Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

“FOs?” Pyre asked.

“Sorry, I keep thinking everybody is in the army out here. Forward observers. They call in fire. You know, for artillery.”

“Oh, right. Well, yeah. We call them spotters. They sight in for the magical attacks,” Pyre said.

Another shot, the second dot vanished.

“Looks like they got them both,” Therese said.

“There’ll be more,” Pyre said. “There always are.”

The group stood in silence, the jovial mood suddenly turned sober. That’s war. You kill, then you try to pretend that everything’s as it was. After a moment, the football players returned to their huddle, the chatter breaking the tension.

“So?” Pyre said. “Coming?”

“I should get in there,” Britton said, trying to shrug off the sound of the gunshots, the drifting odor of cordite. “I can be anywhere on the field that I want.” He stood, dusting himself off.

Salamander abruptly stopped laughing and shook his head. “Not you,” he said.

“But…”

“I didn’t stutter, did I?” the major said. Noting Britton’s crestfallen look, his voice softened. “I’m sorry, Novice. You want to get out there, fine, but no magic.”

“That’s bullshit,” Britton began.

“No, it’s common sense, something you apparently lack. If Swift is momentarily indiscreet, then maybe there’s an unfair touchdown. If you leave the FOB in an effort to get around a blocker, then I’ve got a huge mess on my hands and the SOC is down one Portamancer. They’re not fucking around about the ATTD, Oscar. Don’t you risk it. Not ever.”

Britton knew Salamander was right, but the surly anger wouldn’t leave him. He turned to Pyre, “I guess that’s an order,” and sat back down.

“Not an order,” Salamander said, “just friendly advice.

“Of course, it just so happens if you elect not to follow it, you die.”

“Fine,” Britton said, standing and rubbing his hands together. “No magic, I get it. But you can’t stop me from playing.”

“I can do whatever the hell I want with you,” Salamander said. “But so long as you don’t use magic, I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your getting embarrassed out on the field.”

Britton cocked an eyebrow at Pyre. “So? Candypants, huh?”

Pyre shrugged. “We’ll see.”

“Oh,” said Britton, jogging out to the field. “I do believe you will.”

The Qu’ran is very clear on this. It says, “And they followed what the devils gave out falsely of magic of the reign of Solomon; for Solomon did not disbelieve, but the devils disbelieved, teaching men magic and such things that came down at Babylon…” There is no argument among any of the schools on this matter. For once, all from Maliki to Hanafi are united. Even the Shi’a forbid magic. All praises to Allah the merciful, the compassionate, who has shown us the Djinn in our midst, that we may drive them out.

— Shaykh Abu Hassan al-Masri

Interviewed for Public Television series Islam and the Great Reawakening

Mornings at the SASS were followed by afternoon MAC practice, one-on-one, under the giant tent. Britton improved slowly. At times, he managed to turn some of the blows, disengage the mount, or control the battlespace for a moment, but Fitzy had years on him. The smaller man always won out in the end, and Britton spent his evenings in the OC under Marty’s care. The little Goblin never hesitated to take care of him, and Britton felt a growing sense of camaraderie. The bruises faded to mottled patches by morning most times, and the swelling had gone, though Britton still went about looking like he’d just been hit by a car most days. He counted himself lucky that he hadn’t lost a tooth.

Until he did.

Fitzy’s boot split his lip and sent one of his lower canines spinning, lost in the mud. The blood was too much, and Fitzy had gotten tired of being spattered every time he closed. At last, he’d sent Britton to the hospital in disgust. “Get that hole plugged up and get your ass back here.”

“Sir, there’s a Physiomancer in the SASS. Let me see her.”

“Negative, Novice. Your authorized hours in the SASS are over for the day, and I don’t need to be breaking protocol just to preserve your good looks. The United States government is interested in your performance, not your charisma. You will go directly to the cash, then immediately report back here, and if I find out you went anywhere else in between, there will be hell to pay.”

Britton had spun on his heel and jogged away. He had no intention of returning, no matter how long it took to get seen.

Colored canvas partitions, suspended by strong lines snaking through steel grommets, divided the massive hospital tent. Shadows played off the fabric, giving a fun-house cast to the rows of steel cots, medical electronics, and shelving. Navy corpsmen bustled back and forth between white-coated army doctors. Britton moved down a double row of makeshift beds where the more badly wounded drowsed in drug-induced slumber. Shadows writhed amid groans from behind a partition under a sign reading TRAUMA.

Other signs hung throughout the tent. BURN UNIT, SURGERY, RADIOLOGY. Britton searched until he found one that read DENTAL UNIT. He followed it out of the main cash tent and down a short track toward another one. The signs took him through the phlebotomy section, where blue-scrubbed orderlies took blood from a dozen pale-looking men. The other side of the hallway was occupied with a row of makeshift stalls rigged behind ribbons of canvas under a sign reading URINALYSIS.

The orderlies collecting the yellow vials from the occupants of the stalls were entirely Goblin contractors. Blue cloth masks designed for human faces contended with giant pointed noses and ears. A few of the Goblins had gone so far as to cut holes in them for their noses to poke through.

The sign to the dental unit directed him straight through, but Britton stopped short. Marty stood near the tent exit, a steel test-tube tray, brimming with stoppered tubes half-filled with yellow-green urine, in both hands. The two stared at one another before Marty turned to one of the other Goblin orderlies and chattered in their own language, passing him the tray. The Goblins surrounding Marty bowed in unison, deeply, backing slightly away, muttering softly in their guttural hissing tongue.

Marty reached out and touched Britton’s face, his rough hands surprisingly gentle. “Come,” he said, taking Britton’s hand and leading him the way he had come. They pushed back into the main hospital tent and out a side entrance over a makeshift wooden boardwalk that kept them out of the mud and into another tent with a sign reading RESEARCH/SPECIAL PROJECTS.

A wave of cold hit Britton as they pushed through the tent’s clear-plastic flaps. Beyond was an entry room with a beat-up but comfortable-looking couch in front of a battered desk, atop which sat a television playing a kung fu video. A doughy, forty-ish captain sprawled on the couch, his fingers bright orange from a bag of Cheese Puffs. He paused at the intrusion, scowling as he wiped his hands on his rumpled uniform and stood. His name tape, stained with food, read HAYES.

His lapel pin showed the Physiomancer’s heart and cross.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” he fumed at Marty, then stopped short at the sight of Britton’s Shadow Coven uniform.

“You fix him,” Marty said evenly, tapping Britton’s elbow. Britton’s heart sank as he realized that Marty was referring to his tooth, not his heart.

“If he needs attention, he can go back to the check-in desk and put his name on the list. He’s hardly sustained a life-threatening injury,” Hayes said, glancing nervously at Britton. “Indig aren’t supposed to be in here! You get the hell out of here right now before I call the MPs! I’m in the middle of important work!”