Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

The attacks continued nightly. He became so used to the pattern of arcing flames or low-sweeping clouds that dispensed columns of lightning that he no longer flinched as the sirens wailed or the Apaches leapt airborne, droning over the barricades like angry hornets in search of an assailant already long since melted into the darkness. Once or twice, Britton could make out shadows in the sky and recognized the broad wingspan of Rocs. Other nights, he thought he saw leathern wings of smaller shapes and heard shrill cries he couldn’t identify, but it wouldn’t be long before the antiair systems would open up, funneling twenty-millimeter rounds in a shining white pillar, until the things flew off or were cut to a shrieking mist.

A shape jogged by in the darkness as Britton sat on the steps. He strained his eyes as the shape materialized into Richards.

“Hey,” Britton said nervously. “Where you headed?”

Richards jumped, startled. “Heading to the latrine,”

Britton felt a fool. The man had to piss, so it was not a good time to bother him. But his stomach was in knots. Scylla’s offer had given the idea of the worm added immediacy. If there was another way, he had to use it. Richards could Whisper, Britton had to know if he could help him.

He started to speak, then said nothing.

Richards shifted from one foot to the other.

“Forget it,” Britton said. “It’s nothing. Go drain the vein.”

“Well, now I can’t,” Richards said. “It’ll crawl back up because I’ll be wondering what you were going to say.”

Britton chuckled, grateful for the humor. “I just…we don’t talk much at the OC. I can’t sleep, and I wanted to shoot the breeze. I wanted to know if you’re happy here.” Clumsy, he thought. Don’t be so damned obvious.

Richards’s voice went hard. “I’m very happy here, Keystone. You should be, too.”

Britton was silent. Damn it. You knew he wouldn’t help you. Why did you even risk asking him? You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t tell Fitzy.

Richards’s voice was more sympathetic as he said, “I know the girl pisses you off, and she can be a little overbearing, but she’s young. Cut her some slack. She’s right about one thing, you’ll come around, eventually. This won’t suck like this forever.”

That’s what I’m afraid of. “Yeah,” Britton replied. “You’re right.”

Richards laughed. “I feel like we’ve both grown from this conversation. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to break this romantic moment before I wet myself.”

He jogged on to the latrine while Britton mounted the steps to his hooch, cursing his stupidity. He dozed with cries and explosions of FOB Frontier’s night in his ears, drifting into half sleep. There had been so many explosions, so much screaming in the past months. Such sounds had come to define his life, and Britton didn’t realize how at home he’d come to feel among them.

Therese didn’t come back to the SASS. Salamander didn’t mention the incident with the bear and gave Britton a wide berth. Swift avoided him as well, catching a sharp look from Salamander whenever he appeared as if he would talk to Britton. Britton continued to work closely with Wavesign, his only link to the memory of Therese, but the boy made little improvement even when Britton could convince him to practice his magic. The glimmer of control Wavesign had exhibited during the bear attack didn’t repeat itself, and the young Hydromancer’s magic remained as wild and unpredictable as ever. “Guess it was a one-time thing,” he said, shrugging when Britton complimented him.

Things progressed with Shadow Coven. Pistol shooting was added to the mix, with the Novices firing at targets on the run, employing magic in the process. Targets were mounted on stands in Portcullis’s loading bay, and Britton practiced opening gates, plugging away at them and shutting them in three-second intervals under Fitzy’s critical gaze.

At last they were moved to a practice yard, where they worked in tandem. Britton opened gates on the penned attack dogs at Portcullis that Richards Whispered out from their staging areas, sending them after cloth dummies on wooden posts around the open field.

He improved. He fought Fitzy to a standstill more than once. His control over the gates reached the point where he wondered if he needed the Dampener anymore. If SOC operators had even a fraction of his level of control, then no Selfer could hope to stand against them.

The daily meditation calmed Britton, left him centered. The regular exercise worked out much of his angst over his capture, the losses of the past month. At times he even permitted himself to feel the slightest bit self-satisfied, at home in the Source, feeling his abilities come to fruition, his relationship with Marty and the rest of the Coven deepening. Such times made him angry with himself.

Do not get comfortable, he told himself. This is not your home. If you become a tool of the SOC, then you have made the wrong call. You still have to find a way out of here. You still have to find a way to do good with what you have.

And then one day, as magical control practice was winding down, Therese appeared.

She wandered through the gate with no guards escorting her. She looked pale, her eyes shadowed, her cheeks streaked with tears. She wore blue hospital scrubs, still smeared with a dull rust that could only be dried blood.

Britton ran for her. He heard Salamander start to call to him, then the Pyromancer shut his mouth and let him go.

Britton ran to her and took her elbows as Therese sank into his grip, resting her head on his chest, crying freely.

“What’s wrong? Therese? What did they do to you?”

“Oh, those bastards,” she sobbed. “Those fucking bastards.”

“What? What? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “They got me, Oscar. They fucking got me.”

“What do you mean? How did they get you?”

“Where do you think I’ve been these past days? They put me in the cash, Oscar. They’ve had me healing the wounded there. The victims of the Goblin attacks, accidents on the base, the sick. They come in every day.”

Britton was swamped with relief, but paused, unable to understand. “Why is that bad?”

“Because now I have to help them, Oscar. It’s as sure an anchor as the bomb in your heart. They know me. They know I can’t leave those people. They know I have to work for them now.” She rocked against his chest, crying afresh.

Britton held her, patting her back, trying desperately to think of something to say. He had no words. Her argument was so persuasive, so plain. Isn’t this what you’re beginning to feel? he wondered. This sense of purpose? Of control? How could you deny that to her?

“Therese, …”

“Don’t,” she said, pushing away from him. She dried her eyes and smoothed her filthy hospital scrubs. She looked at the knot of enrollees, all staring at her in openmouthed silence. Wavesign’s cloud had coalesced into rain again.

She nodded firmly to Salamander and marched purposefully toward the flagpole. Before Britton realized what she was doing, she hauled it to the top and stood at the position of attention.

Salamander jogged over to stand before her, raised his right hand, and began to speak.

“Yes, yes. I swear, and I will,” she said. “Now get me the hell out of here before I change my mind.”

Salamander nodded and motioned toward the sign-in building. Therese shot Oscar a final look before heading off in that direction.

From all along the fence line to the SASS gate, the applause rang out as the guards expressed their approval for the newest member of their ranks.

Britton’s gut churned as he watched her go. He struggled with the emotion before nailing it down.