Suppressed, you will be assigned a score of plus one. These points are deducted over time. A score of zero is preferred for suitable SOC candidates and contractors.”
“I can’t control my magic,” Downer said, her voice anxious.
“Don’t worry about that, Novice,” Salamander answered, steering them both back outside. “We’re going to start teaching you to get a handle on it as of today.
“The rules here are simple,” he said, glancing at Britton, his voice taking on a harder edge. “Just remember what the sergeant showed you and…ah, perfect timing. Take a look.”
One of the SASS enrollees, a young man with his hair in a ponytail, shivering in cast-off bits of military uniforms, had broken away from the group practicing their Pyromancy and made his way toward the main gate. None of the guards moved to stop him, but Swift and the group around him erupted, shrieking and calling after him.
“Don’t do it!” Swift cried, running after him. Three soldiers emerged from the base of one of the guard towers and advanced, weapons pointed at him and his small gang, who began to back up.
“Stand down, Swift!” Major Salamander shouted to him, smiling. “Looks like you lost another one. You just watch and enjoy.”
The long-haired man shot a sheepish glance toward Swift, who called out to him. “Don’t! Don’t be their dog!”
He looked at his feet and marched on toward the pole with the plastic US flag.
One of the soldiers switched his carbine from single shot to three-round-burst with an audible click. He pointed it at Swift’s face. “With all due respect, sir, shut up.”
The long-haired man reached the flag and hauled on the thin white cord that anchored it to the pole, raising it to the top in a few moments. The soldiers clapped in unison. Applause echoed from the fence line, guard towers, and gate.
“If I could trouble you to just wait one moment, please,” Major Salamander said to Downer and Britton as he stepped forward.
He stood at the position of attention in front of the young man and raised his right hand. The young man imitated him with the earnest awkwardness Britton had seen in new recruits since he first joined the army.
“Do you swear to use magic only in service to the duly authorized government of the United States of America, abiding by the tenets of the McGauer-Linden Act?” Salamander asked.
“No!” chorused Swift and his group, pumping their fists in the air.
“I d…I do,” the young man said, his eyes locked straight forward.
“Do you agree to obey the orders of the superiors appointed over you?”
“No!” Swift’s group shouted again. The soldiers pressed forward, muzzles leveled.
“I do,” the man said.
Major Salamander shook his hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the SOC, son. I’m proud of you, and the army is lucky to have you. Sergeant Perelli!”
“Sir?” One of the soldiers peeled away from covering Swift’s group, trotted over, and saluted.
“If you’d be so kind as to take young master…” He looked a question at the man.
“Ruiz, sir. Everybody called me Rock Monkey,” the long-haired man said.
“Ruiz! Right! The Terramancer. I remember,” Salamander said. He turned back to the sergeant. “Please take young master Ruiz here for outprocessing and assignment to an SAOLCC Coven.”
“My great pleasure, sir,” Sergeant Perelli said, leading the man toward the same low building where Britton and Downer had signed in.
Major Salamander turned to face Britton and narrowed his eyes. “Two simple questions, with two simple answers. That’s all we ask of our enrollees here. Once they’re on the Dampener and under our expert instruction, most master the basics of keeping their magic under control in fairly short order. But their loyalty to their country and their suitability to handle magic in its service remains an open question. Takes a little time for some folks. There are always holdouts, like Swift and his No-No Crew over there, but, eventually, they always come around.”
“What happens if they don’t?” Britton asked.
Salamander only stared at him, his expression severe. “It doesn’t come to that.”
Major Salamander turned to Downer, and his face returned to its former open friendliness. “I doubt we’re going to have trouble with you, young lady, are we?”
“No, sir,” she answered enthusiastically.
“Outstanding,” Salamander said. “You two are already assigned to a Coven, so you’re not truly mine, but Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons has entrusted you to my care to ensure you learn to control your magic and to purge any fool ideas out of your head. Can’t do the job if you’re not on board with the mission, right? This way, please.” He began to walk toward one of the schoolhouses, motioning to the soldiers who had drawn down on the No-No Crew as he went. The soldiers motioned with the muzzles of their carbines, herding the small group along. Swift walked proudly at their head. He genuflected in the direction of the pillbox as he passed, the rest of the group following suit. The Suppressor standing outside looked nervously over his shoulder at the rusty door.
Britton jerked his thumb at the cinder-block pillbox. “What’s that, sir?”
Salamander looked uncomfortable. “That, my good man, is the end of the road. The final consequence of recalcitrance. You don’t want to go there, and you sure as hell don’t want to have anything to do with what’s in there.”
Salamander turned away from the pillbox and led them into the schoolhouse. The interior was marked with the same temporary military utility as the exterior in classic Seabee style. The plain plywood walls were covered with posters straight out of a high-school civics class. One diagramed the meaning of the American flag, another explained the Constitution, three or four depicted the dangers of unrestrained magic use. A huge photograph of the rubble of the Lincoln Memorial dominated the room, THE BLOCH INCIDENT written in red letters beneath.
Major Salamander poured himself a cup of coffee from a stained decanter on a folding table. Beside it, a Goblin contractor was hooking up a computer monitor. Salamander motioned Britton and Downer to the chairs, just as the No-No Crew shuffled in, sullenly taking their seats with a resignation born of long practice. The soldiers who had ushered them in took up positions on either side of the door. After a moment, a few more civilians straggled in, filling up the remaining chairs. The long-haired boy with the seaweed-slick skin sat a good distance away from the rest of them, puddling water around his feet that tracked on the concrete flooring to pour out the seams between floor and wall. He looked embarrassed, his eyes on his feet, but Britton could occasionally catch him casting glances toward them. Britton could feel his magical current — pulsing, wild, barely under control.
Swift slumped down in his chair beside Britton and stared at him, tapping a bitten fingernail against the corner of his mouth. Britton stared straight ahead for as long as he could stand it, then finally turned to face him.
“Nice outfit,” Swift said. “What are you doing here if you’re already in a Coven?”
“I have no idea,” Britton answered.
Downer shifted in her chair, leaning forward and putting her elbows on her knees. “You’re lucky they didn’t shoot you.”
“Oh, I’m worth way too much for them to shoot me,” Swift said. “And I suppose even fucktards like the good major here have some sense of obligation to free citizens of the United States.”
Salamander smiled, his back to him, pouring nondairy creamer into his foam cup. “Running’s a felony, Swift, you know that,” he said. “Per the McGauer-Linden Act, you don’t have a whole lot of rights anymore.
“Besides,” he said, turning to face them and stirring his coffee, “as far as folks back on the Home Plane know, you’re all dead anyway.”
“Trust me, little girl,” Swift said, his eyes hardening at Downer. “You’ll curb your enthusiasm fairly rapidly. Within a month, you’ll be wishing these fuckers had shot you.”
Britton looked at his lap.
Downer didn’t look at him; instead, she bridled, standing up and lifting her shirt to show a patch of smooth, pink flesh that slightly contrasted with the skin around it, the mark of rushed magical healing. “They did shoot me, here. They had to, but I get it now.”
“Your hip, huh?” Swift said, turning to a scrawny, pale adolescent, only barely a man, with spiky blond hair, wearing black denim jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt. His upper lip was studded with patches of peach fuzz that
