by Myke Cole
“What, Oscar?”
“Are you happy that you, you know, raised the flag? That you agreed to cooperate?”
Therese was silent for a moment. “On the whole, yes. I mean, Hayes is a bastard, and there’s a lot of admin BS to put up with, but overall, I like it. Even if I disagree with the overall organization, even if they basically own my life, in the end my magic still helps people. People are alive and whole because of me. I can sleep at night knowing that.”
Britton nodded, silent.
“What about you?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “At first, I was sure I was doing the right thing. I mean, Swift is so stupid and useless, and he’s dragging Wavesign down with him. After we saved those marines, I really thought I’d made the right call. When we took down that Selfer in the sewers…she was like a demon out of a nightmare. After that, I was absolutely sure we were on the right side. I felt like you do now, that I was ultimately doing good, that in the balance, it was right to cooperate. But they’ve got me killing the natives here now. They treat Marty like dirt. And in the end, I can’t shake this feeling like no matter how much good I’ll do, I’ll always belong to them. Fitzy called me a weapon the other day. I don’t know if I can live like that.”
“You sound like Scylla,” Therese mused. Britton’s blood ran cold at the comment.
Because he knew he was Scylla to them, fine enough when he was cooperating but standing by to be lobotomized once they decided he was more trouble than he was worth.
She noticed his expression and squeezed the back of his neck. “Oh God, Oscar. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
He shook his head. “It’s nothing. I know she’s nuts, and I know she’s a murderer. But you have to admit that some of the things she says make sense. I guess that’s what scares me.”
She asked me to help her escape. She can take this bomb out of my chest if I do.
“Therese”—Britton turned to her—“you said before that you needed time to get good enough to get this thing out of my chest. Are you good enough now?”
She placed his hand on his chest and paused, eyes closed. “I can…see it. Man, whoever put it in there was good. Molding heart flesh is tricky stuff, at least when you’re trying to keep it beating.”
“Can you do it?”
“I don’t know, Oscar.” She shook her head. “To be honest, it’d be a long shot. Even if I was confident that I could do it, you’d need something for the pain. It’s going to hurt like hell. You’re not going to be able to gate anywhere if you die of shock.”
He winced. “It didn’t work out so well the last time I had someone steal from the cash.”
“Goblin contractors don’t have the access that I do. I’d just need some time. I’d also need some time to do the work.”
He paused. “What happened to Specialist Lenko?”
“Who?” she asked.
“He was in the burn unit…”
“Oh,” she said. “They moved him. We’ve got the burns covered, but there’s an infection. I boosted his immune response, but it’s touch and go right now. You know him?”
Britton shook his head. “Later. We’ve been talking way too long. I should let you get back to work.”
No sooner had he spoken than Captain Hayes appeared at their table. “Everything all right in here?”
“Fine, sir,” she answered. “We’re just finishing up.”
“You disappeared from the floor, Therese. We just had a Humvee hit outside the wire. You’re needed back in trauma.”
“Be right there, sir.”
“That fat bastard,” she muttered after he’d left. “I haven’t seen him help a single patient since I’ve been here. He’s always back in the Special Projects tent. What the hell are they doing back there?”
Britton stood, thinking of the report he’d read on Scylla. “Research,” he said. “And they wonder why half the countryside is up in arms against them. We meet in the OC for drinks most nights. Can you make it there?”
“Things get insane here at night, Oscar. That’s when most of the attacks happen, and the worst of the wounded come in.”
He paused at the exit. “It’s really good to see you again, Therese.”
She smiled. “Get out of here. I’ll get to the OC tonight if I can. If worse comes to worst, you know where to find me.”
And Oscar Britton grinned.
Because he did know where to find her, and while it wasn’t a way out of there, it was something.
CHAPTER XXVII: MESCALERO
Anticipating future theaters of war is the responsibility of every staff officer. The twenty-first century saw the addition of space and cyberspace to the traditional realms of air, sea, and land. It is time for us to begin consideration of arcane or magical space as an arena where operational preparation of combat environments should be considered. Much study is still needed to illuminate this developing field, but as a nation, we can only gain by getting out in front of the planning process before our enemies do.
— Lieutenant Scott Dyson, United States Navy
Final paper for Master’s of Strategic Conflict Studies
Maritime College of the Armed Forces
Britton sat in the OC with the rest of the Coven, celebrating their new skill. Truelove flirted hopefully with Downer. Richards, more than a little tipsy, Whispered a tufted squirrel up onto the bar, where it urinated enthusiastically in Chris’s direction while the bartender growled and idly threatened to chuck them all out. Britton’s stomach churned as his eyes swept the Coven. These people were his friends, weren’t they? The army might own them all, but they could still care about one another.
He brooded over his conversation with Therese. What if she could get the ATTD out? Did he really want to go? Britton felt the pride again, the sense of belonging. Despite the bomb in his heart, despite Fitzy’s continued abuse, he was beginning to make a home there. He had raised the flag, he had made the decision to work with and for the army. Whether he was a weapon or a valued member of a team, what difference did that make? Wasn’t this better than a life spent running?
From the moment he leapt through the gate from Dawes’s bedside, his magic had owned him, driving him from hole to hole. He had saved the lives of those marines. When one really considered it, he’d saved the lives of everyone involved in that operation. He’d done it again when they’d battled the Selfer in the New York City sewers. He looked again at Downer’s functioning legs. There were good people still breathing because of what the SOC had taught him to do with his magic. Despite the shock of the engagement, his skirmish at the Goblin fort had left his heart singing. He had mastered his abilities. He had, almost single-handedly, faced an army and beat them, getting his team out scarcely harmed.
The SOC had taught him how, and they still had more to teach him.
Was the SOC really so terrible? They hadn’t murdered Downer after all. They had, in their own way, saved her. When he really thought about it, he supposed they’d saved him, too.
He stared moodily into his drink. But he couldn’t ignore Fitzy’s drunken threats against Marty, the useless murder of the Goblins in the fortress, or the report strewed on Hayes’s desk, detailing plans to slice into Scylla’s brain. Her words rang in his ear. How could he live as if he belonged to these people? Who knew what they would ask him to do next? It was only a matter of time before he was tasked to hunt down Selfers who weren’t monsters like the Render in the sewers under New York, but decent people like him, saddled with abilities they hadn’t asked for, who didn’t want to be under the army’s thumb.
His gut twisted. But how could he give up all he had learned? All he had yet to learn? And just when he was finally getting good?
He swore.
“You okay?” Truelove asked. Britton reflected on how far the small Necromancer had come, his confidence improving daily. Any irritation at being disturbed fled at the sight of his face, friendly and open.
“Yeah,” Bri
tton said. “Just thinking about when I was running is all.”
Downer looked at him quizzically. “Why bother? You’re not running anymore.”
Truelove punched Britton’s shoulder, then blanched as Britton turned toward him. “Sorry.”
Britton smiled. “No, you’re right. I’m not running anymore. It’s okay. “
Truelove brightened instantly. “Damn right it’s okay. Chris! Another round.”
Britton’s improved mood led them to drink enthusiastically, and they reported to trailer B-6 with slightly aching heads the next morning. Fitzy leaned against the whiteboard. A pale, thin-lipped man in a brown uniform stood beside him, the newcomer’s shoulder patched with an eagle surmounting a buffalo. Gold script curled beneath the symbols— UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR. BUREAU OF INDIAN AFFAIRS.
“Morning, campers,” Fitzy said, pleased at their surprise. “Allow me to introduce Captain Day from BIA’s law-enforcement division. Command has, despite my better judgment, determined you to be at a stage in your training where you can be of use to your country in something more significant than mucking about sewer systems or beating up on the locals here.
“The Great Reawakening has given a lot of people some funny ideas. The funniest are held by the Mescalero band of the Apache nation, who occupy a substantial swath of New Mexico. These folks got the idea that not only is their territory autonomous, it’s sovereign, and they fully seceded from the United States of America. The first thing their tribal council did was to legalize the use of magic in the confines of this supposed sovereign state, with results that you have seen. The death toll in this insurgency currently stands at over two thousand US armed services personnel, with an additional five hundred sworn law-enforcement officers and an undisclosed number of civilian advisors.
“Even worse, this minority of Selfers keeps the majority of law-abiding Apache from living in peace with us. They want to return to the ‘old ways,’ whatever the hell that means, and consider anyone who doesn’t agree with them as an enemy collaborator worthy of death.
“Keep that in mind when you consider the crocodile tears of all these sympathizers who’d like to see these folks cut loose. Unregulated magic is a pretty idea for those who don’t have to deal with it, but I’m sure Captain Day here will agree that the real thing is nasty business.
“You’ve got a rare opportunity to stop this death toll in its tracks, and Captain Day is going to tell you how.”
“Gentlemen.” The BIA captain’s voice was high and nasal. Britton couldn’t tell whether or not he deliberately ignored Downer’s gender. “We have a rare opportunity to make a serious dent in the enemy’s order of battle. The tribal council’s most important general is a Selfer called Chatto.” Captain Day turned to the overhead-projection image displayed on the whiteboard. It depicted a man with old eyes. His leathern, wind-scoured skin made his age difficult to discern, but his long black hair, tied with a red bandanna, looked thick and young.
“Don’t get nostalgic for the noble savage getup. This man is personally responsible for the Ruidoso massacre, including taking out the airlift that went in for the survivors. It remains the biggest tragedy American first responders have ever suffered. Chatto’s capture could lead to a ton of actionable information that we could use to wrap up this firefight once and for all. More importantly, Chatto is a rallying point, and taking him out of the fight would seriously lower enemy morale.”
“So, why now? Why’s he suddenly vulnerable?” Britton asked.
“Chatto cast off his wife when she decided she wanted to join the modern world. Cut her up pretty bad.” He toggled the projector and the image changed to a young Apache woman whose beauty had been marred first by hard living and further by livid scars running up her nostrils.
“Apache custom is to slit the noses of women who betray their husbands. They call her Nalzukich now. Means ‘slit-nose.’ That he let her live is amazing enough. But now he’s shown a real soft spot. Their daughter just got her period, which gives them four days to have her blessed by their Gahe. Chatto invited Slit-Nose to the ceremony.”
Captain Day toggled the projector again. “She got there early and sent us this video.” The screen displayed a wide stretch of dried badlands under a blanket of bright stars. Scanty scrub growth competed with dry rocks to cover the space. The image looped, again and again. Captain Day looked expectantly at Britton. “We have no idea where it is. But we were hoping it wouldn’t matter.”
Britton watched the video loop and imagined the freezing cold on that near-desert plain. He pictured the smell of dried sage, the allure of the distant stars. He felt his magic pulse expectantly and nodded. “It won’t.”
Captain Day grunted. “In and out. We want Chatto alive if possible, but we’ll accept his death if you can recover the body. It’s critical that all the Mescalero people know he’s down, but not how he got that way. Alive would be better because Chatto can hopefully confirm some ideas we have on where the heart of the insurgency is located. Slit-Nose will meet you at the infil point and take you to the ceremony. There’ll be one Gahe there, but that shouldn’t…”
“We don’t speak Apache, sir,” Britton interrupted, to a frown from Fitzy.
Captain Day nodded. “It’s what they call their ‘Mountain Gods.’ ”
Britton recalled a black form, nearly too fast to follow, flashing across a video screen. He shuddered, remembering flashing teeth.
Captain Day patted the air with his palms. “They look scary, but their bark is worse than their bite. Trust me, this’ll be a cakewalk.”
Cakewalk, Britton thought, remembering Dawes burned body. I’ve heard that one before.
“I’ll come along to translate,” Day went on, “but once you make the assault, I’m hanging back. I wouldn’t want to get underfoot.”
Yeah, I bet you wouldn’t, Britton thought, seeing the fear in the man’s eyes.
“Just remember,” Day said. “Slit-Nose may be on our side, but she’s still Apache. You don’t trust her one inch more than you have to.”
“Why can’t she just lead you to the ceremony?” Downer asked.
“BIA doesn’t want in on this op. We’ve got enough of a public-relations disaster out here. Chatto’s a wild animal who needs to be put down, but the press isn’t going to spin it that way. He needs to drop inexplicably. It needs to look like…well, like magic.”
“How do you know she won’t betray us?” Britton asked.
“We’ve been in touch with this particular person for some time,” Day said. “The only person she hates more than me is Chatto. And we’ve got an added bonus. Puberty ceremonies are usually held in the presence of ancestors. They’ll probably meet the Gahe on a burial ground.”
“That means corpses,” Truelove said.
Day nodded. “Lots of ’em. The Mescalero have been using the same burial plots for centuries.”
The Necromancer smiled. “Well, all right.”
“Last equipment check,” Fitzy said, as the Coven slammed magazines into pistols and tightened the straps on their body armor. “Stay on my six and remember, these aren’t Goblins, and they sure as hell aren’t tar babies. These are Selfers and no friends of ours. Stay frosty, and for the love of all that’s holy, do as you’re fucking told. There’ll be at least thirty men at this ceremony, and that’s a conservative estimate.”
“Too easy,” Downer said, grinning. “We’re the magic behind the magic, remember?”
“Damn straight,” Truelove said, pale and sweating.
Britton glanced at the video one more time and opened a gate on the flat expanse. He felt a surge of pride at how easily it came to him. The video was clear, but the ground was almost featureless, yet with only a few minutes of watching it, he could guide them there effortlessly. But there was work to do. He could pat himself on the back later.
They stepped through onto the starlit plain. Slit-Nose greeted them, eyes defiant. “Da go te,” she said.
“How do yo
u say hello in Apache?” Britton asked Day.
Slit-Nose laughed and smiled wider. “No need. I speak English. We’re not all dumb Indians out here, no matter what this asshole tells you.” She jerked a thumb at Day, who shook his head.
Fitzy swore. “We do not have time for this bullshit. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Day barked a few more words to Slit-Nose in Apache before nodding back to Fitzy. “It’s your show from here on in. Good luck.” He stepped back through the gate and was gone.
Slit-Nose surveyed Shadow Coven for a moment, then shouldered a hunting rifle and moved off into the night. The landscape was unbroken, dotted occasionally by burned-out cars or discarded piles of tires, and Britton felt naked in the open starlight.
“So, you guys are special army, huh?” Slit-Nose asked. Her voice was deep, worn.
“We’re interested parties, ma’am,” Fitzy whispered. “We want to see peace restored to the Apache nation.”
Slit-Nose laughed at his attempt at quiet. “We won’t be there for a while. Nobody can hear us here but rabbits.”
Fitzy cursed under his breath, and Britton had to stifle a chuckle. “All the same, ma’am. We’d rather not talk. The sooner we take custody of your husband, the sooner we can return to peaceful relationships between our peoples.”
Slit-Nose stopped and glared at him. “No peaceful relationships, white eyes. You get your man, then you leave.”
Fitzy looked as if he would reply, then considered Slit-Nose’s hard look. At last he nodded, and they went on.
Britton recalled Fitzy’s words. This minority of Selfers keeps the majority of law-abiding Apache from living in peace with us. At least one law-abiding Apache didn’t seem to want anything to do with them.
They followed Slit-Nose in silence for about ten minutes before she stopped them just shy of a stack of abandoned cars strewn with trash. Firelight flickered on the horizon. Britton could barely make out the specks of black shapes around it. In the center was a series of white domes — canvas wickiups.
