Truelove looked at his feet, shrugging. Fitzy boiled in response. “What the hell would you have done if that had been a real grenade? Christ, you’re pathetic.”
Despite Fitzy’s words, Britton flushed with pride. In less than two minutes, they had wiped out a small platoon of enemy and disabled a crew-served vehicle. They had done exactly what Fitzy had instructed — entering alone and finishing with an army.
Fitzy ranted, and Britton turned away. They had done brilliantly. He wasn’t going to listen to any crap.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Fitzy called after him. “You still owe me MAC practice.”
Britton turned back to him, face hard. He holstered his pistol. “MAC, sure. No time like the present.”
Fitzy jumped down off the crate and advanced. “You want a public whooping? That’s fine. You’ve certainly earned it.”
He jabbed at Britton’s nose, and the larger man skipped back lightly, slapping the hand down. Fitzy followed with a sharp kick at Britton’s knee, but Britton was ready and spread his legs apart, letting Fitzy’s boot pass harmlessly between them. He threw a jab of his own. Fitzy jerked his head out of the way, catching Britton’s wrist and twisting it around, bringing his boot up toward Britton’s exposed crotch. Britton took a step, stomping on Fitzy’s ankle, earning a grunt of pain. He wrenched his arm free and pushed hard on the chief warrant officer’s chest, sending him staggering back.
Fitzy paused, his eyes narrowing. He spit, his eyes flicking across the rest of the Coven, standing agape. He looked back at Britton, concentrating. “If that’s the way you want it.” He rushed forward.
Britton caught his right cross in midair and pivoted, swinging Fitzy forward. He opened a gate in front of him, and Fitzy went sprawling into the darkness of Portcullis’s loading bay.
Britton closed the gate and opened another one directly behind Fitzy. He jumped through and spun on one heel as Fitzy turned to face him. He opened another gate behind the chief warrant officer as his boot connected hard with Fitzy’s face, sending him sprawling back through into the practice yard, blood spraying from his mouth.
Britton stepped through after him, assuming his guard. “Yes, sir. That’s the way I want it.”
Fitzy spit blood and cursed. “GIMAC. You’re getting a little ahead of yourself, don’t you think?”
“Just trying to impress you, sir,” Britton said.
“Oh, I’m impressed,” Fitzy replied, raising a hand. Britton felt his magic roll back. “Now, let’s see how you do with no tricks up your sleeve.”
He advanced again, no feinting jabs this time. Britton tried one of his own and Fitzy slapped it down, using the momentum to pivot on his boot, bringing an elbow crashing into Britton’s ear so sharply that he staggered, seeing stars, his head ringing.
Fitzy paused in front of him, hands on his hips. “Harder when you’ve got to fight fair,” he said, then brought the steel toe of his boot up into Britton’s balls. Britton collapsed in the mud, retching, unable to breathe.
“Delusions of adequacy,” he heard Fitzy say through the ringing in his ears.
Oscar Britton lay facedown in the mud, feeling the ATTD like a stone in his heart. The thought of taking Scylla up on her offer chilled his soul. And there was no word from Marty about the worm, and without it, no way out.
CHAPTER XXI: NO WAY OUT
— Recorded message — Church of Christ, Militant
“We did good today,” Truelove ventured, as they sat in the OC. Britton nodded, groaning inwardly. Truelove probably thought he was comforting him after the beating he’d taken, but he couldn’t have cared less about that. Marty hadn’t mentioned the worm since Britton had first asked, and Scylla’s offer hovered like a vulture on the fringes of his mind.
“Hell, we did great,” Downer said, smiling. “No matter what Fitzy says. That was a damned sweep.”
Richards snorted, knocking back a tumbler. He slapped the empty glass down on the counter for Chris to fill. “Pour one out for the toughest act in the United States armed forces!”
“Make that two,” Downer added to everyone’s surprise. “He knows what he’s got now. It can’t be long before they start running us on real missions.”
“Against whom?” Britton asked.
Downer shrugged. “Against whomever. The bad guys.”
“The bad guys will probably be a pack of confused kids like you used to be, or maybe Marty’s kindred. You like that idea?” Britton asked.
Truelove moved to intervene. “He needs another dose of Dampener,” he said, but Downer silenced him with a look. Her hair had grown in a bit, the stubble beginning to give way to short hair. Her cheeks were gaunter, the chubbiness fading fast. At that rate, she’d be downright lean in another couple of weeks.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked. “You’ve been given a clean slate. They’re making you into a superhero, and you don’t even care! Look what your magic is doing! You saw what I did today!”
“Have you seen this place?” Britton asked. “It’s a damned fortress. Look at the locals! Look how they treat Marty and the rest!”
Silence settled over the OC as the crowd stopped their drinking to take in the confrontation.
“They’re fucking Goblins, Oscar!” she yelled. “They attack our base every damned night!”
“And why do you think they do that?” he growled back. “Maybe it has something to do with the fact that we set up a military outpost in the middle of their land?”
“We give them jobs! They work here!” Bright spots of color rose in her cheeks.
“For what? I don’t even know what they’re being paid. Surely they’re not using US dollars out there in the open country.” He turned to Truelove. “How does Entertech pay them?”
Truelove swallowed hard. “With coupons for the PX,” he finally said. “They use them mostly for stuff they don’t make themselves, plastic containers, synthetic clothing. But mostly processed sugar. They love it.”
Britton looked back to Downer. “And for that they’re treated like indentured servants. They’re carved up like high-school lab experiments!”
Richards coughed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Go to the damned cash,” Britton yelled. “They’re dissecting them there. Christ, Truelove, you use their dead as practice dummies! You want to tell me that’s okay in their culture? They don’t honor their dead the way we do?”
Truelove blanched, and Richards stammered, but Downer met Britton’s gaze evenly. “So? We study them. Big deal! We dissected frogs in biology class all the time!”
“They’re not frogs, damn it!” Britton pounded his fist on the bar.
Downer ignored him. “For all you know, they’re honored to give us their dead.”
Britton recalled Marty’s look of resignation as the Physiomancer let the curtain fall. “I doubt it.”
“Guys, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Truelove said. Richards ignored them.
Downer took a breath. “Look, I’m trying here.”
“So am I,” Britton retorted, “and that doesn’t mean doing whatever the hell some murderous idiot tells me.”
“What’s so wrong with that?” she asked. “Why is it so bad to fight for your country?”
“Nothing, so long as you choose to take that fight on. Didn’t you take civics class? Don’t you know what this country was founded on?” he went on. “Freedom, Sarah. Freedom to choose sides. We’re a democracy, damn it. Or, at least we were before the Reawakening Commission and the McGauer-Linden Act. Christ. Do you even know why I’m really here?”
