by Myke Cole
‘You can thank me with some company,’ she said, patted the seat next to her.
He sat, her words propelling him as surely as if she’d steered him with an invisible hand. Again, he stumbled for words. Who was this woman? ‘I don’t have a whole lot of time, I’m meeting someone in a moment. What can I do for you?’ he finally said, his voice sounding stupid in his ears.
‘You’re pretty and you’re in uniform. That’s plenty,’ she said. ‘That your boss over there?’ She gestured to where Crucible was pointedly not looking in their direction.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Harlequin said. ‘He’s going to give me hell about this later.’
A charm glittered at her throat, a silver likeness of a six-headed dragon, crouched on twelve tentacle legs. She caught him staring, and he blushed again as he realized the charm nestled above the dark line of her cleavage, exposed enough to be enticing, not enough to be crude. Her skin was milk pale, a light tracery of blue veins visible below the surface, almost luminescent in the dim light of the bar’s interior.
She smiled darkly. ‘Whatcha looking at?’
It was his turn to smile now. This was ridiculous. She was a human being who happened to be good-looking and slick and apparently not frightened of him. That was refreshing, but it was no reason to act like a teenager. He felt the current of his magic oscillating with his arousal and nervousness, and reined it in. ‘That’s an interesting necklace.’
Grace looked down at her breasts again. ‘Oh,’ she sounded disappointed. ‘That’s Scylla. My sister has Charybdis. Mom said we were twin terrors.’
‘It’s really cool.’ I can’t believe I just said that.
‘And here I was thinking you were checking out my rack.’
‘Maybe I was, a little.’ No matter how hard he tried to regain his composure, he kept talking like an idiot.
She smiled again. ‘Well, you know. I work out.’
He laughed, the nervousness fading. He looked back up at her, met her eyes, held them.
‘Can I ask you something?’
She cocked her head to the side, liquid black hair brushing her cheek. ‘Shoot.’
‘Why aren’t you scared of me?’
She laughed. ‘Should I be?’
‘Most people are.’
‘Because you’re SOC?’
He nodded.
‘Honey, I’ve seen the Night Dancers in Uganda. I’ve been to Mescalero. I practically financed Japan’s first five Shukenja squadrons. Magic stopped impressing me a long time ago.’
His eyes narrowed. That kind of civilian experience working with magic? ‘Who are you?’
She grinned, arched an eyebrow. ‘You can call your boss over now. We can chat here for a while, but the formal meeting should be at my office.’
Chapter Six
More With Less
We worked off the assumption that the Apache had a Portamancer, and that was how the Gahe were getting onto the reservation. We spent millions and years trying to track this Portamancer down. We realize now that was more hope than assumption, sir. Baker’s ‘thin-spot’ theory is correct. There are intersections between the Home Plane and the Source, where the planar fabric has worn thin. In such locales, the planes bleed through into one another. In severe cases, entities can move across.
– Lieutenant General Alexander Gatanas, Commandant Supernatural Operations Corps, Briefing to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Vice-Chairman for Intelligence
The boarding teams didn’t stand a chance. They clumped together outside the hatch into the ship’s superstructure, gaping with disbelief. With the closed hatch behind them and the ship’s starboard rail to their left, they had nowhere to go but into the enemy.
The goblins moved forward, grinning. One of them seized the barrel of the boarding officer’s rifle, yanked it. The man cried out, carried forward by his rifle sling. The goblin barked something, slammed a club into his head. His helmet skewed, and blood sheeted down the side of his face.
One of the boarding team members shrugged off the stupor of fear, raised his rifle with shaking hands, and fired. The round whined off the crane’s boom, three feet over the goblins’ heads.
‘Commander, get your men off that deck,’ Bookbinder said.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ shouted Bonhomme. He shouted the same question into the radio, not realizing that he hadn’t depressed the button to talk, cursed. One of the goblins threw a spear. It arced across the intervening distance and buried itself in one of the sailor’s shoulders. The teams began to move back through the hatch, trampling over one another, shouting.
The goblins swarmed the sides of the Breakwater until Bookbinder could barely see the ship’s black hull.
More hauled themselves up onto the deck. One scaled the crane, its arm hooked around the throat of a dead sailor, hard hat trailing by its plastic chinstrap.
At long last, one of the sailors found his courage and turned to fight. His shotgun boomed, and some of the goblins reeled back, peppered with shot, bleeding. Another sailor drew his pistol and let off a stream of undisciplined fire, most of his bullets thudding into the deck.
‘Get them out of there!’ Bookbinder shouted.
‘What the fuck are we supposed to do?’ Bonhomme pounded his hands on the console. ‘We’re not equipped to fight a battle!’
Bookbinder shook his head and ran out to the passageway. Ripple grabbed his arm. ‘Sir,’ she began.
He shrugged her off. ‘No way. Now it’s time for you to follow.’
Then he was out the hatch and into the passageway. He threw himself down the ladder to his right, bumping his head painfully on the low ceiling. He saw stars, shook them off. The ship wasn’t that big, he should be able to find the hatch where the boarding teams had come out. But when he got his bearings, he found himself alone in some kind of mechanical room with a huge winch in its center, lined with shelves of supplies and equipment. He blinked, looking for a way out.
Feet descended the ladder behind him. ‘Sir! It’s this way!’ Rodriguez. He followed her back up the ladder, turned into a passageway he’d missed in his rush, and a few steps later heard the sounds of the struggle. The boarding teams had streamed back into the tight passageway, shouting, bleeding, falling over one another.
‘Order!’ he shouted. ‘I will have order, damn it!’
He shouldered his way through, some of the chaos abating. The petty officer who’d led them was hunched against the wall, clutching his bleeding head, rifle gone. Bookbinder reached down and unsnapped his pistol from its holster, dragging it out. The petty officer offered no resistance.
Two of the boarding team members found their feet, taking up positions on either side of the open hatch. One was reloading her pistol, the other firing his shotgun. The goblins withdrew to the cover of the crane’s base. They winced as the shotgun boomed, but even Bookbinder knew it wouldn’t be effective at this long range. They rose slowly, wiggling their ears as the terrified petty officer fired again, the gun kicking, smoking, and doing little else. The goblins chattered to one another, grouping to charge.
‘Don’t shoot me in the back, please,’ Bookbinder said as he stepped through the hatch. What I wouldn’t give for some magic right now.
‘Ripple, damn it!’ he shouted. He felt for a magical current, came up empty. There was no time. He raised his pistol, took careful aim at the foremost goblin, and fired.
He’d never been much of a marksman, and the goblin charged as the bullet flew wide. Lucky for him, there were more rounds in the magazine, and they kicked off just as fast as he could pull the trigger.
The third bullet took it right in its swollen forehead, spattering a mixture of greenish blood and seawater, sending the creature spinning into its comrades.
Bookbinder didn’t wait. He targeted another goblin, pulled the trigger,
and moved on, targeting and firing, advancing a step with each shot. The goblins crouched, quailing under his disciplined fire, pulling back to the ship’s prow.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bookbinder felt himself fall into the familiar space that had become a second home for him after his many battles defending FOB Frontier, the old dance of move, shoot, and reload. His breathing slowed as his heart rate rose, the weird dichotomy between heightened alertness and greater calm.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Click. Click. Bookbinder’s hand dropped instinctively to the magazine pouch at his belt.
And found nothing. His stomach clenched as he remembered he’d retrieved this pistol from another man’s holster, forgotten to take his spare magazines.
The goblins lost no time. Three rushed out from behind the crane’s base and charged him.
Bookbinder punched the first one in the face, the pistol barrel crunching into its skull and turning sideways, flaying open his knuckles on the sheet of barnacles that encrusted the creature’s head. The thing reeled backward, thrusting out with its spear shaft as it struggled to maintain its footing. Bookbinder caught the shaft, wrestled for control of it.
Another goblin came at him from the side, swinging a long cleaver, face wriggling with a living beard of tentacles. Bookbinder jerked the spear shaft into the way to block the blow, then clubbed it in the face with his pistol. The goblin reeled backward, slammed into the port rail, went over the side.
By the time he turned to face the third goblin, it was on top of him, too close for him to do more than turn the spearhead into its gut, throwing out an elbow at its face. It slapped the spearhead down and reached for him, hands wrapped in some kind of salt-crusted skin, holding short, sharp blades to each fingertip.
The creature stiffened, green-brown skin turning gray. The amphibian-looking slime that coated it dried, then the tissue beneath. It peeled, wilted, the life-sustaining water that flowed through it puddling on the deck.
Ripple’s magical current surged behind him.
Bang.
The goblin spun across the deck, half its face gone, salt water and slime pooling beneath it. Rodriguez stood behind him, a smoking pistol in her hand.
Bookbinder swung the spear shaft, the remaining goblin still clinging to it, its feet coming off the deck. Bookbinder released the shaft and hurled it into his fellows, pushing the crowd back against the base of the crane.
‘Get off my ship!’ he shouted.
Ripple moved up beside him, extended a hand. He felt her current Bind hard off the ship’s side, lifting the water, the bow rising. Rodriguez stumbled, shouted at her. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
Then the bow slapped back down and a huge wave swamped the buoy deck. It coiled like a serpent’s body, looping around the goblins, and leaving Bookbinder, Rodriguez, and Ripple bone-dry. The torrent swept the creatures up, slamming them into the crane boom with bone-jarring force, then shot skyward, throwing them into the air. They rained back down, some splashing into the water and some bouncing off the deck, leaving trails of brine and blood behind them.
The water flooded away, leaving the deck clear.
‘Thanks,’ Bookbinder said, turning to Ripple. ‘That was some . . .’
The Hydromancer was collapsed beside the hatch, a javelin lodged in her chest. Blood soaked half her blouse, but she’d frozen the flesh around the wound, her hand clamped to the base of the weapon, the tide of her magic flowing erratically. ‘Fucker threw just before I got the wave going . . .’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
Her skin was waxy pale, sweat beading on her forehead.
‘Jesus, don’t apologize,’ he said, looking back at the buoy deck. The goblins were already swarming back aboard. A few started forward, took in Bookbinder’s bleeding knuckles, Rodriguez’s smoking pistol, held back. He’d bought them some time.
But not much.
‘All right! Back in there and get that hatch secured!’ he shouted. Rodriguez helped him to lift Ripple by her armpits and drag her, stumbling, back into the superstructure as the sailors sealed the hatch. Ripple moaned, apologizing over and over.
He pointed to the sailors with the shotgun and the pistol, leaning against the hatch, heads touching in their effort to look through the single porthole. ‘You’ve got it?’
They nodded, shaking off some of their fear and confusion. Two sailors were dealing with another’s head wound. Another rushed to secure the watertight dogs on the hatch.
Bookbinder turned to Rodriguez. The boatswain looked pale but steady, biting down on the thousands of questions she must surely have. ‘Is there a sick bay? You got a doc on board?’
She shook her head. ‘We’ve got aid stations and defribs . . . but nothing that’s going to help with . . .’
Ripple’s magical current suddenly went faint. Her head lolled against Bookbinder’s thigh.
‘Come on, Captain!’ Bookbinder gently slapped her face, shook her shoulders. Her hand fell away from the spear shaft, the frozen wound beginning to thaw, blood going tacky at the edges. Bookbinder shook her again, took her pulse.
Nothing.
Bookbinder laid her down, but the javelin’s blade kept one shoulder elevated, making CPR impossible. Not that he remembered how to do it anyway. His mind was a jumble of fear and grief, shutting out the ratio of chest compressions to rescue breaths. Mattes shouldered him out of the way. ‘I’ve got it, sir!’ The sailor eased Ripple’s body down the javelin’s shaft, getting her level. He squatted over her, drawing it out, then clapping his hands over her sternum, administering chest compressions. Ripple’s ribs cracked under the pressure with an audible crunch.
‘Get that hole plugged!’ Mattes called to another sailor, as blood began to bubble out of the hole. Bookbinder looked at the position of the wound in horror as another sailor ripped off his blouse and began stuffing it in. There was no way her lung could still be whole and inflated beneath it.
Bookbinder murmured barely audible thanks. Already the hatch was thrumming with blows as the goblins beat their spear butts against it. He stared at Ripple. She was just a kid, and a brave one at that. Her face vanished, and it was his daughter Kelly lying there, her chest darkening as her life’s blood slowly pumped out across it. His daughter’s eyes staring sightlessly, her lips turning blue.
Oh, God. Kelly. I’ve got to get back to you.
There’s no time for grief. If the goblins get in here, you’ll lose the whole ship.
Bookbinder swallowed, forced himself to speak. ‘Can we seal off the superstructure?’
Rodriguez nodded. ‘This hatch and another on the port side. There’s a central hatch to the winch room. We seal those, they can’t get in from the bow.’
‘Do it,’ he said. Rodriguez nodded and began barking orders to the boarding team.
Bookbinder turned to the four remaining. ‘You hold.’ They nodded, frightened, but resolute.
He almost asked Mattes how it looked, then stopped himself.
There’s nothing you can do here besides get in the way. If Mattes can save her, he will. Secure this ship, get to shore, and find out what the hell is going on.
‘Hang tough,’ Bookbinder said. He turned to Rodriguez. ‘Bosun . . .’
‘I’ve got it, sir. Go . . . help the skipper.’ Her eyes met his, rock steady.
That would have to do. He set off up the ladder back to the bridge.
Bonhomme was in the exact position Bookbinder had left him in, looking out the bridge windows over the buoy deck, watching the goblins regroup.
Bookbinder swallowed his frustration and tried to keep his voice even. ‘Commander, we’ve got the superstructure secure from the bow. The goblins are confined to the buoy deck. Now would be a good time to make an announcement to get the rest of the ship locked down in case they swarm aboard aft. Commander? Commander!’
Bonhomme turned, looked at him. His mouth worked silently. Bookbinder glanced at Marks, who nodded and picked up the radio.
‘Commander.’ Bookbinder turned back to Bonhomme, keeping his voice low and soothing. ‘I will focus on making sure the ship is secure. I need you to get us turned around and back to shore.’
Bonhomme continued to stare.
You fucker. Bookbinder’s wedding ring felt heavy on his finger. I am not going to lose my chance to fix things with my family because you can’t get your shit together.
Bookbinder took the radio from Marks, depressed the button and spoke, hearing his voice booming throughout the ship. ‘This is General Alan Bookbinder. I know what you’re experiencing is . . . frightening . . . that’s fine. The creatures you’re fighting are goblins. I’ve fought them before. Don’t underestimate them. They’re as smart as you are. We’re not letting them take this ship. You will hold the superstructure. There are a lot of them, but they are smaller and weaker than you. Your boatswain and I just killed an even dozen or so without breaking a sweat, and we’re old and fat. If you keep your composure, you can and you will beat them. Dig in and hang on. We’re going to get home.’
Bookbinder handed the radio back to Marks and took Bonhomme by the shoulders. ‘Commander, if we’re going to get through this, you need to pull together. You’ve got people relying on you to show them the way.’
Bonhomme blinked, and some of the color returned to his face. ‘Right. Right. Of course. It’s just. We’re a buoy tender. We’re not equipped to fight . . . monsters.’
‘I know it,’ Bookbinder said, ‘but you don’t have to fight them. All you have to do is keep them off the bridge and out of the engine room long enough to get us back to shore.’
‘Right,’ Bonhomme said again. He slowly turned back to the ship’s console, started as gunfire erupted across the buoy deck.
Bookbinder spotted Rodriguez leading sailors through the hatch on the starboard side. They laid down a volley of disciplined fire, driving the goblins back until they hunched by the base of the giant crane. They cringed until the fire stopped, then came charging out, but Rodriguez had stationed two sailors with riot shotguns outside the hatch. They waited until the goblins were nearly on top of them before emptying shells into their massed ranks. A number of them fell, the rest either dove over the side or fled back to the relative cover of the crane. A few climbed up the boom and took aim at the bridge with bows and slings. The missiles pattered off the windows.
