Shadow Ops 3: Breach Zone

by Myke Cole

  ‘This is it,’ Harlequin said. ‘At least, I think this is as good as it’s going to get. How are you holding up?’

  Bookbinder’s shadowed eyes were slitted, his lips cracked over mostly gray beard stubble. He scratched at one ear, an irritated patch had cropped up near the lobe, rubbed raw where he’d worried it. His nails were too long, filthy. The man desperately needed some rack time and a shower. They all did.

  But Harlequin also knew that every single one of his ammo dumps contained at least a can of 5.56mm rounds crackling with electricity.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Bookbinder said, smiling a rictus grin. ‘Ready to run a fucking marathon, actually.’ He took a pull on the small silver can in his hand. The energy drinks helped, but caffeine made them jumpy.

  A round flew out of the darkness somewhere to their left, leaving a sizzling trail. It clipped the side of a building in the distance where a Gahe must have shown itself. Crackling blue electricity crawled along the brick surface before the round’s magic was spent.

  ‘You do good work,’ Harlequin mused.

  ‘We do good work,’ Bookbinder said. ‘Without the payload, it’s just a bullet.’

  ‘We need to start getting this stuff up north.’

  ‘I’d feel better if I knew what Gahe were where. I don’t want to run our people out into those streets only to have them fall on us. We need to smoke them out of the buildings closest to the park.’

  ‘Could we try ensorcelling some mortar rounds? Maybe a couple of the Javelins? Or the rockets on the helos? How would the area effect work?’

  Bookbinder paused, thinking. ‘Never tried it. I don’t think the explosive effect would make a difference. Stands to reason that if I ensorcell a casing large enough to fragment, or the shrapnel inside a high-explosive round, that it would spread the magic that way. M67 grenades? I saw a case of those back in the ready room.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘Jesus, I can’t think straight.’

  Harlequin clapped his shoulder. ‘Maybe we should grab a few hours. We can’t go out there half-drunk on fatigue.’

  Bookbinder shook his head. ‘I’ll be okay, I just ne . . .’

  Both men froze as they felt a magical current prickle their senses, moving in quickly from the west. The remaining Fornax Novices were on the wall, but Harlequin knew the feel of their currents now. This was different. He turned to Bookbinder, but the general was already nodding to him. ‘Go.’

  Harlequin shot airborne, shouting into his radio. ‘We’ve got magic incoming, west wall . . . not sure of the dis . . .’

  He could already see the soldiers on the western perimeter, where a makeshift gate had been constructed from an enormous superdozer, its earthmoving blade bolted to a section of T-wall. The dozer had backed inward slightly to create a gap in the wall covered by soldiers, who were busy ushering in the latest stream of refugees. A few of them covered the opening, but most were busy helping the civilians in as quickly as possible, ushering them toward Castle Clinton and the makeshift camp beyond.

  He scanned the crowd of twenty or so people, but they all looked uniformly bedraggled, exhausted, and filthy. Many were wrapped in fire blankets or sheets, heads down. None of them wore uniforms. The magical current intensified, emanating from among them.

  Harlequin began shouting, waving at the soldiers to get the hell back. They looked up at him in surprise. The civilians joined suit, frightened eyes staring in shock as he sped toward them.

  Save two.

  They threw off silver fire blankets, one of them jumping airborne and unleashing a torrent of lightning that blew three of the soldiers off their feet, sending them tumbling in smoking heaps.

  Harlequin reached the edge of Castle Clinton and both figures came clear under the klieg lights set up around the park. He hoped against hope to see the small, gnarled, white-painted figures of goblins, knew he wouldn’t.

  Both were humans, tall and lithe. The Aeromancer looked like a reject from a bondage film. Studded, black leather belts crossed his chest, his head hidden behind a mask with a zippered mouth. The other was female, broad-shouldered and stripped to the waist, heavy breasts sagging almost to her belt under a field of tattoos covering every inch of exposed skin.

  Not goblins. Selfers. The first recruits answering Scylla’s call.

  The female stretched out a hand, and Castle Clinton’s rear wall went abruptly soft, the stone flowing into itself, brick and mortar reverting to liquid and dust. Harlequin could hear shouts from inside, see the antennae arrays they relied on for communications droop and sink earthward. He dove as low as he dared, watching the patchy grass rise up to meet him before throwing his current forward to roll the Terramancer’s back. His own magic, bound up in Suppression, no longer held him aloft, and he tumbled in the grass, rolling on his face and shoulders. He ducked into the roll, letting himself come up and into a kneeling position, ripping his pistol from its holster on his thigh. His head spun from the impact, but he gritted his teeth and leveled the gun at the Selfer Terramancer, who backpedaled, eyes wide.

  Harlequin threw himself back, colliding with the softened castle wall as a sizzling burst of lightning rent the ground beside him. The wall bowed inward, still standing, but only just. He raised the pistol again, fired at the Aeromancer, who danced aside, swooping around to get at him from behind. ‘West wall! West wall!’ he shouted into his commlink.

  He heard shouts as soldiers came running, heard the sharp cracks of carbines. The Aeromancer dove, extending a hand toward them. Harlequin could feel the hair on his arms rise, smell the ozone.

  He swore, dropping the Terramancer’s Suppression and Binding his own magic into a column of lightning that clipped the Selfer Aeromancer. He shouted, somersaulting in the air, coming around for another pass. Then he jerked sideways as a round caught him in the arm, yelping like a dog. He swooped low, arms outstretched to retrieve his comrade, but the soldiers were getting on their sights now, and well-placed shots drove him away.

  The Terramancer, out from under Harlequin’s Suppression, turned back to Castle Clinton’s wall. Harlequin leapt out of the way, gathering his magic to interdict the Selfer’s flow again.

  But another flow raced past him, interweaving with the Terramancer’s. The Selfer gaped as her magic was reeled in, then pushed back out, Binding to the ground around her feet. She sank to her waist, her tattooed body held fast by a mud pit of her own making.

  Bookbinder appeared at Harlequin’s side. ‘Got her,’ he panted, then pointed skyward.

  Harlequin leapt airborne and flew after the remaining Selfer. The man ducked, dove, tried to loop up behind Harlequin, undisciplined bursts of lightning tearing rents in the ground, clipping the side of one of their few remaining Humvees. Like most Selfers, he was powerful but undisciplined. Skill beats will, the SOC mantra went. Harlequin stayed easily on his six, following him through clumsy loop after loop, dodging the bursts of poorly aimed lightning. He herded him carefully back over Castle Clinton, shedding altitude, firing his own lightning at a steep angle to force the Aeromancer higher.

  At last, he alighted on the castle. The Selfer Aeromancer danced out over the barricade wall, looking over his shoulder one more time. He banked back over the park, one hand clutching his arm where the bullet had skimmed him.

  Harlequin shook his head, reached out, and Suppressed the man’s flow.

  The Selfer shouted as his dive became a tumble. He pitched through the air, arms flailing, slamming into the harder part of Castle Clinton’s wall with a sickening crunch.

  Harlequin turned and flew back to the Terramancer. Three rounds had caught her in the chest, lifting her mostly up and out of the ground, turning her upper body at a disturbing angle from her lower. Her face had turned purple, tongue lolling out. She held a nickel-plated high-caliber revolver in one hand.

  Bookbinder reached Harlequin’s side. ‘She pulled a gu
n, started shooting. We returned fire. Damn it. Would have liked to question her.’

  ‘What would she tell you?’ Harlequin shrugged. ‘She’s from Mississippi. Or she’s from upstate. Or Utah. Or maybe even the cleared zone in Tribeca. She saw Scylla’s message and came to take her place in the founding of her new and glorious free country. These two are just the beginning. There’ll be more, and they’ll all have the same story.’

  Bookbinder nodded. ‘We’d better start screening any civilians from now on before taking them in. Make sure we have someone Latent get a read on them.’

  ‘Yes.’ He left unsaid the obvious fact, that they didn’t have enough Latent resources to go around.

  ‘We better radio up to the barricades, see if they’re getting hit, too.’

  Harlequin nodded, his stomach sinking. Because, even without making that call, he knew what the answer would be.

  Bookbinder shook his head. ‘We are well and truly fucked.’

  Harlequin realized he’d been fanning a tiny ember of hope for the past three days, guarding it against the winds of defeat that had been buffeting him since he’d arrived at Battery Park.

  With Bookbinder’s words, the ember died. ‘Yeah.’

  And then the gate opened, static light spilling over them both, stinging Harlequin’s eyes until they watered, tracking dirty trails down his cheeks.

  ‘It’s fine, Oscar,’ Harlequin said to the shimmering surface. ‘No harm will come to you, I swear. We just want to talk.’

  The broad shoulders of Oscar Britton’s silhouette were sharply outlined against the darkness of the Source at night. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll hang out here for a minute.’

  Harlequin shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘Where’s Sarah?’ Britton asked.

  ‘North of here on Houston Street. The barricades would have fallen without her help long ago, and they may still fall regardless.’

  ‘She’s okay?’

  ‘She’s fine, Oscar. She’s pissed off and angling for all kinds of concessions when this is over, but she’s fine.’

  ‘Sir.’ Britton inclined his head to Bookbinder.

  ‘Nice to see you.’ Bookbinder nodded back. Harlequin thought it an understatement. The last time he was this happy to see someone was when Sarah Downer had stepped off her helicopter and punched him in the jaw.

  ‘Jesus, Oscar. Just come out here. It’s stupid talking to you through that thing. It’s making me dizzy,’ Harlequin said. ‘We need you. I’m not going to do anything to screw that up.’

  ‘You have my word on it, Oscar,’ Bookbinder added. ‘The word of a general.’ The words came out solemn, rang ridiculous. They all tried to keep a straight face, but a moment later they found themselves chuckling. The tension broke, and Britton stepped through, sticking close to the gate.

  ‘A general, huh. I heard you were a big deal now,’ Britton said.

  Bookbinder smiled. ‘Yeah. I have all these new responsibilities. Like . . . staying away from the media at all costs and . . . not seeing my family. Oh, and I almost forgot, making boomers for whoever tells me.’

  Britton turned and motioned at the gate. Therese Del Aqua emerged behind him, cautious, legs tensed to jump back in at a moment’s notice.

  ‘Ma’am,’ Cormack said, as he joined them. A small ring of soldiers gathered, pointing and whispering.

  ‘This is . . .’ Harlequin began.

  ‘I watch the news, sir,’ Cormack said. ‘Nice to finally meet you. If you’re wanting to do any healing, we’ve got a fairly endless supply of wounded here.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll always help with that’ – she turned to Bookbinder – ‘especially for a general. Maybe you’ll let me take a look at your eye first?’

  Cormack nodded. ‘I’d be much obliged, ma’am.’

  ‘I’ve been seeing both of you in the press a lot,’ Britton said. ‘Figured you put Porter in a tough spot, being dissenters and public heroes at the same time.’

  ‘They put me out to pasture,’ Harlequin said. ‘They’d have been happy to leave me there if it hadn’t been for the Breach.’

  ‘The right choice. Both of you,’ Britton said.

  Harlequin paused. ‘Well, thanks. Anyway, I’m not sure if you’ve seen the news, but it seems one of your chickens has come home to roost on our doorstep here. It’s Scylla.’

  Britton and Therese exchanged a meaningful look, and Britton swallowed. ‘I know.’

  ‘You helped start this, Oscar,’ Harlequin said, ‘now we need you to help finish it.’

  Britton’s brows drew together. ‘You don’t need to convince me of that. Not a night goes by that I don’t remember what happened. I went after her as soon as I got free of the FOB. I even saw the team you sent to bring her in. Sarah told you, when you were interrogating her.’

  Harlequin looked uncomfortable. ‘I didn’t interrogate her . . .’

  Britton shook his head. ‘But you worked with the people who did.’

  ‘Oscar, it wasn’t my call,’ Harlequin said. ‘I did everything I could to get her out. My star wasn’t exactly on the rise at the time.’

  Britton had the bit in his teeth. ‘You people. You never fucking learn. This is why . . .’

  ‘Easy!’ Bookbinder interrupted. ‘You’re talking to the guy who sprung you from prison. The man who defied the President of the United States, then came back to face him. The man who is currently dealing with a problem you created by letting that Witch go in the first place.’ We both let her go, didn’t we? Harlequin thought. Or at least it was close enough as makes no difference.

  ‘Sure,’ Therese said, ‘because it’s one-sided like that. None of this has anything to do with your jacked-up system that created these conflicts. Without the McGauer-Linden Act, I would never have been at FOB Frontier, and neither would Scylla . . .’

  ‘Enough,’ Harlequin cut in. ‘We do not have time for this crap! We have the same goal here. We all want to stop her. We get that done, then we argue the rest of it later. Congress made that damn law, Oscar. We wear uniforms. We do what we’re told.’ Not always. Not anymore.

  ‘What are they telling you to do this time?’ Britton asked.

  ‘To stand and fight. To wait for relief. But if we do that, we’re going to lose. We don’t have the magic to deal with the Gahe. Well, we did, before she put the all-call out to every Selfer in the country. They’re starting to check in.’

  ‘And you need me to help fight them?’ Britton asked. ‘You want me to work for you again? To run down American citizens? Forget it.’

  Harlequin was already shaking his head. ‘I know you too well to ask that of you, Oscar. I don’t want your help fighting them. I want your help winning them. You’re the only person in the country Selfers trust more than her. You’re the only one who can convince them to fight for their country instead of against it.’

  Therese snorted. ‘You haven’t exactly made them feel like this is their country.’

  ‘But it still is,’ Harlequin said, ‘and we both know that Scylla’s vision for whatever would replace it is a hell of a lot worse than what’s going on right now.’

  Britton shook his head. ‘Bullshit. You offer no proof of that. You can’t just go to the Selfers of this country, whom you have been hounding and jailing and killing since the Great Reawakening, and ask them to help their oppressors because the alternative is worse. Scylla is offering something. She put money on the table. You have to do the same thing.’

  ‘I don’t have the power to offer . . .’ Harlequin began.

  ‘Which is what government always says, and why nobody ever trusts it. It’s not my job. I don’t have the authority. I can’t. Policy says. I don’t write the laws. It all comes out to the same thing: No. Well, you don’t have time to convene Congress and debate the
issue on the floor. You need Selfers to help you now. That means you need to offer them something tangible and real.’ Britton gestured to Bookbinder. ‘Hell, you’ve got a flag officer here.’

  ‘One star,’ Bookbinder said.

  Britton tensed, stabbed a finger at Bookbinder’s chest. ‘That is exactly what I’m talking about. You want to duck the hard call, that’s on you, but I will not help you convince Selfers to work against their own interest because you won’t step up to the plate.’

  Harlequin sighed. ‘What are your demands?’

  Britton exchanged another glance with Therese, then turned back to Harlequin. ‘They’re not my demands. They’re the demands of every Latent-American who has felt the SOC’s bootheel on their neck. And you have to be behind them. I mean really behind them. You hedged your bets when we saved the FOB. You plugged right back into the system you bucked as soon as you realized that popular opinion would keep it from punishing you. Now, you have to be ready to break ranks for real. You have to be willing to put Porter in a chicken wing and hold him there. No matter what happens. You have to pick a side.’

  ‘You want us to side with Selfers,’ Bookbinder said.

  ‘Selfer is a label the government sticks on Latent people who don’t toe their line. They are Latent, just like you are. Scylla is offering them a community of self-rule. You offer them second-class digs at the feet of people who are terrified of them. You need to show them you are throwing in your lot with them. You need to do it on the air and in public.’

  Harlequin’s stomach turned over. He met Bookbinder’s eyes, saw the same doubt there. FOB Frontier had housed tens of thousands of men and women, most of whom had military training.

  New York was a city of over eight million civilians.

  Bookbinder looked down. ‘We did it once already.’

  ‘That was different, sir. We saved a military division from being overrun. This is trucking with Selfers. This unwinds the bedrock of the McGauer-Linden Act.’