Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

Britton blinked at what glided along beside them. It towered over the makeshift structures, huge shoulders surmounting a chest as broad as a coffee table with biceps the size of footballs on at least a dozen pairs of arms. The torso terminated in a snake’s tail, as thick as an oil drum and trailing off out of Britton’s view. The vaguely humanoid collar sprouted into a bevy of snake’s heads on spear-length necks. The creature was covered in gleaming, jewel-like scales, shading from purple-green at the heads to jasmine-pink along the tail. An arsenal of swords, axes, and bladed discs were thrust haphazardly into a red silk sash around its waist.

A few of the heads swung his way, tasting the air with varicolored tongues as the party passed.

Harlequin tapped Britton’s shoulder. “I forgot to mention. FOB Frontier is a combined operation. The Sahir Corps are just one of the foreign attachés we’ve got here. You’re not to have any contact with them unless specifically authorized.”

The SOC Captain turned to Rampart and nodded. Britton felt the magical tide flow back into him, strictly controlled by the Dampener. Harlequin leaned forward and tapped his chest. “No more Suppression,” he said. “Just remember, we’ve got our eye on you. The FOB’s roughly thirty square miles. Your ATTD pops anywhere outside that zone, even for a minute and…” He grinned.

“Boom,” Britton finished for him.

“The Dampener should cover you for the next couple of days at a minimum. If, God forbid, you feel like you’re being overwhelmed anyway, just get down in the mud and shout ‘Suppress, Suppress, Suppress!’ with all you’ve got. I assure you that you will never be out of earshot of someone with significant Suppression capabilities anywhere on this FOB, day or night.”

“Sounds more like a warning,” Britton said.

“Take it however you like,” Harlequin said. “Good luck in your new career. I have to say I’m very pleased that you elected to cooperate with us. You were a talented soldier, and I have every confidence that you’ll be just as good in your new role. Just remember what I’ve been telling you. Stick to the regs, and everything will be fine. The rules are in place to protect you. Don’t mess with them.

“Remember, outside the MWR tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

The Humvee rolled off, spraying mud that covered Britton from the thigh down. The sky stretched above him, nearly cloudless. The Source’s curious sensory intensity magnified everything. The smells of overcrowded latrines and mechanical-grade grease assaulted his nose, strangely beautiful in their magnitude. Soldiers griped, and vehicles rumbled in musical concentration. The sun shone as uncomfortably big and brilliant as the moon.

The inside of his container was carpeted in mud-stained blue and occupied by a particle-board desk, closet and dresser. A metal-framed army cot occupied one wall under the light of a single, long, fluorescent bulb. An army duffel rested on the bed, packed with rough linens, towels, and a toilet kit. The duffel also contained a dark gray ball cap with the Entertech company logo and two identical sets of clothing — khaki cargo pants rife with ammunition pouches and clip-points for carabiners, and skintight black shirts. The shirts were blazoned on the right shoulder with a subdued American flag, white on black. The left shoulder was stamped with the SOC arms. Over the right pectoral, a ghosted star emerged from behind a crescent moon. Over the left pectoral was another symbol he knew was unique to him — the outline of an arched doorway.

Britton rolled his eyes. That’s hardly keeping my ability a secret.

Beside the duffel lay a massive binder, as thick as a telephone book, crammed with papers. PERSONNEL MANUAL — SPECIAL REGULATIONS FOR ENTERTECH PERSONNEL SERVING IN FORWARD AORS. Britton leafed through it, then tossed it aside. It would take him a week just to read a quarter of it.

He trudged through the mud toward the shower, looking for exits. They were letting him walk around unsupervised. There had to be a way to escape. He felt the flow of the magic still surging through him, kept in check by the Dampener. He could try to open a gate. Heck, he probably didn’t even need to. He’d been on enough military installations to know how poorly guarded they could be. He could probably just walk off base. But then what? He’d be in unfamiliar country already proved hostile, and they could set off the ATTD the moment he appeared outside their designated perimeter.

He racked his brain for an answer and kept returning to the same thing — a hard steel transmitter packed with explosives deep inside his heart. There was no escape. That’s bullshit, he thought, there’s a way, and you will stay on the throttle until you figure out what it is.

He crowded in with a dozen soldiers, shivering under cold water that poured from black bags insufficiently warmed by the sun, cringing with each breeze blowing through the gaps in the tarp walls. They griped enthusiastically, whining about chow and the lack of women. If not for the magical tides flowing around him, there was no way to know he wasn’t in a regular army FOB.

Just as Britton finished washing, a SOC Hydromancer joined them, warming the water with a gesture to collective cheers. By the time he’d dressed and taken a few steps, Britton was filthy again, the bits of gravel and scrap wood laid across the track failing to stop the mud from spurting with every step, sticking to clothes as if it possessed a will of its own.

Britton shook his head and headed toward his container, when suddenly his feet steadied. He looked down to see the mud firm up into a proper road. The dirt leapt from his boots and trousers, spraying into a cloud of dry dust.

A stocky SOC lieutenant brushed past him, grinning. His huge size and oak-tree pin marked him as a Terramancer. Britton nodded thanks. At least they’re not all like Harlequin out here.

He flopped onto the thin mattress without bothering to set the sheets. He tried to figure a way to defeat the ATTD, but fatigue overwhelmed him, and in moments, he was swamped in dreamless sleep.

He woke in blackness, shivering in air gone frigid. He changed into the only clean clothing available — the odd uniform he’d found in the duffel. Still groggy, he pulled on his coat and stumbled down the muddy steps.

The night was alive with stars, the massive moon bright enough to read by. Britton stumbled backward, his reaction dulled by grogginess, as two soldiers on off-road motorcycles sped past.

“Cold, huh?” came a high, nasal voice. Britton turned to face a young man in glasses so thick that his brown eyes looked huge, swimming in fishbowls. He was tiny, his brown hair only coming up to Britton’s chest, his skin so pale that it practically glowed in the moonlight. His uniform, identical to Britton’s, flapped off his scrawny frame. A stylized skull grinned from his left pectoral.

“Uh, yeah,” Britton said, pulling his coat more tightly around him. “You work for Entertech, too?”

The man’s reply was cut off by a whooshing sound followed by an explosion. Britton saw a fireball bloom off in the distance. A siren began to wail, followed by a woman’s calm voice over a loudspeaker. “All FOB personnel, all FOB personnel. Take cover. I say again, take cover. FOB Reaction Force, action stations. I say again, action stations.” Another whoosh. Another explosion. Britton turned for the bunker.

“I wouldn’t bother,” the man said, putting on a brave voice, but clearly rattled. “The Goblin Pyromancers conjure flame strikes from the sky or just outside the walls. If you get tagged, a bunker isn’t going to help. Might as well enjoy the night as best you can. If it’s your time, it’s your time, right? Just don’t go anywhere. The MPs get annoyed if they catch you walking around during an attack.”