by Myke Cole
“How are you feeling?” Harlequin asked, handing him a water bottle. “Sorry about the dry mouth. Unfortunate side effect.”
Britton reached out for the magical current instinctively, already knowing the result — blocked by another flow. He slewed his head drunkenly to the left and saw a SOC Suppressor, his lapel pin featuring their badge of the armored fist clutching a cluster of lightning bolts. The man waved and smiled.
Britton tried to drink, coughing and dribbling water down his chin.
“Go easy,” Harlequin said. “Your head will clear, but it takes a little time.”
He was already feeling a little more clearheaded, but the words still came through a fog. He raised a hand and found he wasn’t cuffed. He was wearing a one-piece orange jumpsuit, his feet chilly in white tube socks. His skin was pristine, as if the events of the previous days had never occurred. He rolled his shoulders experimentally. The joints slid seamlessly against one another. There was no pain at all. Apart from the fog and the dull throb in his head, he was whole.
“Where are you taking me?” he croaked.
“That depends on you,” Harlequin said. “You have some choices to make, and you have to make them right now.”
Britton leaned back, closed his eyes, and gulped more water until the spinning eased. When he opened them again, the Physiomancer regarded him evenly. Her shaved head and square jaw spoiled what otherwise would have been a very pretty face.
“You fix me up?” he asked her.
“You’re lucky that gun was loaded with shot,” the woman said, her voice low and sweet. “If he’d loaded slugs, you’d probably have died before I got to you. I’m sure it hurt plenty, but it would have taken you a long time to bleed out. You’re young, and your flesh responded well to magic. You’re good as new.”
“A Physiomancer,” Britton said to Harlequin. “For me? I must be more important than I thought.”
Harlequin smiled and leaned forward, holding up a small metal cylinder, scarcely bigger than an eraser’s head. A light pulsed within. “Captain Bloodbreaker did more than heal you, Oscar. She inserted this device right next to the pulmonary valve of your heart. It’s an ATTD — Asset Tracking and Termination Device. It tells us where you are. It also doubles as a bomb. We’ll always be able to find you. We can always take you out on either side of a gate. The captain here is one of our best Physiomancers, but even with her skill, the procedure would have been extremely painful, far beyond what your actual wounds were causing you. Much better for you to be out during the process.”
Britton could almost feel the tiny metal ball embedded in his heart. His mind reeled, working backward over the successive explosions of the past few hours, dispersing the remaining effects of the drug.
“Why did you save me?” Britton asked. “I ran. I’m a Probe. I’ve attacked government agents. Per ROE, I should be dead. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You kill Probes.”
Harlequin shrugged. “Sometimes. I’ve killed a lot of people, Oscar. I sleep like a baby. Do you know why?”
Britton didn’t answer.
“I sleep at night because, unlike you, every life I take is authorized,” Harlequin continued. “There are some people who weren’t killed to protect anyone. Their deaths weren’t justified by any ordinance, civil or military. Those people include your father and a Shelburne sheriff’s deputy. You know what crime that deputy committed, Oscar? He did his job. Your father was just trying to protect his wife.”
“I’m not going to explain myself to you,” Britton rasped. “You use stupid and arbitrary rules as an excuse to kill people. You may sleep easy at night, but it’s not because what you do is right. Charlie Manson slept well at night. So did Hitler. Right and wrong aren’t about laws.”
Harlequin grinned. “That may work for you smart guys. Now, me? I’m just a dumb-ass public servant. I’m like Adam before he bit the apple. I don’t know right from wrong. Left to my own devices, I might do some very bad things. But God in his wisdom gave us the Constitution and qualified men and women who we elect to interpret it. To this he added the Uniform Code of Military Justice and the New Testament. Between those, I’m able to muddle by without making too much of a mess of things. But I must say, Oscar, I envy you the brilliance that allows a man to make those calls for himself.”
Britton read the surety on Harlequin’s face. “Get me my JAG. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
Harlequin shook his head, chuckling. “Those aren’t the rules, Oscar! You don’t get a damned lawyer! You sure as hell don’t get a trial.” He raised a hand, ticking off on his fingers. “You Manifested in a prohibited school. You ran. You employed your illicit power to bring about the death or wounding of at least one civilian and two police officers. Rare and valuable school or no, I have the authority to execute you right here and now.”
“So?” Britton said. “Shoot me like you shot that Probe girl on the roof of that school. ROE is clear, you said. Probes who attack government agents are dog food.”
“Well, that’s the rub, isn’t it,” the Aeromancer said, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. “What you don’t realize is that I don’t enjoy killing people, Oscar. Despite this bad turn, you used to be a good soldier. Your team spoke highly of you. Your warrant officer practically begged me not to hurt you. He said you loved being in the military.”
“I did,” Britton said. “The army was my home.”
He thought of the house with the poorly mended screening. Homes don’t last long for you, do they?
“Well, there’s good news and bad news about that,” Harlequin went on. “First, the bad news.”
He handed Britton discharge papers.
“You were court-martialed in absentia,” Harlequin said. “It’s a shame you weren’t there to make the same speech about the difference between laws and morals that you just made to me. Perhaps you could have swayed the presiding authority. But this came down from the president himself. Your commission has been rescinded. The court-martial also found you guilty of unauthorized magical use, gross insubordination, and murder. You’ve been sentenced to death.”
“And yet here I am, alive,” Britton said.
“And kicking!” Harlequin agreed. “That’s because the SOC commandant agrees with my assessment of your past record.”
“Which is where I come in, Oscar,” said the Asian man, moving to Britton’s side. He placed a leather briefcase across his knees, popping open the brass catches. “I’m Howard Kwan, with the Office of General Counsel.
“The president is inclined to agree with the SOC commandant. He doesn’t want to see an ability as precious as yours lost to lethal injection. He’s authorized me to give you this.”
He handed Britton another document. Gold-embossed letters read GRANTING CONDITIONAL PARDON TO OSCAR BRITTON — BY THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. A PROCLAMATION, across the top.
“Conditional?” Britton asked. “These things come with conditions?”
The Asian man nodded. “In rare instances, yes.”
“Let me guess,” Britton said. “My condition is that I join the SOC.”
Harlequin recoiled. “Hell no, Oscar! You’ve been dismissed by the president and convicted by court-martial! You can never serve in the armed forces again. You can’t even hold a position of public trust, which means you can’t be hired as a government civilian.”
“So…what do you expect me to do?” Britton asked.
Kwan smiled and produced a glossy-faced white folder from his briefcase, stuffed with papers. “I’ve discussed your case with one of our top vendors. The Entertech Corporation has been one of our leading providers of technology and manpower solutions for over twenty-five years. You’ll find a conditional offer of employment in the packet.”
Britton almost burst out laughing. “You want me to become a government contractor?”
Kwan’s face was completely serious. “That’s right, Oscar. Your acceptance of Entertech’s offer and the associated
conditions satisfies the terms of your pardon. Your sentence will be commuted. You will be permitted to return to the service of your country and repay the debt to society that your crimes have incurred. It’s a win-win solution for everyone.”
“Conditional pardon, conditional job offer. Everything comes with a catch,” Britton said.
“Naturally.” Kwan smiled. “The catch in this case is just a simple nondisclosure agreement. Of course, since you’re a criminal, even one with a commuted sentence, you can’t hold a security clearance. However, Entertech is going to share proprietary information with you that’s confidential to their business enterprise.”
“Meaning,” Britton said, “I don’t talk about whatever I see.”
“Exactly,” Kwan agreed. “If you do, you negate the pardon, and your sentence is reinstated.” Kwan passed Britton yet another document.
“This is binding for ninety-nine years!” Britton exclaimed. “What if I refuse?”
“Then I have the authority to pop that cork in your chest right now,” Harlequin said. “We’ll turn your body over to our medical research facility to see if they can learn anything from your tissues. Either way, you help us.”
“Bull,” Britton said. “You’re not going to kill me. The commandant himself just told you that my ability is too rare and precious to lose. You put expensive hardware in my chest to keep me in line. You got one of your best Healers out here to fix me up. You don’t invest that heavily in someone you’re intending to fry.”
Harlequin leaned in, his face hard. “Try me. I’m begging you, Oscar. I follow the regs, but that doesn’t mean I won’t take some personal satisfaction in zapping a guy who killed his own dad. Please, try me.”
He waved to the blonde behind the computer bank. She nodded, flipped a plastic cover off a switch, and looked at Harlequin, her finger hovering over it.
Britton tried to fathom the depth of the bluff. The Aeromancer’s eyes were blue ice. Britton looked down at the sheaf of papers.
“How much do I make?” Britton asked, trying to buy time to think.
“The company is offering you eighty-five dollars an hour,” Kwan answered, “to be garnished one hundred percent toward the fine of $250 million levied against you at your sentencing.”
“What happens if they fire me?” Britton asked.
“Boom.” Harlequin smiled.
“So, I’m a slave,” Britton said.
“You’re alive, Oscar,” Kwan said. “Slaves don’t get choices.”
“I wouldn’t call do-this-or-die a choice,” Britton said.
Kwan only shrugged.
Britton’s mind spun. The trailer’s air-conditioned interior felt thick and close. Did he really have anything to live for? His home in the 158th was as lost to him as his home in Shelburne.
Why go on? Because he did not deserve to die. Britton reminded himself of the internal conversation he’d had beside the stolen police car. Just because they have power and authority, doesn’t mean they’re right. They don’t get to kill you. Not without your fighting them every inch of the way.
He could run anytime he wanted. Dying on his feet would beat the hell out of having his heart burst in the back of a stuffy truck.
“Anybody got a pen?” Britton asked.
Kwan produced a slim gold pen from his coat pocket. Britton took the pen, swallowed, and signed.
And signed.
And signed.
By the time he had signed all the documents in all the places that Kwan indicated, his wrist was cramping.
Kwan shook Britton’s hand. “On behalf of Entertech, welcome aboard.”
Britton turned back to Harlequin. “What happens to Mom?”
“Desda Britton will be well cared for,” Harlequin answered. “We have some questions for her about her son’s proclivities and upbringing, but I’m sure she’ll be more than cooperative once she’s recovered from the nasty shock you gave her.”
“You fucker. If you do anything to her…”
Harlequin dismissed him with a wave. “Whatever, Oscar. You stormed into her house and killed her husband. Something tells me that you’re probably not the best advocate for her interests just now. She’ll come to no harm. I’ve seen more than enough folks suffer over you.”
“What are you going to do to her?” Britton asked.
“Nothing,” Harlequin said. “We’ll just keep an eye on her. Should anything go south with the deal you’ve just struck with ol’ uncle sugar, we might need to call her in for additional questioning, and perhaps for her own safety. You with me?”
Harlequin let the threat hang in the air. Oh, I’m with you, Britton thought, but only so long as I have to be and not one second longer.
CHAPTER X: PACK OUT
Zazen is critical to training. Only when you center yourself and place your spirit in balance, will you be able to call the elements to your hand. The Kensei told us that the way is in training. This is as true for the Shukenja as it is for the Senshi.
— Japanese Self-Defense Forces Instruction Manual 4.677
Shukenja Corps Policy and Procedure
The vehicle shuddered to a stop amid the hiss of the air brakes. The doors slid open, and two soldiers lowered a collapsible stair. Kwan hefted his briefcase and exited without another word.
“Time to start your new career,” said Harlequin, motioning Britton to the exit.
Thousands of brilliant stars winked at him from the cold night sky, outlining the tops of pine trees and a stretch of gravel road. Farther on, a Little Bird helicopter stood, rotors spinning up.
Britton accompanied Harlequin, the Suppressor, and one assaulter onto the bird. Kwan was already on board. They strapped in, and Harlequin held out the hood again. “Last time you’ll have to wear it. I promise.”
Britton shrugged and slipped it on himself as the helicopter lifted off.
He had no way to track how long they flew, but it felt like hours. Only the roar of the engine and the occasional unintelligible burst of static talk from the radio broke the quiet. The air intakes mere feet from his head drowned the pilots’ replies.
At long last, he felt the helicopter descend. Harlequin removed the hood, ushering Britton outside.
The rotors washed dust over him as the helo pulled skyward the instant its passengers had off-loaded. The dust gradually cleared, and Britton was able to make out a clearing.
The stars outlined a ring of tall trees enclosing three odd-looking tobacco barns. He thought of Nelson’s farm and gritted his teeth.
Apart from two run-down pickups, the space was bare. Two rifle-toting men leaned against the back of one of them. They were dressed to match the stereotype of New England farmers — denim overalls and flannel shirts, worn baseball caps with frayed brims; but their eyes were alert, veteran. They roved — lighting on Britton and moving on, searching for threats. Their guns were pointing at the ground in military fashion instead of slung over their shoulders. The huge scopes and black plastic stocks didn’t look like any hunting weapons he’d ever seen. A vigilant-looking German shepherd stood beside them, growling softly in the back of its throat.
Starlight bleached the area of color, cloaking all in gray shadow, but Britton could still make out the rough surface of the louvered clapboard slats, pulled shut against the cold night. It took him a moment to realize what was odd about the barns. The peaked roofs reared up past the treetops. Their length stretched out past his vision. He was no farm boy, but he’d been in rural Vermont long enough to know that no barn should be that big.
Harlequin led him to the first barn as a diamond-tipped breeze drilled between his shoulder blades. The Aeromancer flipped open a panel, produced a badge from his breast pocket, and swiped it, punching numbers into a keypad. A beep was followed by a click and a hiss of air.
The barn doors silently swung inward, then shut behind them, leaving them in darkness before harsh fluorescent lights flickered on. They stood in a featureless white room. Twin gray metal doors stood before the
m. Harlequin placed his hand on the knob, waiting a moment before another click sounded, and the doors swung open.
They entered a cavernous room humming with activity, lit by fluorescent globes suspended from the ceiling. The far end was taken up by rows of bunks and lockers and had an enclosed shower. A small kitchenette stood beside a lounge, dominated by a flat-screen TV. Soldiers relaxed on couches before it, playing video games and napping.
Two giant flags hung from the ceiling — The Stars and Stripes and the SOC arms, fringed in gold thread. Stitched across the Stars and Stripes were the words PORTCULLIS — US ARMY LOGISTICAL STAGING AREA. A desk stood beside the door, covered by computers and manned by a soldier who could have been the twin of the blonde Britton had seen in the vehicle in which he’d awoken.
“Hi, sir,” she said.
“Specialist,” Harlequin replied crisply. “Would you mind buzzing Don over here, please? We’ve got to get our guest here prepped and moved on.”
“Sir,” she said, picking up a black handheld radio from the desk and pushing the button on the side.
A moment later, a door at the far side of the structure opened and a smiling young man carrying a clipboard jogged over to them. He wore khaki cargo pants bloused into combat boots with a military web belt. A black compression shirt sported the Entertech logo with the words LOGISTICS OFFICER beneath.
“Oscar Britton, right?” he said, extending a hand and putting on one of the most corporately insincere smiles Britton had ever seen. “I’m Don, the logs officer here at LSA Portcullis. I’m also the admin officer for any Entertech internal matters. But I assume human resources has taken good care of you, and you’re ready to go, right?”
He clapped Britton on the shoulder, grinning. Britton looked back at him in silence.
“Don, if you’d dispense with the formalities, I’d appreciate it,” Harlequin said. “I need him to make a written statement, then the brass wants him suited up and off the Home Plane ASAP.”
