vehicles rumbled in musical concentration. The sun shone as uncomfortably big and brilliant as the moon.
The inside of his container was carpeted in mud-stained blue and occupied by a particle-board desk, closet and dresser. A metal-framed army cot occupied one wall under the light of a single, long, fluorescent bulb. An army duffel rested on the bed, packed with rough linens, towels, and a toilet kit. The duffel also contained a dark gray ball cap with the Entertech company logo and two identical sets of clothing — khaki cargo pants rife with ammunition pouches and clip-points for carabiners, and skintight black shirts. The shirts were blazoned on the right shoulder with a subdued American flag, white on black. The left shoulder was stamped with the SOC arms. Over the right pectoral, a ghosted star emerged from behind a crescent moon. Over the left pectoral was another symbol he knew was unique to him — the outline of an arched doorway.
Britton rolled his eyes.
Beside the duffel lay a massive binder, as thick as a telephone book, crammed with papers. PERSONNEL MANUAL — SPECIAL REGULATIONS FOR ENTERTECH PERSONNEL SERVING IN FORWARD AORS. Britton leafed through it, then tossed it aside. It would take him a week just to read a quarter of it.
He trudged through the mud toward the shower, looking for exits. They were letting him walk around unsupervised. There had to be a way to escape. He felt the flow of the magic still surging through him, kept in check by the Dampener. He could try to open a gate. Heck, he probably didn’t even need to. He’d been on enough military installations to know how poorly guarded they could be. He could probably just walk off base. But then what? He’d be in unfamiliar country already proved hostile, and they could set off the ATTD the moment he appeared outside their designated perimeter.
He racked his brain for an answer and kept returning to the same thing — a hard steel transmitter packed with explosives deep inside his heart. There was no escape.
He crowded in with a dozen soldiers, shivering under cold water that poured from black bags insufficiently warmed by the sun, cringing with each breeze blowing through the gaps in the tarp walls. They griped enthusiastically, whining about chow and the lack of women. If not for the magical tides flowing around him, there was no way to know he wasn’t in a regular army FOB.
Just as Britton finished washing, a SOC Hydromancer joined them, warming the water with a gesture to collective cheers. By the time he’d dressed and taken a few steps, Britton was filthy again, the bits of gravel and scrap wood laid across the track failing to stop the mud from spurting with every step, sticking to clothes as if it possessed a will of its own.
Britton shook his head and headed toward his container, when suddenly his feet steadied. He looked down to see the mud firm up into a proper road. The dirt leapt from his boots and trousers, spraying into a cloud of dry dust.
A stocky SOC lieutenant brushed past him, grinning. His huge size and oak-tree pin marked him as a Terramancer. Britton nodded thanks.
He flopped onto the thin mattress without bothering to set the sheets. He tried to figure a way to defeat the ATTD, but fatigue overwhelmed him, and in moments, he was swamped in dreamless sleep.
He woke in blackness, shivering in air gone frigid. He changed into the only clean clothing available — the odd uniform he’d found in the duffel. Still groggy, he pulled on his coat and stumbled down the muddy steps.
The night was alive with stars, the massive moon bright enough to read by. Britton stumbled backward, his reaction dulled by grogginess, as two soldiers on off-road motorcycles sped past.
“Cold, huh?” came a high, nasal voice. Britton turned to face a young man in glasses so thick that his brown eyes looked huge, swimming in fishbowls. He was tiny, his brown hair only coming up to Britton’s chest, his skin so pale that it practically glowed in the moonlight. His uniform, identical to Britton’s, flapped off his scrawny frame. A stylized skull grinned from his left pectoral.
“Uh, yeah,” Britton said, pulling his coat more tightly around him. “You work for Entertech, too?”
The man’s reply was cut off by a whooshing sound followed by an explosion. Britton saw a fireball bloom off in the distance. A siren began to wail, followed by a woman’s calm voice over a loudspeaker. “All FOB personnel, all FOB personnel. Take cover. I say again, take cover. FOB Reaction Force, action stations. I say again, action stations.” Another whoosh. Another explosion. Britton turned for the bunker.
“I wouldn’t bother,” the man said, putting on a brave voice, but clearly rattled. “The Goblin Pyromancers conjure flame strikes from the sky or just outside the walls. If you get tagged, a bunker isn’t going to help. Might as well enjoy the night as best you can. If it’s your time, it’s your time, right? Just don’t go anywhere. The MPs get annoyed if they catch you walking around during an attack.”
Britton started as another explosion bloomed a bright fireball skyward, much closer that time but still well distant. He heard the grinding of rotors as a pair of Apaches streaked over the barricade wall, searchlights flashing beneath them. The sirens stopped, and there was a curious silence, broken only by a distant shriek and muttered cursing. An electric cart whined down the lane, forcing Britton and the young man to retreat up the steps. The cart was piled with Goblins in jumpsuits, shouldering shovels and hammers. An improvised flatbed held a mound of tools and extension cords, as well as two human guards — feet dangling off the back. It raced down the lane and turned onto a side street. A platoon of MPs coming from the opposite direction turned to run behind it.
The young man shrugged, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Happens most nights, sometimes a few times a night. You get used to it.” He extended a hand. “Simon Truelove.”
Britton’s grip enveloped Truelove’s tiny hand. “Oscar Britton, nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to Contractor Row,” Truelove said, indicating the row of converted trailers, “or you can call it P block, if you’re so inclined.”
“All the contractors live here?” Britton asked.
“All the magic-using ones, yeah. Right now, that’s just four of us, including you. The rest of the P pods are occupied by regular SOC Sorcerers. Fitzy is on the end closest to the DFAC.”
“Fitzy? Pea pods?”
Truelove smiled nervously. “You’re half-asleep, aren’t you?”
Britton nodded, rubbing his head. “I guess my sleep patterns haven’t been consistent, lately.”
Truelove let out a honk of a laugh. “I was heading down to the Officers’ Club for a drink. We meet up there most nights. Why don’t you come along? You can meet the rest of the Coven and we can explain everything to you.”
Britton followed him down to the road in the direction of the chow hall. The mud track ran several hundred yards, punctuated on either side by identical trailers converted to living quarters, each with the letter P stenciled on the doors, along with ascending numbers.
“P pods,” Britton said.
Truelove nodded. “The O pods are just outside our checkpoint. There are some joint service troops and big army types, but you’re in the middle of SOC territory here. We don’t go out to the rest of the FOB, and they don’t come here.”
Twice they passed burned pods. A Goblin crew worked on one under the watchful eye of their minders, clearing debris and spraying flame-retardant foam from a tank on the back of their electric cart. The female voice broadcast again. “All clear, all clear, all clear.”
The lane was unlit, and when a wandering MP challenged them with “ID, please, sir,” Britton recoiled in surprise. Truelove flashed a badge for the MP’s flashlight, which was covered in colored gel to preserve his night vision. After Britton tapped his empty pockets in a vain search, the MP, a mere silhouette in the moonlight, reached out for the badge around his neck and nodded, satisfied. “Thanks, sir. Mid-rats ended an hour ago, but you can still grab a sandwich.”
“Midnight rations,” Truelove explained.
“So we’re in the same…Coven?” Britton asked. “I noticed the uniform.”
Truelove nodded. “Coven Four, that’s us. We’re the contractor unit. Covens are like squads in the SOC. We catch some crap for it. You know, bloodsucking contractors, but you get used to it. For one thing, we’re not under the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”
“…and we can drink,” Britton said.
Truelove honked laughter again. “All the officers drink here. SOC isn’t under General Order One out here in the Source.”
Truelove’s voice trembled. At first, Britton thought it was the cold, but the edge in his next comment
