revealed it as excitement. “Man, Oscar, I’m really glad that you’re here.”
“Why’s that?”
“Your timing is perfect. The two of us have been stood up for a month, just going over basics. They’ll put you and Downer in the SASS, teach you the basics, and we can get started right away.”
Britton opened his mouth to ask another question as the track gave out into the wide dirt square where the chow hall stood, well lit by bright sodium arc lights. Other vast tents bordered the square — what Britton guessed was the Morale, Welfare, and Recreation building, the Post Exchange, and the gym. Britton scanned the square once more before realizing what was missing — the Army Post Office that was standard on all military installations.
Even at that late hour, a line snaked out of the chow hall’s main entrance. They wore an assortment of uniforms, gym gear, civilian jeans under light coats. Goblins scuttled in and out of a side entrance, carrying pots and crates bulging with food. A few of those on line noticed Britton and Truelove and tapped buddies on the shoulders, whispering. In moments, the tail section of the line was doing its best not to obviously gape at them and failing miserably. A few junior Seabees, navy construction-battalion workers in hard hats, pointed before being abruptly silenced by their chiefs.
Truelove shook his head at the line. “Sorry, Oscar. You get used to it.”
“It’s the uniforms, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, they kind of freak people out.”
“Why?”
Truelove looked at him before shrugging an apology. “They didn’t tell you? We’re the Probe Coven. That’s why it’s all contractors.”
Britton stared for a moment. “I had an inkling when they didn’t kill me. I’ve seen them kill Probes, especially when they fight.”
Truelove nodded sheepishly. “The SOC bends the rules sometimes. I guess they think that so long as we don’t work for the government, that’s okay. I didn’t run or anything. Not like you did.” He looked at his feet, embarrassed. “…I don’t judge you or anything. It’s all fine with me. I just called the SOC hotline as soon as I Manifested.”
“But you’re a Probe. Didn’t you think they’d kill you?”
Truelove shrugged. “I didn’t think about it, honestly. What choice did I have? You can’t run from the SOC.” Britton didn’t know how to respond, so he turned to the Officers’ Club, marked by a stencil-painted wooden board — cobbled together from plywood sheets to form what looked like a giant one-room schoolhouse. The roof was scraps of corrugated plastic sprayed irregularly with fire-retardant foam.
Beside the door, some enterprising navy Seabees had built a small plywood pedestal, to which they’d affixed their emblem, a worker bee wielding a tommy gun and construction tools in its six legs. A cigar protruded from the grim mouth. CAN DO SINCE 1942! the logo read. A silver statue of a huge boar topped the pedestal. Its giant ridged back glinted in the hard light, the metallic bristles sharp as needles, so fine they swayed gently with the breeze. The long tusks curled between snarling teeth to sharp, brass-tipped points. Its silver eyes seemed to be glass.
“It’s real,” Truelove said. “I know it looks like a sculpture, but I saw them take it down in the woods between the LZ and here. We’re mostly confined to the FOB, but you get out once in a while. The Source is an amazing place.”
The wind picked up, and Truelove tugged him inside. Interior and exterior were equally ramshackle. Pressboard tables and chairs had been slapped together around the mud-spattered floor. One wall was covered in license plates from various states in varying degrees of rust consumption. A tall bar, also made from license-plate- encrusted plywood, stood before a giant mirror draped with the flags of the five uniformed military services. An American flag hung beside a corkboard covered with photographs. An old Wurlitzer-style jukebox blared country music from the corner.
The Officers’ Club was crowded, some in and some out of uniform — looking every bit as tired and disheveled as those on line for the chow hall. A few of the barstools stood empty. A coast guard ensign in rumpled blue utilities stood to grab another drink from the bar, his eyes falling across Britton and Truelove.
He froze, staring.
A moment later, an army captain followed his gaze. He shifted in his chair, tapping a buddy on the shoulder, and gesturing. Within moments, all talk, clinking of glasses, and stubbing of cigarettes had stopped. The only sound in the Officers’ Club was the upbeat two-step belting from the Wurlitzer — the singer reminding the audience never to forget the old dirt road in their heart of hearts.
Truelove self-consciously made his way to the bar, muttering apologies as the room began to empty until only a few die-hard marine officers sullenly occupied a table near the door.
Britton joined Truelove at the bar but kept the marines in his peripheral vision. The bartender, a pale-faced, ginger-haired Entertech contractor, glared at them, muttering into his beard. Truelove looked embarrassed but didn’t dare ask for a drink.
Britton followed Truelove’s lead before deciding it was ridiculous. He opened his mouth to order a drink when the door banged open, and three more figures entered.
The first was a Goblin, small even for its race. It wore blue surgical scrubs, its broad, three-toed feet bare. Its bald brown skull was covered with a small blue surgical hat and a face mask that hung from a large, pointed ear. Tiny white dots covered its forehead and cheeks.
Behind the Goblin stood a young girl in a Coven Four uniform — the left pectoral showing the four elements surrounding a central eye. She was in the prime of adolescence, slightly chubby. Her head had been recently shaved.
Recognition hit him as she approached, smiling at Truelove.
He’d last seen that face slicked with sweat, panting in a stairwell, where a nine-millimeter round had taken a bite out of her side.
Harlequin entered behind her, seeing the recognition on Britton’s face and smiling ruefully.
The marine officers muttered at the new arrivals, glaring hard at the Goblin. “…that Coven. Hang out with those freaks. You believe that?”
The girl looked at them, and the marines suddenly found the depths of their drinks fascinating. Her eyes returned to him, and Britton felt himself swamped, unable to speak. Alive? She was alive? He started to stand, reach out for her, then thought better of it and sat down.
“You must be the new arrival,” the girl said.
Britton ignored her, holding Harlequin’s eyes. When he could finally speak, he said, “But you killed her.”
“This is your basic problem,” Harlequin said, “which I thought I made clear on the ride out to Portcullis. You think you’re so much smarter than everyone else.”
The girl looked askance at Harlequin, who smiled. “This is one of the assaulters who took you down. Turned out to be a Probe himself.”
The girl turned back to Britton, her eyes widened. She swallowed but said nothing.
“I’m…” What could he say? “I’m sorry.” The words came out in a rush. “I didn’t want to…I had to.”
The girl opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. She looked at her feet.
“I don’t believe this,” Britton said.
“Believe it,” Harlequin said. “While you’re at it, believe that you wasted a lot of time and effort and hurt a lot of people unnecessarily by running. If you’d just done the right thing, we’d have taken care of you. But you decided that you knew better. Did you honestly think we kill Probes, particularly Porta-mancers? Christ, Oscar, it’s possibly the rarest and most powerful school of magic. We’re not just going to chuck that in the trash.”
“You faked her death,” Britton said. “You kidnapped her. That’s slimy even for you. How’d you manage it?”
Harlequin shook his head. “A good magician never reveals his secrets, Oscar. And considering that the law would have given her death, we figured taking her into custody was a step up.”
“It’s all right,” the girl said in a voice that didn’t sound like it was all right at all. She pulled up a vacated stool. “It’s better than running. They train you and have your back. We’ll be real Sorcerers now.” Her words were rote, wooden.
“How many times did you make her repeat that?” Britton asked Harlequin.
Harlequin shook his head. “So much smarter than everyone else.”
