by Myke Cole
“Lost good. They Sorrahhad,” Marty repeated, nodding. “They Heptahad On Dephapdt. They say you lost bad. They fight. Bad. You okay.”
“Marty, that’s not the point!” Britton said.
“What’s not the point?” Fitzy swayed in the doorway. In all their time at the FOB, they had never seen him there. Nor had they ever seen him drunk. Their instructor stank of whiskey, the fumes reaching them where they sat. His face twisted in rage, eyes swimming.
A SOC captain with confident eyes, young and trim, rose from one of the tables, walking carefully toward him, Britton could see the flash of his lapel pin, the Aeromancer’s blowing wind. “Chief warrant officer,” he said, “these premises are off-limits to warrants.”
Fitzy ignored him, jabbing a finger at Marty. “I thought I told you not to hang out with that little shit. Why can’t you just follow orders, damn it?”
“You’re not setting much of an example yourself,” the Aeromancer said, putting his hand on Fitzy’s shoulder. “Civilian contractors can drink here, but you can’t. Besides, you look like you’ve had enough already. Why don’t we get you outside, and some fresh air will…”
Fitzy brought a knee up into the man’s crotch with explosive force. The captain doubled over in time to catch Fitzy’s fist in his stomach. He collapsed on the floor, and Fitzy stepped over him. The other officers sat at their tables, looking down, up, anywhere but at Fitzy’s eyes, roving the room in search of another challenge.
Fitzy turned back to Britton, pointing. “Get him the hell out of here. I see you talking with him, I swear to God you’re both meat, starting with him.”
“It’s okay, sir,” Truelove began, “we were just…”
“Nobody’s talking to you, needledick,” Fitzy spit, his eyes never leaving Britton’s.
“Come on, Marty,” Britton said, easing the Goblin off the chair. He took the creature’s hand and began circling around Fitzy, moving toward the exit. Downer began chattering at him, but Britton missed her words, focusing on the door. Fitzy shouted something at her and turned just as Britton reached the exit.
“Where the hell are you going?” he shrieked.
“Following your orders, sir. Getting him out of here,” Britton said, and left, moving quickly.
He heard the door slam, then spring open again as Fitzy shuffled out after him, yelling at him to stop.
Britton picked up speed, half dragging the Goblin down the track toward the cash. The mud sucked at his boots, but Marty’s long, three-toed feet spanned the surface as easily as snowshoes.
“Stop!” Marty said. “He anger! I go! No problem, okay!”
“No, Marty,” Britton replied through clenched teeth. “I am not leaving you alone in the dark with him. Not like this. He’ll kill you. Once we’re back to the cash, we’ll be fine.”
Marty was silent as Britton dragged him along, Fitzy lurching behind, too drunk to catch up to them but too fit and fast for them to lose him, shouting obscenities in their wake.
Marty jerked his hand free, but matched Britton’s pace as they trudged the rest of the way, and the lights of the giant hospital tent began gleaming in the distance.
Britton stopped short. Marty kept up the pace, rushing forward and moving into the light of the tent, mixing with the crowd of orderlies, nurses, and medics who made the place a hive of activity day and night.
Britton turned as the Goblin shot him a thankful glance and disappeared inside. He suppressed the urge to run off on his own, even when the sloshing of boots and whiskey stink announced Fitzy’s arrival.
“Where the hell did that rat get off to?” the chief warrant officer whispered in Britton’s ear.
“He’s gone, sir.”
“You’re going to learn to obey orders, Keystone,” Fitzy slurred. “God as my witness, I will make you. You’ve got potential, but it only counts if you play on the team.”
And that’s what it comes down to, Britton thought as he faced off against the chief warrant officer. No matter what good you do, no matter how much your magic affects the world, you will still belong to them. This drunken, teetering madman who treats Marty like dirt will be your boss until he’s replaced by someone worse.
Because Fitzy spelled it out for you. You’re not one of them, and you’ll never be. You’re a weapon, Oscar Britton. You’re a tool. This Coven may be becoming your family, but you’re all just tools together, all pretending that you are loved by an organization that only seeks to own you.
He remembered the report on Scylla. They’d gladly cut into her brain, destroy her mind. Was that what had happened to Billy? Was that why he shook and drooled under his mother’s arms? Was that what they would do to Britton if they decided that the tool was more trouble than it was worth?
These people can never be your family. This place can never be your home.
As if to accentuate the point, Fitzy tapped Britton’s chest. “Push it too far, Keystone, and we can always give you a little reminder, the last one you’ll ever need.”
And that’s why you have the ATTD. That’s why they’ll never take it out, no matter how loyal you become. Why earn your respect when they can own you outright?
You’re no different than precision munitions or a fighter jet. You’re an expensive toy, nothing more. You may have gained some skill at using magic, but it’s not yours. You can still only do what they want you to when they want you to.
Deep in his heart, he rebelled against the growing kernel of feeling that maybe Scylla was right.
CHAPTER XXVI: DECISIONS
Everybody knew she was Latent. That whole sudden, perfect storm thing at the video music awards? I mean, come on, man. A lot of people thought it was CGI, but not the folks who were there live. There’s no way to fake weather on that grand a scale. Of course the SOC knew. But did they do anything about it? Hell, no. There’s always been two sets of laws in this country — a set for regular folks and a set for the elite. Report your Latency or die. Unless you’re a senator’s kid, a famous actress, or an NBA superstar. In that case, we can work with you.
— Artie Welch, Friday Morning Krazytalk 98.2 FM
If Fitzy remembered the night’s altercation, he gave no sign. But starting the next morning, the tempo of their training increased.
“It’s time you stopped being useless,” Fitzy growled at them, as they gathered in the practice yard where they’d first tested out. “You’re going to be operating against Selfers, and Selfers use magic. You’re soldiers…or as close as bloodsucking contactors can get to it. That’s given you a range of skills in firearms, combat-casualty care, hand-to-hand combat, wilderness survival, not to mention the courage, leadership, and discipline necessary to get tough jobs done. Why, I’d hazard to say that even without your magic, you’d be a force to be reckoned with.
“The Selfer has none of these traits. All he has is magic. Take that away from him, and you have a frightened child, helpless and ripe for the righteous punishment that you will mete out on behalf of the government of the United States and God Almighty upon whom our sovereignty depends.
“And that’s what we’re going to teach you now. How to take that magic away.”
Fitzy tapped the armored fist on his chest. “Suppression is a highly sophisticated art. It is an act of intricate skill rather than power. This is why Rump Latents like me wind up assigned to it so frequently. If you can learn the knack, and I assure you that you can and will, you can interdict anyone’s magical capability.
“And that’s the thing, isn’t it?” he asked, coming closer to Britton. “We all know that my magic is ten times weaker than yours. But with proper training, that’s just fine.”
As he spoke, three nervous-looking Novices filed into the compound. All three were male, broad-shouldered, and tall.
“SAOLCC has seen fit to tap Cepheus and Camelopardalis Covens to loan us some Terramancers,” Fitzy said. “These men were chosen because of their facility with nonsentient automatons, what we affectionately call ‘tar babi
es.’ ” As he spoke, the men spread their arms, and the soil before them bubbled upward until roughly man-shaped piles of earth swayed before them, chips of rock sparkling from within.
“You may consider these tar babies as your incentive to get this right the first time. They will clobber the snot out of you until you can destroy them. The only way you can do that without getting me highly agitated is by Suppressing the magical flow that animates them. You will do this by Binding your own magical current to theirs, without giving it shape — such as a gate”—he pointed to Britton—“or a sentient elemental”—he nodded to Downer.
“This is conducted, like most magical exercises, largely by feel. The only way to learn it is to do it, so let’s start learning.”
The going was tougher than Britton expected. He stood across from the automaton. The Novice behind it saluted and dropped into a MAC guard, the tar baby following suit, the cut of its hips and shoulders mimicking its driver exactly. It lunged for Britton, throwing a rocky right cross at him that he easily blocked. But the automaton was made of hard earth and rock, and Britton danced backward, cradling a bruised arm.
Fitzy laughed. “You won’t get far that way.”
Britton reached out a hand and tried to visualize his current flowing through the automaton. Before he could blink, a gate had opened in the middle of the creature, cutting it neatly in half. The Novice behind backed out of his guard and raised his hands. Fresh earth flowed upward to fill the cracks, knitting the tar baby back together while Fitzy yelled. “What part of ‘don’t use your magic except to Suppress’ didn’t you understand?”
“Sorry, sir,” Britton said. “I didn’t mean to. This is new to me.”
“My boot up your ass isn’t new to you,” Fitzy shouted, “and that’s what’s coming if you keep this crap up. Do it right, Keystone!”
Beside him, Downer’s tar baby was already a pile of loose rocks and clods of dirt. “It’s easy.” She beamed.
“How the hell are you doing it?” Britton asked.
“Umm. It’s like…it’s like there’s a string from the Novice to the tar baby,” she said. “Try opening your gate there.”
“It’s not group therapy, Keystone!” Fitzy shouted, and nodded to the Novice, who charged the automaton forward, catching Britton off guard. He ducked backward, but not before a rocky hand swatted him hard on the ear, leaving his head spinning.
Britton focused on the image of a chain connecting Novice and tar baby and tried again. His mind flashed a vision of Portcullis’s loading bay out of habit and for a moment, a gate flashed open in front of the Novice’s face. He gasped and stumbled backward before Britton could close it. The automaton stumbled backward as well, raising its arms in time with its master to ward off the gate.
“Damn it!” Fitzy snarled, striding forward.
Britton sidestepped a few paces and concentrated on calling the magic, Binding it to the thread between tar baby and Novice, pushing all other thoughts from his mind. Fitzy reached him, raising a hand, then stopped as the automaton collapsed.
Britton could feel his flow pushed outward, intersected with the Novice’s. The pressure of the foreign flow interleaved with his own, a gentle pulsing in his chest. As his mounted, it yielded slightly.
“I got it,” he said, raising his hands. “I got it, sir.”
Fitzy nodded stiffly at the collapsed automaton. “Lucky thing, too,” he said, and dropped his hand. “Let’s see you do it again.”
Britton couldn’t do it again for much of the next round, but neither did he make the mistake of opening a gate. When he finally managed the Suppression, Fitzy simply called for another go. By the fifth fight, both he and the Novice were sweating. The fatigue made it harder to concentrate on rolling back the magic, forcing him to fight the tar baby as best he could, his forearms, shins, and chest quickly becoming a field of bruises. The pain made him long for a trip to the cash for more of Marty’s healing leaves.
But by the end of the day, he was Suppressing as consistently as Downer.
The Coven’s spirits were high as they wrapped up the day’s session. They traded jokes and slapped one another’s backs as they took turns rolling one another’s magic back. Even Fitzy cracked a smile and pronounced their efforts “something approaching competence,” before giving them liberty and leaving them to their own devices.
But Britton’s good spirits sank as quickly as they had risen. What are you so happy about? he asked himself. Because you’ve learned a new skill that now belongs to your slave masters? You’re all just tools in a toolbox, a good day of training won’t change that.
“I’ll hit the showers and maybe catch up with you all in the OC,” Britton said, trying not to let the feeling show.
“Uh, negative.” Downer grinned at him. “You are going directly to the cash. Do not pass Go.”
Britton looked down at the network of bruises covering his arms.
“Your face isn’t much better,” Richards said.
“Thanks,” Britton said.
Truelove laughed and headed down the muddy track toward the hospital. “Come on, Keystone, let’s get you fixed up.”
Britton felt pride surge in spite of himself. He was mastering his abilities, he was part of a team that was every bit as skilled and dedicated as he was. Even if the army owned them all, their affection for him was genuine enough. These people were still his friends.
“I think I’m going to get cleaned up first, maybe lie down for a bit.”
“Are you kidding?” Downer asked. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Yeah,” Britton said. “I’m just kind of licked. A few bruises won’t kill me. I’ll catch up to you.”
“This isn’t about Fitzy’s new anti-Goblin-fraternization stance, is it?” she pressed. “If you need to see Marty, go see him. You know I always say, regs are meant to be broken.”
Britton laughed in spite of himself. “Do you always say that?”
“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, …”
