Fortress Frontier

by Myke Cole

  “I guess you could say I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

  Crucible laughed. “Yeah, you could say that. How ’bout a cup of coffee? Might get your head right.”

  “I’d be much obliged, Colonel.”

  Crucible opened the swinging screen door, creaking on its hinges, and showed Bookbinder inside. Crucible, coming behind him, took a full minute wiping his feet, making Bookbinder feel rude as he looked down at the mud he’d tracked in.

  Taylor’s secretary sat behind a cherrywood desk outside his office door. She was older, dark-haired, and crisply professional.

  Her desk was strewn with all the knickknacks of life on the Home Plane—pictures of her children, a teddy bear wearing a FOB Frontier T–shirt, miniature American flags. In this sprawling camp of jury-rigged plywood and sucking mud, the sense of normalcy she provided was disarming.

  “Hiya, Crucible,” she said.

  “Ma’am.” Crucible tugged off his patrol cap. “This is Colonel Bookbinder, he’s going to be the new J1 for the FOB. Also new to the Corps.”

  “Carmela Santiago,” she said, shaking his hand. “Congratulations on joining us! What school’d you get?”

  Bookbinder stammered for a moment before Crucible cut in.

  “We’re still working on that,” he said. “Would you mind running a couple of cups of coffee in for us? We’re setting him up in Major Breffel’s old office.”

  “Sure thing,” Carmela said, putting a pot on a stainless-steel coffeemaker behind her desk. “I’ll make extra. Fitzy’s waiting in there for you.”

  “A cup for me too, thanks,” said Taylor, coming in behind them and tracking mud across the floor to his office door, which he closed behind him without another word.

  Carmela and Crucible exchanged sympathetic looks.

  “You’ll get used to him, sir,” Crucible said. “He’s not so bad after . . . well, he is so bad, actually. But he’s fair and competent. He’s just kind of . . . uh . . . challenging.”

  “I’m not saying anything,” Carmela said.

  “Well, let’s show you your office,” Crucible said, opening the door opposite Colonel Taylor’s. Bookbinder’s new office could have been lifted straight from the Pentagon’s E Ring. Dark wood paneling lined the walls, matching the expansive desk. An American flag stood beside the SOC arms on gleaming stands topped with shining brass eagles. Someone’s family, Bookbinder guessed the previous occupant’s, a Korean wife and two beautiful girls, grinned from inside a shifting photo frame. The image shifted to one of the girls throwing a ball to a golden retriever.

  The room’s occupants drew Bookbinder’s attention away from the decor. The first was a short, muscular, bald-headed man. His mouth was a humorless line topped by a brief rectangle of moustache, his eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses. He wore a black compression shirt and cargo pants and a black baseball cap featuring the striped bar of a chief warrant officer. The Suppressor’s armored fist, supplemented by a star and laurel wreath stood beside the SOC arms on his chest.

  The other occupant was the size of a small child, its gnarled brown skin hidden mostly behind a blue jumpsuit. Long, pointed ears jutted from a bald skull. It knelt over an outlet, long fingers working to screw a gang plate into place.

  Bookbinder stared. He had caught glimpses of the creatures during the bumpy humvee ride from the LZ, but in his exhaustion and confusion he’d mentally filed them away to be dealt with later. No longer: This thing was not human, and it was fixing the electrical outlets in his office.

  The chief warrant officer stood, following his gaze. He removed the sunglasses and jerked his chin toward the creature.

  “Don’t worry about the goblins, sir. They’re no threat so long as you don’t let them get behind you.” He extended a hand, “Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons.”

  “Goblins? Are you serious?” Bookbinder asked as he shook Fitzsimmons’s hand. The creature by the outlet turned to look at the new arrivals, revealing large eyes and a long, hooked nose.

  “Yes, sir,” Crucible said. “They’re the indigenous civilization here. It’s a tribal society, with some welcoming us and some fighting us. You’re looking at one of the welcomers, or ‘Embracers’ as they call themselves. They contract on the base in exchange for commodities they can’t get out in the wild, refined sugar, mostly, but also some medical supplies.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Bookbinder breathed.

  Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons jerked his head at the goblin again. “Get out of here,” he growled. The creature sighed and got to its feet, resignation on its face, and departed.

  “He seemed to understand that much,” Bookbinder said.

  “Oh, they’ve got a lot more English than they let on, sir,” Fitzsimmons said. “But I wasn’t kidding that they can’t be trusted. The Embracers embrace us insofar as it gets ’em inside the wire to spot for indirect or steal guns and ammo. Begging your pardon for speaking freely, sir.” He addressed the last to Crucible.

  “Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons heads up one of our most important programs here on the FOB,” Crucible said.

  “It’s one of the J1’s biggest responsibilities here, as Congress has to approve the special appropriation that funds it on a month–to–month basis. We’re constantly fighting to keep it running, and we think it’s critical that it continue.”

  Bookbinder’s head spun. “Can I sit down for a second?”

  Fitzsimmons gestured to the chair he’d just vacated and moved to the wall, arms folded across his substantial chest. Bookbinder slumped in the chair, rubbing his head.

  “Let me get this straight. I’m in an alternate dimension. I just saw a goblin, a real and literal goblin, working in my new office. I am now in charge of a program so important and controversial that it is going to go from my desk straight to a congressional appropriations committee on a monthly basis?”

  “Senatorial committee, sir,” Crucible said. “But otherwise, that’s pretty much on target.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I’m somewhat overwhelmed.”

  Crucible smiled. “That’s a common reaction when folks first arrive here, sir.”

  “With all due respect, sir,” Fitzsimmons said. “This is the most critical program we’ve got running here, and I can’t stress enough how important it is that our new J1 continue to support it.”

  “I hear and appreciate your concern, chief,” Bookbinder said.

  “I’ll do my job. Beyond that, the program is going to have to stand on its own.”

  Fitzsimmons’s jaw clenched, and he looked as if he would say more. Bookbinder tried to hold his gaze but ultimately failed, looking around the room.

  “All right,” Bookbinder said, as Carmela arrived with the coffee. “I’ve got my coffee now, so you may as well give me a tour and show me this superimportant program.”

  “You don’t want to grab a shower first, sir? Some rack time?”

  Crucible sounded concerned. Fitzsimmons moved toward the door immediately.

  Bookbinder sighed. “Fresh as a daisy, Colonel. No point in putting off the inevitable. Maybe you can explain how I get in touch with my family while we walk?”

  Crucible looked at his feet. Fitzsimmons cut in. “There’s a mandatory weeklong comms blackout for all new arrivals, sir.”

  Bookbinder’s stomach turned over. He felt his magical tide surge and interlace with both Crucible’s and Fitzsimmons’s flows, tugging at them, reeling their currents toward him.

  Fitzsimmons frowned at the intersection, leaning toward him. “You all right, sir? You need me to Suppress you?”

  “You tell me,” Bookbinder said. “Nobody seems to know what the hell is going on with my magic other than it’s super, critically important to prevent me from talking to my own damned wife and kids.”

  “I know it’s stressful, sir,” Crucible said. “But trust me, the SOC is used to handling sudden separations like this. I can assure you we have counselors on the Home Plane making sure that your wife and childr
en know you’re safe, and answering as many of their questions as they can.”

  “You got any children, Crucible?” Bookbinder asked.

  Crucible paused. “One, sir, a boy.”

  “And do you honestly think it’d be enough for your son to talk to a counselor when he didn’t know where his father was?”

  Crucible and Fitzsimmons were both silent. Bookbinder instantly regretted the sharp words. “Forget it guys, let’s get this show on the road. What’s this super program I’m in charge of funding called?”

  Crucible and Fitzsimmons both spoke at the same time.

  “Coven Four, Umbra,” said Crucible.

  “Shadow Coven,” said Fitzsimmons.

  By the time Fitzsimmons was halfway through his explanation of the Shadow Coven program, Bookbinder was completely overwhelmed. “An entire Coven of Probes? A Portamancer? And that’s who we’re going to meet?”

  “That’s right, sir. Britton’s a pain in the ass, but he’s coming along. I’m confident Shadow Coven will be operational within two weeks at the most. I just need a little more time to bring him into line.”

  “Oscar Britton,” Bookbinder said. “I’ll be damned. I saw that guy’s face on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List every day at work. You had him here the whole time.”

  Taylor had fallen into step with them as they made their way toward a plywood guard shack standing beside a giant corrugated metal gate on wheels. A sign hung from one of them, bearing the SOC arms. restricted area: appropriately badged soc personnel and contractors only. absolutely no foreign nationals or source-indigenous contractors permitted without escort.

  The sky darkened. Thick clouds suddenly formed unnaturally low over their heads. An air-raid style siren wailed. A voice began to repeat, “All personnel, take cover, take cover, take cover.”

  Bookbinder felt the hairs on his arms stand on end as a powerful magical current eddied somewhere nearby, followed by a crack of thunder that shook his bones. The smell of ozone and churned earth filled his nostrils, and he caught a glimmer from the corner of his eye that looked like a column of lightning as thick as a tree trunk. He dove to the ground, covering his head with his hands and pressing himself against one of the concrete blast barricades. The thunder sounded again two more times, each more distant than the last. He realized he was trembling and forced himself to be still.

  “Oh, come on now.” Taylor’s voice dripped with scorn.

  Bookbinder rolled over and got to his knees, looking from the mud that now plastered his uniform to the men standing around him. Taylor shook his head. Crucible and Fitzsimmons looked uncomfortable.

  “You’re going to have to get over that,” Taylor said. “We get several of those a day, and the men will be watching you.”

  “What the hell was that?” Bookbinder asked, blushing. The difference between his administrative role and the real soldiers surrounding him was plain enough without his groveling in the mud at the first thing that went boom.

  “Lighting strike,” Fitzsimmons said. “Conjured by some indig Aeromancer. Goblins come up Latent more often than we do and tend to have stronger magic.”

  “You’ll get used to it after a while, sir,” Crucible said. “Just remember with indirect fire that it’s a small target zone and a big base. Odds are slim you’ll get tagged.”

  “Hell, that one wasn’t even danger close!” Taylor said.

  Bookbinder stood, dusting off his uniform and avoiding Taylor’s scolding gaze. Crucible coughed uncomfortably and patted his shoulder. “It’s okay, sir. Just remember, small round, big base.”

  Yes, I’m fine, Bookbinder thought. And whatever little respect I had in the eyes of these men is now gone.

  They kept on in silence until they were intercepted by a group of MPs, who waved them back. “Sorry, sir,” said one, “gate to P–Block got hit. We’ve got the whole place locked down.”

  “That’s all right,” Taylor said, sounding relieved. “The colonel’s got everything he needs on the program to authorize funding. He doesn’t need a face–to–face with the operators. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Fitzy was impassive, and Crucible looked like he didn’t agree at all, but both men nodded and chorused, “Yes, sir.”

  The gate to P–Block was sliding back, a small group stepping outside as electric carts piled high with repair gear and goblin contractors filtered in to work on the damage. One of the group was a black man with a shaved head, built like a linebacker. He wore the same uniform as Fitzy with what looked like an archway on his chest. A smaller, pale man with thick glasses stood beside him, sporting the same uniform with a grinning skull in place of the archway. Both men went rigid at the sight of Fitzy.

  “Here you go, sir,” Fitzy said. “May I present Keystone and Rictus, two of my lambs.”

  The bigger man turned and immediately snapped to attention at the sight of Bookbinder’s rank. “Sir,” he said, soldier’s habit evident in his tone.

  Bookbinder’s eyes widened. “Oscar Britton. I can’t believe I’m meeting you.”

  Britton looked askance at Fitzy. The chief warrant officer nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Conditional pardon, sir,” Britton said. “I’m a proud Entertech employee now.”

  “Enter . . .” Bookbinder began.

  “It’s the main contract manpower provider here,” Fitzy said.

  “All of the goblins and some of the Sorcerers work for ’em. Most of the maintenance and special skills work, too.”

  Bookbinder turned to Taylor. “But I heard he was a Warlock or something. Isn’t that Probe magic? Shouldn’t he be . . .”

  Britton’s expression went sympathetic. “I’m still getting used to it myself, sir.”

  “Secure that,” Fitzy barked. Britton shut his mouth, and his eyes snapped front.

  Bookbinder turned back to Britton. “Public enemy number one,” he said, then realized he could feel Britton’s flow. “You’re not even Suppressed!”

  “We’re making an omelet here,” Taylor said. “I’ll explain everything once we get back to the office.” He nodded to Fitzy, who in turn growled at Britton and his companion until they followed the electric carts back inside the gate. Bookbinder watched Fitzy’s demeanor soften as soon as Britton was out of sight. He’d seen men be nasty to train people before, but this looked more like genuine hate.

  On the way back to the office, they nearly ran into a man standing in the muddy track, one corner of his mouth upturned in an impudent smile. He was thin, his skin unnaturally corpse gray. His slick black hair was plastered to his head. He wore black cargo pants bloused over hiking boots. A dirty, rumpled long-sleeved polo shirt sported the Entertech logo on the right breast.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. His voice cracked as if he wasn’t used to using it.

  Taylor’s expression went hard at having his way blocked until his eyes reached the man’s face. Then he melted into the most disingenuous smile Bookbinder had seen in a long time. “Hey!”

  Taylor said. “How’s the camp treating you?”

  “It’s a mud-caked shit hole, Taylor,” the man said. “No doubt thanks to your expert oversight.”

  Bookbinder sucked in his breath, but the colonel only grinned. “Yeah, it takes some getting used to, that’s for sure.

  “Let me introduce you to Colonel Alan Bookbinder,” Taylor said, draping an arm over Bookbinder’s shoulders. “Alan here’s our new J1. Hopefully, he can get some of the contracting snaggles sorted out. Alan, this here’s the Sculptor. He’s our most valued Entertech consultant.”

  “Great,” the Sculptor said, not looking at Bookbinder.

  “Maybe now that you have a manpower expert, you can get my bonus pay unfucked.”

  Bookbinder shrugged off Taylor’s grip. “Now, wait just a minute—” he began, but Taylor’s hand settled on his shoulder, gripping painfully. Taylor laughed loud enough to cut off Bookbinder’s retort. “Alan’s new here. Still learning the lay of the land.”

  The Scupltor’s
dark eyes settled on Bookbinder, narrowing.

  Bookbinder opened his mouth, but Taylor’s grip tightened.

  “New, huh,” the Sculptor said. “Well, I know you’ll get him schooled.”

  “You bet we will,” Taylor said.

  “Got a chopper to catch,” the Sculptor said. “I’m heading back to the Home Plane, but I should be back around in the next few weeks. I’ll call when I’m ready.”

  “Have a safe trip,” Taylor said.

  The Sculptor turned and stalked off. Taylor’s death grip on Bookbinder eased with every step the contractor took away from them. When Bookbinder finally broke free, he noticed that the colonel was sweating.

  “What the hell was that?” Bookbinder asked.

  “Alan, I’m going to say this once,” Taylor said. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re a full bird or the J1 of this post. Don’t you ever, ever get into it with that particular contractor again.”

  Bookbinder felt the blood rush to his face. “Is the whole SOC out of its mind? You’ve got me shooting puppies, dodging magical indirect, and now I’m supposed to be deferring to contractors? Last time I checked, those guys work for us!”

  Bookbinder felt the breaking point. If he was going to stop Taylor’s treating him like an inconvenient stepchild, he was going to have to lay down the law. He put on his best command voice. “I also don’t care that you’re SOC and do things differently. The army is still the army, and I’m not going to let a contractor treat me like that.”

  Taylor turned purple. A vein throbbed redly in his forehead.

  Crucible and Fitzsimmons took a step back, and Bookbinder’s courage fled as quickly as it had come. They waited in tense silence, Bookbinder fighting the panicked urge to apologize.

  At last, Taylor smiled indulgently and spoke as if to a child.

  “Oh yes, you will. With this contractor you most certainly will. You have never seen a Physiomancer who can do what he can. Next time, I’ll let you get into it with him and see how you like it. You’re like a goddamn newborn babe. You don’t even realize when someone saves your life.”

  Chapter V