Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

“You hurt?” Marty asked, standing on his stool and reaching out for Britton. “Big fight, no?”

“Yeah,” Britton said. “Big fight. Must have killed about a hundred of your countrymen, Marty.”

But Marty nodded sympathetically, clucking in his throat. “I no anger, Uskar. Sorrahhad. They fight. No help.” His fingers found Britton’s scalp and roamed over it, searching down the back of his neck, looking for hidden injuries.

“You see…” Marty searched for the word. “Bird head? You see bird head?”

Britton nodded. “Yeah, a skull. Painted red and orange. Marty, I saw that same symbol before. But I saw it…I saw it in my own world, when I rescued some of my own people.”

Marty nodded, smiling. “Lost. You are lost people. I say you lost good. Sorrahhad say you lost bad.”

“What do you mean, lost bad? Even if you think we’re good, and we hurt you…”

“Lost good. They Sorrahhad,” Marty repeated, nodding. “They Heptahad On Dephapdt. They say you lost bad. They fight. Bad. You okay.”

“Marty, that’s not the point!” Britton said.

“What’s not the point?” Fitzy swayed in the doorway. In all their time at the FOB, they had never seen him there. Nor had they ever seen him drunk. Their instructor stank of whiskey, the fumes reaching them where they sat. His face twisted in rage, eyes swimming.

A SOC captain with confident eyes, young and trim, rose from one of the tables, walking carefully toward him, Britton could see the flash of his lapel pin, the Aeromancer’s blowing wind. “Chief warrant officer,” he said, “these premises are off-limits to warrants.”

Fitzy ignored him, jabbing a finger at Marty. “I thought I told you not to hang out with that little shit. Why can’t you just follow orders, damn it?”

“You’re not setting much of an example yourself,” the Aeromancer said, putting his hand on Fitzy’s shoulder. “Civilian contractors can drink here, but you can’t. Besides, you look like you’ve had enough already. Why don’t we get you outside, and some fresh air will…”

Fitzy brought a knee up into the man’s crotch with explosive force. The captain doubled over in time to catch Fitzy’s fist in his stomach. He collapsed on the floor, and Fitzy stepped over him. The other officers sat at their tables, looking down, up, anywhere but at Fitzy’s eyes, roving the room in search of another challenge.

Fitzy turned back to Britton, pointing. “Get him the hell out of here. I see you talking with him, I swear to God you’re both meat, starting with him.”

“It’s okay, sir,” Truelove began, “we were just…”

“Nobody’s talking to you, needledick,” Fitzy spit, his eyes never leaving Britton’s.

“Come on, Marty,” Britton said, easing the Goblin off the chair. He took the creature’s hand and began circling around Fitzy, moving toward the exit. Downer began chattering at him, but Britton missed her words, focusing on the door. Fitzy shouted something at her and turned just as Britton reached the exit.

“Where the hell are you going?” he shrieked.

“Following your orders, sir. Getting him out of here,” Britton said, and left, moving quickly.

He heard the door slam, then spring open again as Fitzy shuffled out after him, yelling at him to stop.

Britton picked up speed, half dragging the Goblin down the track toward the cash. The mud sucked at his boots, but Marty’s long, three-toed feet spanned the surface as easily as snowshoes.

“Stop!” Marty said. “He anger! I go! No problem, okay!”

“No, Marty,” Britton replied through clenched teeth. “I am not leaving you alone in the dark with him. Not like this. He’ll kill you. Once we’re back to the cash, we’ll be fine.”

Marty was silent as Britton dragged him along, Fitzy lurching behind, too drunk to catch up to them but too fit and fast for them to lose him, shouting obscenities in their wake.

Marty jerked his hand free, but matched Britton’s pace as they trudged the rest of the way, and the lights of the giant hospital tent began gleaming in the distance.

Britton stopped short. Marty kept up the pace, rushing forward and moving into the light of the tent, mixing with the crowd of orderlies, nurses, and medics who made the place a hive of activity day and night.

Britton turned as the Goblin shot him a thankful glance and disappeared inside. He suppressed the urge to run off on his own, even when the sloshing of boots and whiskey stink announced Fitzy’s arrival.

“Where the hell did that rat get off to?” the chief warrant officer whispered in Britton’s ear.

“He’s gone, sir.”

“You’re going to learn to obey orders, Keystone,” Fitzy slurred. “God as my witness, I will make you. You’ve got potential, but it only counts if you play on the team.”

And that’s what it comes down to, Britton thought as he faced off against the chief warrant officer. No matter what good you do, no matter how much your magic affects the world, you will still belong to them. This drunken, teetering madman who treats Marty like dirt will be your boss until he’s replaced by someone worse.

Because Fitzy spelled it out for you. You’re not one of them, and you’ll never be. You’re a weapon, Oscar Britton. You’re a tool. This Coven may be becoming your family, but you’re all just tools together, all pretending that you are loved by an organization that only seeks to own you.

He remembered the report on Scylla. They’d gladly cut into her brain, destroy her mind. Was that what had happened to Billy? Was that why he shook and drooled under his mother’s arms? Was that what they would do to Britton if they decided that the tool was more trouble than it was worth?

These people can never be your family. This place can never be your home.

As if to accentuate the point, Fitzy tapped Britton’s chest. “Push it too far, Keystone, and we can always give you a little reminder, the last one you’ll ever need.”

And that’s why you have the ATTD. That’s why they’ll never take it out, no matter how loyal you become. Why earn your respect when they can own you outright?

You’re no different than precision munitions or a fighter jet. You’re an expensive toy, nothing more. You may have gained some skill at using magic, but it’s not yours. You can still only do what they want you to when they want you to.

Deep in his heart, he rebelled against the growing kernel of feeling that maybe Scylla was right.

Everybody knew she was Latent. That whole sudden, perfect storm thing at the video music awards? I mean, come on, man. A lot of people thought it was CGI, but not the folks who were there live. There’s no way to fake weather on that grand a scale. Of course the SOC knew. But did they do anything about it? Hell, no. There’s always been two sets of laws in this country — a set for regular folks and a set for the elite. Report your Latency or die. Unless you’re a senator’s kid, a famous actress, or an NBA superstar. In that case, we can work with you.

— Artie Welch, Friday Morning Krazytalk 98.2 FM

If Fitzy remembered the night’s altercation, he gave no sign. But starting the next morning, the tempo of their training increased.

“It’s time you stopped being useless,” Fitzy growled at them, as they gathered in the practice yard where they’d first tested out. “You’re going to be operating against Selfers, and Selfers use magic. You’re soldiers…or as close as bloodsucking contactors can get to it. That’s given you a range of skills in firearms, combat-casualty care, hand-to-hand combat, wilderness survival, not to mention the courage, leadership, and discipline necessary to get tough jobs done. Why, I’d hazard to say that even without your magic, you’d be a force to be reckoned with.