Shadow Ops: Control Point

faces were deadpan. Swift rolled his eyes.

“Oh, it gets better,” Salamander said, indicating the prisoners that remained.

One of the Selfers gestured to something offscreen.

The screen flickered as something black leapt into view, vaguely man-shaped and impossibly fast. It gibbered, slavering among the remaining prisoners, who leapt to their feet and tried to flee. One of the Selfers conjured a wind that blew them back into the black creature’s path. Britton saw flying gore. He imagined the screams in his ears despite the film’s silence.

The thing spun long enough for Britton to make out teeth as long as daggers before the video cut out.

Britton shivered. He remembered a very similar creature dancing through the Goblin ranks as he’d flown in a helicopter toward FOB Frontier when he’d first arrived in the Source. If that thing was an ally of the Goblins, then what the hell was it doing among the Mescalero?

“The Mescalero call them their ‘Mountain Gods.’ We call them monsters,” Salamander said into the appalled silence. “We’re pretty sure they come from here, and we’re still trying to work out how the Apache got ahold of them. Eventually, that’s what you’re going to be fighting. That’s the alternative to what you are. Remember that.”

“It’s all bullshit,” Swift said to Britton, as they headed outside toward the flat expanse on the other side of the blast barricades from the Quonset huts where the SASS enrollees made their homes. “That’s only one side of the story. Who knows what they’re not showing us?”

Therese walked beside them, talking in low tones with Ted, the young man wrapped in his vapor cloud, whom Swift had called Wavesign. He spoke with her in quiet tones, keeping his eyes down, clearly terrified that Swift would notice.

“Yeah, right,” Downer said. “You saw what they did.”

“Tapes can be faked,” Swift said. “I don’t understand what your sudden loyalty to the SOC is about. Presumably you were a Selfer at some point yourself, or else you wouldn’t be here.”

“I changed my mind,” Downer fumed. “I can do that.”

“She’s young,” Britton offered by way of explanation.

“Shut up!” Downer yelled. “I’m old enough to know right from wrong.”

“Most folks far older than you don’t know that.” Swift laughed.

“What kind of a name is Swift anyway?” Britton asked.

“His name is Andrew.” Therese spoke up for the first time. “Everybody in the No-No Crew makes up their own names. It’s ridiculous.”

“Our real names died when they kidnapped us,” Pyre said. “The SOC gives themselves call signs; so do we.”

Therese shook her head. “You’re still who you are. Why would you want to be more like them anyway? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“My, my, Mother Teresa,” Swift said. “Is your Christian charity waning?”

“My name is Therese Del Aqua,” she answered.

Britton could certainly understand Swift’s anger, but he didn’t like him directing it at Therese. “Andrew, huh?” he asked. Swift grimaced at the sound, and though Britton felt foolish for taking pleasure in it, he was pleased to see Swift’s surly veneer momentarily crack. “That’s a nice name.”

“Fuck you,” Swift growled. “If you and your teenaged girlfriend here are happy being lapdogs for the SOC, that’s your call, but you’re not going to get any slack from me.”

“Who the hell said I’m happy working for them?” Britton stopped walking and put his hands on his hips.

“You’re wearing the uniform,” Swift put in.

Britton gaped in silence before mustering a response. “As if I had a fucking choice!”

Swift stepped forward, his expression utterly submerged in smoking rage. “You always have a choice. If they didn’t drag you in here, kicking and screaming, then you’re fucking cooperating.”

“Easy,” Pyre said, put off by his friend’s rage. “Salamander’s watching.”

“Seriously,” Tsunami added. “Calm the fuck down, dude.”

“Don’t waste your time,” Therese said to Britton. “He’s totally sold on the futility angle. The only thing to do now is pray for him.”

“Listen you little…” Swift began to walk around Britton, reaching for Therese. Britton stepped sideways to intercept him. Swift’s eyes flickered to him momentarily, seeing him only as an obstacle. Britton read the anger there and knew the man was not in control. That was fine; out of control meant no real threat. Britton’s anger was cold and disciplined. Skill beat will, every time. Pyre backpedaled as Swift punched at Britton, but Britton was ready and dodged. Swift reversed his hand midstrike, nails raking across his Britton’s cheek before Major Salamander drove in between them, pinning Swift’s arms behind him and dragging him backward. The No-No Crew surged to Swift’s defense, then retreated just as quickly as the soldiers advanced, carbines leveled. Though Pyre had tried to stay out of the fight, he was rounded up with the rest, hands raised. Only Wavesign, who had been on the other side of Therese, was left unmolested.

“Now, that’s not very welcoming to our new friends, is it?” Salamander said. “And I guess you need some time in the hole to teach you manners.”

“Come on, man!” Swift shouted. “I didn’t even hurt him! It was just a little scuffle. You don’t need to put me in there with her!”

“What’s wrong?” Salamander asked, dragging Swift backward. “She’s Suppressed, and I thought you were all on the same side.”

Swift struggled briefly in Salamander’s grip before relaxing. “You know what she’s like. Please.”

Salamander pushed Swift toward a pair of soldiers who had approached as the fight broke out. “Sorry, no sale. Maybe some quality time with the fair lady will cure you of your bullshit. Enjoy.”

Swift’s eyes returned to Britton’s. Britton took a step backward, checked by the depth of the senseless, animal hate that smoldered there.

A pair of burly soldiers took custody of Swift and began walking him slowly toward the pillbox. Britton felt wetness trickling down his cheek and raised his hand to dab at the wounds, which had begun to smart as the shock of the exchange faded.

“You’re bleeding,” Downer said.

“You are,” said Therese, reaching out a hand and cupping his cheek. Where Swift’s eyes had held unmitigated hatred, Therese’s were pools of concern. “You have to forgive him,” she said. “Nobody knows exactly what happened to him, but some say the SOC killed his girlfriend bringing him in.”

“I heard his wife,” Pyre added. “He doesn’t talk about it. Nice going.” He glared at Britton.

But Britton ignored him, overcome by the kind words. Careful, that damned farmer said nice things to you, too. Then he shot you. But Britton was momentarily swamped by Therese’s beauty, the touch of her hand on his cheek. Without thinking, he raised his own hand to hers. Warmth flooded his face, the same tingling he’d felt in his chest when he’d lain in the Humvee with the hood over his head. The pain of the scratches vanished, and he could feel the skin on his cheek knitting underneath her touch.

“You’re a Healer,” he said.

“A Healer using her magic in unauthorized conditions.” Salamander stepped forward. “Come on, Therese, you know better. That’s a point for you.”

“Suppress me,” Therese said. “Throw me in the hole with Scylla. I don’t care.”

Salamander raised a hand, but Therese’s work was done. She stepped away from Britton, leaving him rubbing his smooth cheek and longing for the warmth of her hand again.

Salamander shook his head and motioned them starkly toward the open ground, where most of the SASS enrollees were lining up in front of a female SOC captain, her long black hair in a businesslike bun on the back of her head. Five SOC Suppressors milled loosely behind her, submachine guns slung across their chests.

Behind them, Britton could hear the steel door in the cinder-block bunkhouse slam shut behind Swift. He thought he heard a woman’s voice, dark and sonorous, welcoming him. Something in its syrupy tones made him shiver.

“You don’t have to do that,” Britton said to Salamander. “It was just a scratch.”

“It’s for his own good,” Salamander said. “Swift’s got a history here, Novice. Escape attempts, violence against guards and fellow SASS enrollees. If we don’t break that spirit of his, command might decide he’s not worth