Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

“Is that a fixed or rotary wing whine I’m hearing, Novice?” Fitzsimmons asked. “Do you honestly think I give a rat’s ass for whatever bullshit excuses you care to mine at this particular moment? Ooooh, I was really tired, sir. That manual was just too big, sir. Like I give a fuck about any of that.”

Britton swallowed his anger and nodded. Such treatment might work in boot camp, but he was a former officer and pilot and not even in the army anymore. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll go check the codes in the manual right now.” He turned his back on the man and moved toward the P pods. He’d barely taken a step when the chief warrant officer slapped him in the back of the head so hard that he stumbled forward. Britton whirled, the Dampener easing the magic that flowed along the current of his anger.

“I was warned that you weren’t very smart,” Fitzsimmons said, moving so close that the brim of his cap touched Britton’s chin. “I also heard that you assaulted a chief petty officer last night in an effort to assist a damned Goblin. You also used your magic under unauthorized circumstances before we’d had a chance to enroll you in the SASS. Not off to a very good start, Novice. So, no. You don’t get to go check the manual now. Instead, you get to do fifty push-ups, and I’d like to hear you say ‘sir’ at the end of each count off. On my deck, right now.”

Britton looked down at the thick mud — wet, chilly, and at least four inches deep. For a moment, his composure failed him. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Fitzy grabbed Britton’s balls, squeezing hard. Britton howled, pushing him backward, and letting the surge of magic flow through the Dampener’s wall. The man smiled, and Britton felt his magical current roll back as the Suppression took hold.

Fitzy kicked Britton hard in the knee. As Britton doubled over, he grabbed his neck and slammed a knee into his stomach. Britton fell face-first in the mud and struggled to rise out of the choking thickness. He could feel Fitzy’s boot on his back.

“Count off, Novice!” the chief warrant officer roared. “I don’t have all damned day!”

“Fuck you!” Britton struggled, but Fitzy’s boot held him down with surprising strength. He leaned down and pressed a fingertip into the base of Britton’s neck. Pain blossomed into numbness. Britton’s face dropped into the mud, and Fitzy held it there. Just when he felt he would choke, Fitzy let him lift it a few inches. He gulped air, swallowing mud in the process. He sputtered, choking.

“Count off!”

Britton tried to speak but couldn’t find the breath. His face went down in the mud again until his universe shrank to a pinhole filled entirely by the need for air. His throat burned. His lungs swelled. When he thought they might burst, Fitzy let him raise his head.

“Count off.” Fitzy’s voice was calmer.

Britton got his arms underneath him, but his veins felt full of lead. He managed one agonizing push-up. “One.”

“One what, Novice?”

“One, sir.”

“That’s better. The agreed number was fifty.”

Britton thought of air and how badly he wanted it. His peripheral vision filled with onlookers, but he swallowed his pride and channeled his rage and humiliation into his arms. He collapsed at thirty-two, his chest a flaming wreck. Fitzy took his boot off his back and Britton rolled over, coughing.

“You still owe me eighteen, but I’ll collect later, Novice. On your feet.”

Chastened, Britton rose, gasping. He remembered his time as a butter-bar lieutenant straight out of his commissioning. He’d been dressed down and humiliated in front of a crowd before. He stared straight ahead, ignoring the eyes around him. He knew when he was beaten.

“We have an understanding?” Fitzy asked.

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Outstanding, Novice.” He gestured past the chow hall. “About half a klick down that way you’ll find a checkpoint. The guard there will let you in. There’s a muster field just beyond it. You’ve already met Downer and Truelove. Form up with them when you arrive. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Much better, Novice. That mud looks fantastic on you. It’s an outstanding reminder of the fact that I am your government customer and a very demanding one at that. I’m going to expect top-notch customer service from you, and you wouldn’t want me to have to let your project manager know that I’m dissatisfied with your performance, would you?” He tapped Britton’s chest meaningfully. Britton felt the ATTD nestled in his heart beneath his sternum.

“No, sir.”

“Make tracks, Novice. I’ll meet you there shortly.”

Britton trudged through the ankle-deep mud down the track beyond. It wasn’t the beating that angered him most though he felt his magic surge at the thought. It was the comment about defending Marty. Britton already had an inkling of the status Goblins held at the FOB, and it felt far too close to the way Selfers were treated in his own world. So far, Marty appeared far more decent than most of the humans he’d met on the FOB.

At the end of the track, a small plywood booth held a single SOC guard, shivering in his mud-spattered parka. The area beyond was screened by two corrugated metal doors on wheels, topped with barbed wire and protruding from ad hoc walls of concrete blast barriers and piles of sandbags. A huge yellow 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.

Britton cleared the mud off his badge, but the guard was already opening the gate at the sight of his uniform. Britton stepped past and into a broad field, nearly stumbling as his feet touched hard ground. Beyond the gate, the earth was dry and smooth as a hardwood floor. Goblin contractors toiled in small teams along the edges of the square, keeping their eyes scrupulously on their work, their minders watching them closely.

The area before him looked like a holiday campsite, with ten low, star-shaped buildings clad in cheap vinyl siding abutting a parade ground. Each entrance was marked by a swinging brown sign. Britton scanned them; one read COVEN 6. CAMELOPARDALIS. Below that, in smaller SCRIPT — NOTHING IS BEYOND OUR REACH! Beneath the writing was a stylized image of a giraffe stretching its long neck toward an apple on a branch. Coven Five bore the image of a belching furnace with the words FORNAX. HELL HATH NO FURY! Coven Seven fielded the image of a swan, beneath which was written: CYGNUS. GRACE UNDER FIRE. Here was an arrow in flight. There a peacock with feathers spread in a glorious sunburst.

The Covens had begun to assemble, each clustering around a yellow pennant stapled to a wooden pole. Each bore the image of the Coven assigned to them. Behind each Coven stood a Suppressor, the fist-lightning symbol on a black band around his upper arm.

Britton spotted Truelove, shouldering the only black pennant in the field, fluttering the ghosted star behind the moon. COVEN 4—UMBRA, IT READ, THE MAGIC BEHIND THE MAGIC.

Downer stood at attention beside Truelove. A third man, tall, broad-shouldered, with close-cropped ginger hair, stood behind them. Shadow Coven alone wore Entertech uniforms. The rest of the Covens were in standard digital camouflage, their SOC shoulder patches and magical-school lapel pins the only indicators they were not regular soldiers.

The soldiers to either side of Shadow Coven whispered, moving away reflexively. Britton jogged over and fell in beside the redheaded man. He had a wide, doughy face, spotted with freckles. His mouth was lined, wrinkled into a permanent smile. Beside the Coven symbol on his chest was a stylized image of a man calling, three wolves howling in answer. He winked at Britton, and two sparrows landed on the guy’s head, twittering and hopping. He paid them no mind, the corners of his eyes smiling.