense of drowning. An invisible tide suffocated him with its intensity. He felt his veins bulge with the force of the flow, penetrating his muscles, trilling in his nerves, saturating the pores of his skin. His legs went weak, and Cheatham gripped his elbow.
“You okay?” Cheatham asked.
Britton closed his eyes and cursed, feeling the tide pulse through him. He recalled the videos the army had made him watch, films with titles like Basic Magical Indoctrination and Facing the Arcane. A drowning sensation was the first thing they stressed. Britton knew the invisible current he was feeling had a name.
Magic.
My God, he thought, that was my gate. I brought that thing here.
His stomach heaved. I’m Latent. This can’t be happening, not to me. Not now.
He made for the chair. Cheatham’s hand tightened on his elbow, holding him fast.
“Give me the gun, sir.” The warrant officer’s voice was hard.
A gate snapped open just below the ceiling, hovered for a moment, then disappeared. Britton’s shoulders spasmed as the current surged through him.
“It’s you, sir, isn’t it?” Cheatham asked.
Britton nodded. “I can’t control it. I feel sick…”
He heard shouting. People were coming.
“Just give me the gun, sir,” Cheatham said, “and I’ll help you sit down. You can rest for a minute, then we’ll go get Harlequin.”
Britton recoiled. “No, Dan! Portamancy’s a prohibited school! They’ll kill me!”
The door opened, and a sleepy-looking orderly in blue scrubs appeared. “What the hell’s…” He trailed off as he noticed the corpse that was not quite a bull, then fled.
“Jesus, sir,” Dawes said weakly from his bed, propped on his elbows. “You’re a fuckin’ Probe? Warrant Officer Cheatham, you gotta—”
