“Our friend here is a former soldier of no mean accomplishment.” Harlequin smiled. “He’s qualled. Pistol, long gun, and grenades. No history of domestic violence. I’ll get the paperwork sent over from his unit.”
“This ought to fit him,” James said, handing the carbine to Britton. “Grab yourself a sidearm from the locker over there and a vest. The magazines are already full. Should be six mags for your long gun, two for the pistol. Two clips for grenades. Grab one smoke, one frag. Go bag should already be loaded and on your vest.”
While Britton selected his gear, the armorer fussed over the clothing rack, muttering about guys who were too damned big for their own good. His surly tone reminded Britton of his father and of Nelson, which in turn reminded him of Jake. He shook his head. The only way now was forward. He could feel the tiny ball resting in his heart, holding him fast on course.
Britton was soon decked out in khaki cargo pants and a black Entertech T-shirt. A ball cap with a subdued American flag topped the ensemble, reinforced sunglasses perched on the brim. Britton slung his body armor on over it all. He could tell by its weight that it was the heaviest rating, designed to stop even armor-piercing bullets. The tac vest fit over it, dripping with ordnance and medical supplies. Both legs were strapped with drop holsters — one for the pistol, the other for documents and tools. Britton had been trained as a pilot, not a ground operator, and felt off-balance in all the gear.
It took him almost an hour to zero his weapon. When at last his groupings of three shots plugged dead center every time, Britton slung the rifle and turned to face Harlequin and Don, chatting in low tones behind him.
“You ready?” Harlequin asked.
“I’m ready for a nap, a shower, and to get this gear off.”
Harlequin grinned. “Gripes just like a real soldier. Very nice. You can shower and rack out at your new post.”
“And where is that?” Britton asked.
Don stepped forward with his clipboard and passed it to Britton along with a pen. “First, I’ll need you to sign this nondisclosure agreement. What you’re about to witness are proprietary processes and…”
Britton waved a hand at him and signed. Nowhere to go but forward.
Don handed Britton a plastic badge. “Hold your thumb against this please.” Britton did, feeling the space beneath it grow warm. Don took the badge from him and placed it in a slot on the front of Britton’s vest. It bore Britton’s old military mug shot above an imprint of his thumb, still glowing softly in the plastic. LSA PORTCULLIS — GATE ACCESS read the words beneath.
They approached the door.
One of the Pyromancers came forward and indicated a black pad on the wall. “Place your right thumb here, please.” Britton complied, and a spray of red light shot from the pad, streaming over his chest and neck. The thumbprint on the badge glowed, and a beep sounded. Both Pyromancers leaned in, visually inspecting the badge, then nodded to one another.
There was a click, and the striped doors slid slowly apart.
Beyond was another warehouse-sized room, pitch-black save for the opposite wall, where a single fluorescent bulb provided a disc of harsh light.
In the center of the disc stood a metal chair occupied by a man in a light blue hospital gown. Vacant blue eyes stared into the distance from deep-sunk sockets. Patchy, thinning black hair was plastered to his sweaty forehead. A day’s growth of stubble covered his weak chin. His head twisted back and forth, mouth working silently. Pink, fuzzy slippers covered his feet. Medical leads sprouted wires trailing from his forehead, chest, arms, and thighs. Several more snaked from under his gown, trailing off into darkness.
Black letters were stenciled on the front of the gown: PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES ARMY.
An older woman in a floral print housedress stood behind him. Her gray hair was cut short, and thick-lensed glasses in cat’s-eye frames hung around her neck. She gave them a genuine smile.
“Hello, boys,” she said, “you here to see my Billy?”
Harlequin clicked his heels and bowed slightly, smiling. “How are you doing, Miss Cartwright?”
“Tolerably well,” she answered in a thick Southern drawl. “Billy’s fine, too. Thanks for asking.”
Harlequin chuckled. “This is why I love talking with you, ma’am. You never cease to improve my manners.”
“I am overjoyed to serve my country in any way I can, sir.” She massaged Billy’s shoulders. “Billy’s been a good boy, Captain. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for his bear back?”
“That’s not up to me, ma’am.” Harlequin sighed. “The CO said three days. But you know you can count on me to put in a good word.”
“So, what can my son do for his country today?” Miss Cartwright asked.
“A comms portal first, if you please. Just a quick status check,” Harlequin said.
Miss Cartwright leaned low, her soft chin grazing her son’s ear. “Sweetheart, are you ready to do your nice thing for Momma? Just the little hole, please. Thanks, baby. Momma loves you.”
Billy’s mouth moved, making tiny sounds. His mother seemed to understand. “No, sweetie. Momma’s right here, there’s nothing to be scared of. Just the little hole, then you get a treat, okay?”
The pallid figure in the chair whipped his head side to side, whining, straining the leads connected to his head. His mother dug her fingertips into his shoulders and waited. A moment later, a tiny pinpoint of static light opened in the air before them.
Harlequin lost no time. “Comms line to LSA Barbican. I need Landing Zone status for entry.”
“Roger that,” a voice came from the darkness. Radio static was followed by a muttered voice. A moment later, the voice called out again. “Barbican confirms. LZ is hot.”
“How long till they have it clear?” Harlequin asked.
“No estimate,” the voice came back. “LZ Logs says it could be an hour, could be a week.”
Harlequin swore. “Damn it. We don’t have time for that. I need an escort, please, on the hop. Do they have assets ready for cover?”
“Roger that, sir,” the voice replied. “They’re ready for you. Platoon sergeant says be ready to come out shooting.”
“Damn it,” Rampart muttered under his breath.
“Will you secure that crap?” Harlequin said to him. “Or did you join the army for the free clothes?”
“Sir,” Rampart said through gritted teeth, “if we’re going into a firefight, I need to be able to lay off him in case we get hit by indig sorcerers. You sure he won’t go nova?”
Harlequin swore again, tapping his chin. “You’re right, we can’t risk it. I was going to wait until we arrived.”
“Your call, sir,” Rampart said. “He fries himself, I don’t want it on my conscience.”
“You mean you don’t want it on your record,” Harlequin said. “You got Dampener?”
Rampart shook his head, but Don nodded and produced a syringe filled with a clear yellow fluid that looked disturbingly like urine. A white label read — SOC DISPENSARY—6A. SOC USE ONLY AS ORDERED. ALL OTHERS RETURN TO CO IMMEDIATELY.
Harlequin handed Britton the syringe. “Inject all of the fluid into either thigh. Go right through your trousers. Be sure to use it all.”
Britton looked dubiously at the needle and hesitated.
“Are you kidding me?” Harlequin yelled. “We got you, you idiot. Do as you’re fucking told.”
Harlequin’s words struck home. Britton stuck the needle in, depressing the plunger.
In seconds, he felt calmer. The anger at Harlequin, the sadness at losing his family, the fear over his uncertain future, all shifted. The emotions shunted off, compartmented, available at his wish. He rifled through them, calling up his nervousness, feeling the magic rolling along with it as much as the Suppression would allow, then pushing both away. His mouth went uncomfortably dry, his tongue quickly feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth. He looked up at Harlequin, feeling the serenity on his face. “Got any water?”
The Aeromancer laughed. “Cottonmouth’s a bitch, eh? That’s the worst part of the Limbic Dampener. It helps control your emotions. It’ll make calling magic slightly more difficult and impair the power a bit. Well worth it, though. Your control will greatly increase, and there’s no danger of your going nova. The injection will last anywhere up to three weeks depending on your metabolism, and on a big guy like you, I’d imagine it’s pretty slow.”
“And pricey,” Rampart added. “You just injected roughly the cost of an Abrams tank into your leg, my friend.
