swan, beneath which was written: CYGNUS. GRACE UNDER FIRE. Here was an arrow in flight. There a peacock with feathers spread in a glorious sunburst.
The Covens had begun to assemble, each clustering around a yellow pennant stapled to a wooden pole. Each bore the image of the Coven assigned to them. Behind each Coven stood a Suppressor, the fist-lightning symbol on a black band around his upper arm.
Britton spotted Truelove, shouldering the only black pennant in the field, fluttering the ghosted star behind the moon. COVEN 4—UMBRA, IT READ, THE MAGIC BEHIND THE MAGIC.
Downer stood at attention beside Truelove. A third man, tall, broad-shouldered, with close-cropped ginger hair, stood behind them. Shadow Coven alone wore Entertech uniforms. The rest of the Covens were in standard digital camouflage, their SOC shoulder patches and magical-school lapel pins the only indicators they were not regular soldiers.
The soldiers to either side of Shadow Coven whispered, moving away reflexively. Britton jogged over and fell in beside the redheaded man. He had a wide, doughy face, spotted with freckles. His mouth was lined, wrinkled into a permanent smile. Beside the Coven symbol on his chest was a stylized image of a man calling, three wolves howling in answer. He winked at Britton, and two sparrows landed on the guy’s head, twittering and hopping. He paid them no mind, the corners of his eyes smiling.
Truelove turned, took in Britton and the mud drying all over him, and mouthed,
“Just what the hell are you looking at, Novice?” Fitzy yelled, arriving on Britton’s heels and turning to the Novice from Carina.
“Nothing, sir.” The man’s voice cracked.
“Sure didn’t look like nothing, Novice,” Fitzy seethed. “Looked like you were staring at one of our erstwhile contractors here, who, I might remind you, are none of your damned concern.”
“It’s just birds, sir,” the Novice quaked.
“Birds?” Fitzy asked. “What goddamned birds are you talking about, son?”
The sparrows chirped triumphantly, dancing and flapping their wings atop the redhead’s ball cap. His shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
“Uh, sir…I guess…” the Novice stuttered.
“You guess nothing, Novice,” Fitzy said. “You’re a goddamn earthmoving, rock-crushing combat Terramancer of the Supernatural Operations Corps. You are not some kind of pansy-assed Selfer Druid who chats with bunny rabbits and cuddly puppies. If, in its wisdom, the Corps elects to examine certain practices via its contractual staff, that is no affair of yours and is certainly covered by the nondisclosure agreement inherent in your security clearance which, if I remember correctly, you agreed to abide by. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Perfectly, sir,” the Novice said.
“Now tell me again what the hell you were looking at?” Fitzy demanded.
“Nothing, sir,” the Novice said, recovering his composure. “I am not aware of what you are referring to, sir.”
“Outstanding,” Fitzy said, then spun on the redhead. “Get rid of ’em, Richards, or, God as my witness, I will have your ass.” Richards’s smile vanished, and the birds took wing.
Britton marveled at the disciplined rows, awash in the mixed currents of so much channeled magic. He had never seen so many Sorcerers in one place.
Fitzsimmons took his place in front of the Coven pennant as a stern-looking SOC lieutenant colonel strode out in front of the assembly, the flame pattern on his lapel pin marking him as Pyromancer.
“Morning, campers!” he said. “I apologize for the repeat here, but we have a newly constituted Coven joining us.” He nodded toward Fitzy’s group. “So, I’m going to ask for your patience while I go over the indoc brief one more time.” He turned to Coven Four and went on. “My name is Lieutenant Colonel Allen, but you may refer to me by my call sign of Crucible. I want you to know that I live up to my name, and you are going to have to pass through me before you can graduate here. ‘Here’ is the SOC’s Sorcerer’s Apprentice/Officer Leadership Combined Course or SAOLCC. This is our Source campus, and it is a rare honor for all of you to be here. I need not remind you that the existence of this campus, or FOB Frontier in general, is classified at the secret level, and you are forbidden to discuss anything you do or see here with any persons who do not have a strict need to know.
“You will live, work, and train with your Covens for the rest of your tenure here. You will notice that our new Coven is contractually provided.” He gestured to Coven Four. “Umbra Coven is a private entity that will work on the fringes of this school. You will assist them as required, but they are outside the realm of your concern, and I do not want to hear anyone in this assemblage discussing them beyond what is specifically required of you in training exercises. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”
“Yes, sir!” the assembled Novices responded in a single voice.
“Outstanding,” he said. “I will insist on military discipline here at all times. At the head of each pennant, you will see your Coven Commander. I fully expect each of you to adhere to his word as if it were my own, the very word of God Himself. That said, we’re not the regular army, and it is essential that you feel free to ask questions. This is just like high school, folks. Raise a hand and wait to be called on. Everyone clear?”
“Yes, sir!” the Novices chorused.
“Very well,” Crucible said. “Any questions before we get started?”
Silence. Britton looked uneasily at Fitzy’s broad shoulders. Crucible’s words sinking in. Obey his orders like the word of God. He felt his magic surge.
“All right, you will follow me to the practice field on the other side of your quarters. Coven Four, please follow Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons to enroll in Suitability Assessment. Fall out in Coven order!”
Crucible led the way past the star-shaped buildings to a corridor of firm ground that snaked off through a tiny opening in the blast barricades across from them. A massive concrete dome rose off in the distance, the surface pitted and showing rusted rebar supports.
Signs were mounted to the barricade wall pointing to the either direction: TERRAMANTIC ENGINEERING RANGE, WEATHER CONTROL RANGE, FLIGHT EXERCISE ACTIVITY, FIRE CONTROL RANGE, AND SUITABILITY ASSESSMENT. Noise sounded in the background, obscured by the maze of concrete walls. Britton heard booms, sizzling, tortured groans of metal.
The group moved through the gap to a football-field-sized parade ground surrounded by high sandbag walls. The ground had been left to mud — blasted in places, burned in others. The mud rose into weird shapes, vaguely resembling sculpture. Here and there were bits of rock walls. A few dark patches looked suspiciously like blood. Fitzy gestured to Shadow Coven, walking them in the opposite direction, through a separate gap in the blast barricades.
Beyond it, a chain-link fence rose some thirty feet in the air, topped by razor wire. Wooden guard towers broke its length into sections, covered by peaked roofs. The railings sported spotlights and light machine guns fixed by hard points to the metal railings. Magic Suppressors patrolled the catwalks intersecting them, black body armor displayed the armored fist with its perennial clutch of lightning bolts.
Through the fence line, Britton could make out a row of low-domed Quonset huts, their corrugated-metal roofs patched with rust and stenciled with numbers. People lounged outside them, smoking, sitting, sullenly talking. They contrasted sharply with the crisp uniforms of everyone else Britton had seen on the FOB thus far. Most wore a patchwork of civilian clothes; cheap hiking jackets and blue jeans. They were a mix of men and women, and here and there Britton spotted people wearing the one-piece orange jumpsuits he had had found himself in when he’d first woken from the shotgun blast. The biggest shock was their hair, a variety of lengths and shades, defying the military orderliness present everywhere else.
A long row of blast barricades separated the line of Quonset huts from a flat, muddy field, where groups of people in civilian clothes or cast-off military uniforms stood in orderly rows facing two SOC officers. As Britton approached the fence line, he watched the officers extend their hands, pillars of flame rising from the earth before them. A moment later, the rows of civilians followed suit with mixed results. Some of the pillars sputtered and collapsed, some teetered wildly, some failed to manifest at all.
Across from the Quonset huts stood a small replica of the plaza Britton had seen outside the P pods; a chow hall, a morale facility, rows of schoolhouses. It was a base unto itself, all packed tightly within the confines of the razor-wire-topped fencing and guard towers.
