Britton shook his head. “Later. We’ve been talking way too long. I should let you get back to work.”
No sooner had he spoken than Captain Hayes appeared at their table. “Everything all right in here?”
“Fine, sir,” she answered. “We’re just finishing up.”
“You disappeared from the floor, Therese. We just had a Humvee hit outside the wire. You’re needed back in trauma.”
“Be right there, sir.”
“That fat bastard,” she muttered after he’d left. “I haven’t seen him help a single patient since I’ve been here. He’s always back in the Special Projects tent. What the hell are they doing back there?”
Britton stood, thinking of the report he’d read on Scylla. “Research,” he said. “And they wonder why half the countryside is up in arms against them. We meet in the OC for drinks most nights. Can you make it there?”
“Things get insane here at night, Oscar. That’s when most of the attacks happen, and the worst of the wounded come in.”
He paused at the exit. “It’s really good to see you again, Therese.”
She smiled. “Get out of here. I’ll get to the OC tonight if I can. If worse comes to worst, you know where to find me.”
And Oscar Britton grinned.
Because he did know where to find her, and while it wasn’t a way out of there, it was something.
CHAPTER XXVII: MESCALERO
— Lieutenant Scott Dyson, United States Navy
Final paper for Master’s of Strategic Conflict Studies
Maritime College of the Armed Forces
Britton sat in the OC with the rest of the Coven, celebrating their new skill. Truelove flirted hopefully with Downer. Richards, more than a little tipsy, Whispered a tufted squirrel up onto the bar, where it urinated enthusiastically in Chris’s direction while the bartender growled and idly threatened to chuck them all out. Britton’s stomach churned as his eyes swept the Coven. These people were his friends, weren’t they? The army might own them all, but they could still care about one another.
He brooded over his conversation with Therese. What if she could get the ATTD out? Did he really want to go? Britton felt the pride again, the sense of belonging. Despite the bomb in his heart, despite Fitzy’s continued abuse, he was beginning to make a home there. He had raised the flag, he had made the decision to work with and for the army. Whether he was a weapon or a valued member of a team, what difference did that make? Wasn’t this better than a life spent running?
From the moment he leapt through the gate from Dawes’s bedside, his magic had owned him, driving him from hole to hole. He had saved the lives of those marines. When one really considered it, he’d saved the lives of everyone involved in that operation. He’d done it again when they’d battled the Selfer in the New York City sewers. He looked again at Downer’s functioning legs. There were good people still breathing because of what the SOC had taught him to do with his magic. Despite the shock of the engagement, his skirmish at the Goblin fort had left his heart singing. He had mastered his abilities. He had, almost single-handedly, faced an army and beat them, getting his team out scarcely harmed.
The SOC had taught him how, and they still had more to teach him.
Was the SOC really so terrible? They hadn’t murdered Downer after all. They had, in their own way, saved her. When he really thought about it, he supposed they’d saved him, too.
He stared moodily into his drink. But he couldn’t ignore Fitzy’s drunken threats against Marty, the useless murder of the Goblins in the fortress, or the report strewed on Hayes’s desk, detailing plans to slice into Scylla’s brain. Her words rang in his ear. How could he live as if he belonged to these people? Who knew what they would ask him to do next? It was only a matter of time before he was tasked to hunt down Selfers who weren’t monsters like the Render in the sewers under New York, but decent people like him, saddled with abilities they hadn’t asked for, who didn’t want to be under the army’s thumb.
His gut twisted. But how could he give up all he had learned? All he had yet to learn? And just when he was finally getting good?
He swore.
“You okay?” Truelove asked. Britton reflected on how far the small Necromancer had come, his confidence improving daily. Any irritation at being disturbed fled at the sight of his face, friendly and open.
“Yeah,” Britton said. “Just thinking about when I was running is all.”
Downer looked at him quizzically. “Why bother? You’re not running anymore.”
Truelove punched Britton’s shoulder, then blanched as Britton turned toward him. “Sorry.”
Britton smiled. “No, you’re right. I’m not running anymore. It’s okay. “
Truelove brightened instantly. “Damn right it’s okay. Chris! Another round.”
Britton’s improved mood led them to drink enthusiastically, and they reported to trailer B-6 with slightly aching heads the next morning. Fitzy leaned against the whiteboard. A pale, thin-lipped man in a brown uniform stood beside him, the newcomer’s shoulder patched with an eagle surmounting a buffalo. Gold script curled beneath the symbols— UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR. BUREAU OF INDIAN AFFAIRS.
“Morning, campers,” Fitzy said, pleased at their surprise. “Allow me to introduce Captain Day from BIA’s law-enforcement division. Command has, despite my better judgment, determined you to be at a stage in your training where you can be of use to your country in something more significant than mucking about sewer systems or beating up on the locals here.
“The Great Reawakening has given a lot of people some funny ideas. The funniest are held by the Mescalero band of the Apache nation, who occupy a substantial swath of New Mexico. These folks got the idea that not only is their territory autonomous, it’s sovereign, and they fully seceded from the United States of America. The first thing their tribal council did was to legalize the use of magic in the confines of this supposed sovereign state, with results that you have seen. The death toll in this insurgency currently stands at over two thousand US armed services personnel, with an additional five hundred sworn law-enforcement officers and an undisclosed number of civilian advisors.
“Even worse, this minority of Selfers keeps the majority of law-abiding Apache from living in peace with us. They want to return to the ‘old ways,’ whatever the hell that means, and consider anyone who doesn’t agree with them as an enemy collaborator worthy of death.
“Keep that in mind when you consider the crocodile tears of all these sympathizers who’d like to see these folks cut loose. Unregulated magic is a pretty idea for those who don’t have to deal with it, but I’m sure Captain Day here will agree that the real thing is nasty business.
“You’ve got a rare opportunity to stop this death toll in its tracks, and Captain Day is going to tell you how.”
“Gentlemen.” The BIA captain’s voice was high and nasal. Britton couldn’t tell whether or not he deliberately ignored Downer’s gender. “We have a rare opportunity to make a serious dent in the enemy’s order of battle. The tribal council’s most important general is a Selfer called Chatto.” Captain Day turned to the overhead-projection image displayed on the whiteboard. It depicted a man with old eyes. His leathern, wind-scoured skin made his age difficult to discern, but his long black hair, tied with a red bandanna, looked thick and young.
“Don’t get nostalgic for the noble savage getup. This man is personally responsible for the Ruidoso massacre, including taking out the airlift that went in for the survivors. It remains the biggest tragedy American first responders have ever suffered. Chatto’s capture could lead to a ton of actionable information that we could use to
