Shadow Ops: Control Point

“He not die now, soon,” Marty said. “Go cash fast.”

Sirens wailed in the distance, and Britton could see a plume of fire rising farther out, but still inside the barricade wall of the FOB. Britton and Downer lifted the wounded soldier as gently as they could. He moaned softly, half-conscious, as they carried him behind Marty, who scampered down the muddy track toward the Combat Surgical Hospital. Truelove jogged alongside. The Seabee and the other soldier trailed a few paces back, whispering to one another.

The hospital was overwhelmed. The massive tent literally jumped with activity, the flaps opening and closing so fast to admit new wounded that wind vibrated through the entire structure. Army doctors, navy hospital corpsmen and SOC burn-trauma officers ran to and fro, fussing over a mounting flow of stretchers.

“That was amazing,” Downer breathed.

“That was amazing,” Truelove agreed. “But you’re not supposed to use your magic until you’ve been enrolled in the SASS. You could get in deep shit for that.”

“I’m just amazed I could do it at all,” Britton said, the reality hitting him. He had called magic entirely on his own, and it had worked. “The Dampener is incredible. Why the hell don’t they just hand the stuff out?”

Downer sounded peevish. “Against regs,” she muttered.

“And expensive as hell,” Truelove added. “Most in the SOC don’t get it if they can control their magic okay on their own. But everyone in Shadow Coven gets an unlimited supply.”

A SOC Hydromancer appeared at the entrance and recognized Marty, moving toward him.

“Doctor Captain,” Marty said, jerking his hand at Britton, Downer and their weakly stirring cargo. “Specialist Lenko has thunder burn. I give him…bad smell herbs. He needs…”

Britton remembered Dawes’s care and breathed a bit easier. The Hydromancer moved forward and motioned for two orderlies bearing a stretcher. They loaded the wounded soldier onto the stretcher, and he vanished into the hospital, the Hydromancer following close behind.

Marty went after them, then paused, turning to Britton. “Thank you,” he said, his brows arching until the white dots on his forehead were reduced to thin lines. He bowed slightly, tapping his closed eyelids.

Britton realized the Goblin had called the wounded soldier by name. “You knew him?”

Marty nodded. “Specialist Lenko is wise. He dies, I eat his eyes.”

The Hydromancer reappeared in the hospital-entry flaps and motioned brusquely. “Marty! Come on! We need every hand we can get!” The Goblin turned and ran after him, leaving Britton with Truelove and Downer and the steady flow of wounded. The Seabee and the other soldier had vanished. They made their way back toward the P pods in silence.

“Thanks for sticking up for Marty,” Truelove finally said.

“How’d you two get to be such buds?” Britton asked.

“I’ve got some stomach problems,” Truelove said, casting an embarrassed look at Downer, who didn’t appear to notice. “The docs at the cash didn’t really know what to do about it, and the one Physiomancer they’ve got is so overworked, he doesn’t have time for something that isn’t life-threatening. Marty gave me some herbal remedy. It doesn’t fix it totally, but it really helps.”

Britton nodded. “He seems like a good…guy.” In fact, the Goblin’s kindness deeply impressed him. If he’d let that navy chief have his way, Lenko would probably have died while those idiots sat around shouting for a medic.

Downer laughed. “He’s all right. We keep him in sugar, he keeps Truelove from crapping his drawers.” Truelove turned crimson at the remark, but Downer missed it, punching him in the shoulder.

“Did he actually say he’d eat that guy’s eyes?” Britton said, trying to change the subject.

Truelove nodded. “It’s a custom. They do it to honor their dead. They believe that if you eat the eyes of a dead man, you ingest everything he’s ever seen, the sum of his life experience. That way he lives on forever through you. It’s a high compliment. Of course, try telling that to our forward squads who come across Goblins actually doing it. There’s not a lot of patience for the practice around here.”

Britton shook his head and suddenly realized how cold he was. Smoke still billowed in distant columns, flickering red-orange inside. The late-fall chill was intense, the flame-whipped winds piercing. “Christ,” Britton said, “what the heck is the army doing out here?”

“You haven’t figured it out?” Downer asked. “FOB Frontier is a bridgehead in the Source. You’re in occupied territory.

“We’re conquering the magic kingdom.”

CHAPTER XIII: FITZY

Magical Suppression occurs when a Latent individual crosses his own current with that of another Latent individual, effectively interdicting the magical flow. It is a concentrated effort. If the Suppressor’s Latency is weaker than the individual’s he is acting against, a breakthrough may occur, resulting in ineffective Suppression. Some interviewees have described this sensation as painful or exhausting. Skill and training can compensate for this to some degree, but in the end, it is a matchup of strength. Some SOC Sorcerers devote their entire careers to Suppression. These “Master Suppressors” rarely find a current they are unable to lock down.

Avery Whiting

Modern Arcana: Theory and Practice

Britton didn’t bother trying to sleep. He lay on his cot, staring at the corrugated metal ceiling and remembering his mother. His mind returned to her eyes, staring at him in horror and realization.

The 158th. His mother. Dawes. He had lost them all. He gripped the coarse blanket, balling it in his fists.

Was this it? Was this his life from here on? It can’t be. You’ve got to get out of here.

His mind returned to the ATTD, holding him as surely as if he were surrounded by bars.

Find a way. You have to find a way to get that thing out.

As the first streamers of dawn filtered underneath the door, Britton heard the triple succession of booms that marked another attack. The sirens sounded far away, and he didn’t even budge at the tremors, surprised at how quickly he had become inured.

The next morning, he found the inside of the chow hall was much as he’d come to know from other bases. Long tables backed up to a line of metal trays piled high with steaming slop that could scarcely be called food. The line was manned mostly by Goblins in paper hats who endured the sullen looks of their customers with resignation. Britton got himself a foam tray piled high with a yellow slurry that roughly approximated eggs and some sausage patties as chewy as old spare tires, then sat at a bench that quickly cleared of other occupants as soon as they saw his uniform. A moment later, Truelove appeared and sat across from him.

“Good morning,” the Necromancer said. “You fill out your time sheet?”

Britton paused, eggs steaming on his fork. “Time sheet?”

“You’re not a soldier anymore,” Downer said, plopping down beside him. “Contractors get their time sheets audited daily.”

“Make sure you fill yours out like clockwork, or Fitzy’ll have your ass,” Truelove said. “Apparently there’s a new admin colonel here. He’s a real hard-ass about accounting, and he comes down hard on Fitzy when things slip. Fitzy always makes sure it rolls downhill to us.”

“When do I meet this famous Fitzy?” Britton asked.

Truelove examined his watch. “It’s 0615, which gives you fifteen minutes. There’s a terminal in the MWR where you can do it electronically. Just put in your social security number and eight hours for yesterday. Make sure you do it before bed from now on. “

Britton stared at him, expecting a joke. Truelove didn’t laugh.

Britton sat at the terminal in the Morale, Welfare, and Recreation tent, struggling with the irony of filling out