Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

And what about Swift, Wavesign, Peapod, and the rest of the SASS enrollees? What about Truelove and Downer? If he could get out of there, would he take them with him? Would they want to go?

More importantly, did he? The truth was that he was getting better. Would life on the run, even free life on the run, be an improvement?

The officers were beginning to accept the idea of a newly reconstituted Shadow Coven’s frequenting the establishment. While they gave the group a wide berth, they didn’t evacuate the premises. Richards had summoned one of the abundant rats on the FOB to perch on his shoulder, where it worked diligently, building an impressive cowlick out of his curly red hair.

“It’ll be okay,” Truelove said, looking Britton over anxiously. “Marty’ll get off in a few and meet us here. He’ll fix you up.”

“Dear God,” Britton muttered. “It feels like somebody put a spike in my eye.”

Richards laughed. “Stop being such a baby. You’re Shadow Coven now, baddest of the bad and all that, right? Have a drink and suck it up.” He motioned to Chris, who poured him a tumbler of something that Britton downed too quickly to taste. It burned his throat and belly, but he felt better.

“Aren’t we not supposed to hang out with Marty?” Britton asked. The thought made him uneasy. He’d come to rely on the Goblin’s kindness, a rare ray of sunshine in the otherwise bleak landscape of the FOB.

“I guess,” Truelove said. “But I’ve never seen Fitzy come in here. It’s not our fault if Marty decides to come in on his own, right?”

“Regs are regs,” Downer said.

“Regs are guidelines,” Britton said. “People bend them all time. I don’t think I ever drove a car a day in my life without speeding, and that’s probably true for 90 percent of the drivers out there.”

“I never did,” Downer said.

“That’s because you aren’t old enough to drive,” Britton growled. “Besides, you saw Harlequin stick up for him before. Harlequin outranks Fitzy.”

Downer blushed at the mention of Harlequin. “I am so old enough to drive.”

Britton’s head throbbed. “Fitzy is a real piece of work,” he said. “I better get this MAC down fast, or I swear he’s going to kill me.”

“MAC? Damn. My training is just a lot of boring chemistry,” she said. “It’s kicking my ass, but not in the same way as you, it seems.”

“How does that work for Sentient Elemental Conjuration?” Britton asked, glad to get past the tension. Downer’s mindless devotion to SOC doctrine burned him.

She nodded. “I guess they want me to be able to make elemental fuel quickly. Most of what they’re teaching me is pyro…pyro…”

“Pyrotechnics,” Truelove finished for her.

“Yeah, how to make fire out of nothing.” She pursed her lips, looking so young that Britton’s heart went out to her. His stomach twisted with guilt. It seemed like just yesterday he’d shot her on top of a burning school.

“That’s better than what they’ve got me doing,” Richards chimed in. “I’m Whispering worms.”

Britton cocked an eyebrow.

“Big, fat purple things,” Richards continued, slurring slightly. “Like maggots on steroids, except that they prefer live flesh. They’re native here. They burrow into you, eat muscle, and lay eggs in the fibers. Well, they’ll do it anywhere, but they prefer muscle tissue. Apparently, we’ve lost a soldier or two to them.” He shuddered.

“But under Whispering,” he went on, “they’re the most effective surgeons we have. They prefer unhealthy but still-living tissue apparently. They love tumors. You just have to keep them from laying their eggs and setting up house, and you’re good to go.”

“That ain’t right,” Downer said.

“What ain’t right is your being here,” Britton said. “I mean, I know you have to be, and I know you want to be. But it sucks that we live in a world where a teenaged girl spends her adolescence in the army instead of getting drunk and running up her dad’s phone bill.”

“I ran,” she said. “That’s what happens when you run. You had to take me down.”

“Did you think I liked that?” Britton asked. “Did you think any of my team did? Hell, half of us were ready to turn around and pack it in. You’re just a kid, Sarah. You deserve better than this.”

“I’m not just a kid!” she fumed, standing. “That’s what everyone says, and it’s just BS you pull to try to make yourself feel smarter. I’m a Sorcerer!”

“Okay, okay. You’re right, Sarah. I’m sorry,” he said. He looked down at his empty tumbler. The army tore people down and built them back up with the goal of making their self-worth dependent on their success in the organization. Downer had bought that lock, stock, and barrel.

Downer plopped back onto her stool and stared moodily at her soda. “I’ve probably done just as much fighting as you have,” she muttered. Britton doubted it but let the matter drop.

“Richards isn’t even a true Probe,” Truelove stammered as he tried to break the tense silence. “He taught himself to Whisper while serving in the SOC as a Terramantic Engineer.”

“What did you expect?” Richards asked. “I spent all my time building berms and ditches. If I had to shore up one more foundation, I think I would have shot myself. Chatting with the wildlife saved my sanity.” The rat sat up and squeaked triumphantly, pumping its fist in the air.

“You told me you didn’t run, right?” Britton asked Truelove.

“I called the SOC the second I realized what was going on,” the Necromancer answered.

“And I got caught in the act and was given an offer I couldn’t refuse,” Richards finished. “Looks like you two are our runners.”

But only one of us has a bomb ticking away inside his chest.

A moment later, Marty entered to a surge of muttering from the OC patrons. A look from Britton silenced the worst of it, but a few of the officers stood to go, grumbling. Britton turned to Chris. “You going to yield the bar again?”

Chris grumbled under his breath. “Gotta serve the other customers.” But he slammed a large mug and a container of sugar down on the bar. Truelove smiled and set about preparing Marty’s drink.

The Goblin ignored the mug, making soft noises as he climbed on an empty barstool to run his fingers over Britton’s face. The rough pads of his fingers felt cool, soothing.

“Fitzy is asshole,” the creature muttered, reaching into his scrubs and producing the worn leather pouch. He took out a pair of broad leaves, licked their backs, and, despite Britton’s groans of protest, stuck them over the largest swellings, clucking admonition when Britton tried to pull away. The bruises began to feel better the moment the plant touched his face. Even his headache subsided slightly. “Damn, Marty,” he said, smiling in spite of himself. “Why do all of your remedies involve spit?”

The Goblin didn’t reply, gently pressing the leaves down to make sure they stuck.

“We’re really not supposed to be hanging out with him,” Downer groused, still moody over their confrontation.

Britton’s anger sparked. The Dampener shunted it to the side, but he gave it rein. After all Marty had done for him, after all the patient kindness he had never hesitated to show in spite of how the humans there treated him, he deserved better. Zealots, especially the newly converted, sometimes gave way when you applied a little pressure.

“You know, these people don’t love you,” he said. “Why do you think we’re contractors? If we’re the good guys, why doesn’t the army acknowledge us?”

“Because we’re Probes…” she said.

Take it easy, Oscar, he told himself, she’s just a kid.