Shadow Ops: Control Point

“Hang on, Oscar.” Therese’s voice cut through his reverie. “I’ll do this as fast as I can.”

He felt something pressed against his mouth and opened to accept it. A small rubber ball. He bit down on it instinctively and heard a murmur of appreciation from Therese.

The warm ripples of her current intensified, dropping down into his chest, slipping behind his ribs and cradling his heart. They curled there, gripping the muscle. Britton could feel the tendrils moving through the valves and chambers. It tingled but didn’t hurt. They probed. Britton could feel the magic gather, pause.

“There it is,” Therese said. “Here we go.”

Agony. Pain like he had never known before. Scylla’s assault on him had been nothing compared to this. His breath vanished, his vision gone white for the second time in less than an hour. A vise gripped his heart, each beat hammered so hard he felt it would pound him to fragments. He could feel the ATTD migrating, the flesh spasming to push it upward. The muscle shuddered, threatened to stop, but the tendrils of magic kept it beating steadily. But Therese couldn’t keep the body’s natural rhythm. Waves of agony sounded across his body as every cell cried out in rage at the flow of oxygen suddenly interrupted.

He tried to scream, but he couldn’t move muscles completely locked in spite of the drugs coursing through him. His jaw clamped shut, teeth digging furrows in the rubber between them.

Pain became the whole of his universe, eternal, all-encompassing. Oscar Britton lay in it and prayed to die.

And then, mercifully, he did.

Stanley Britton stood naked, his wiry body strong as ironwood, the muscles mapping a rolling landscape beneath the skin. Only his face and silver-threaded hair betrayed his age. He hovered above the saw- edged grass, weird stars drifting overhead. Demon-horses cavorted around him, nuzzling his thighs, crooning affection. His fingertips touched lightly over their shaggy backs.

A huge stone resting on his chest, Oscar lay on his back and looked at his father. The weight crushed him. Blood lapped the edges.

“Dad,” he croaked. “Dad, get it off. It hurts.”

“Sir,” Stanley said in Fitzy’s voice. “Show some goddamned respect.”

“It’s killing me.”

“Funny how that works,” Stanley said. “Just deserts, I’d say.”

“I’m sorry,” Oscar managed. “I didn’t want to…” The stone dug deeper, he felt his ribs give way beneath the weight, his lungs compressing. He could barely manage the air to speak.

“You always were a little slow on the uptake,” Stanley said. He gestured over his body. “Do I look hurt to you? If I were any better, I’d need rubber pants. No, no. I’m just fine. You’re the one who’s dead.”

Snow swept around him, the air suddenly chill. The fat flakes rained down around the stone, soaking the blood, burying him. The cold swept into his veins, freezing him, making him leaden. A black shape blossomed behind Stanley’s head, extending long slender limbs over his shoulders.

Oscar strained to make it out, but the blizzard picked up, obscuring his vision. Stanley vanished in the deluge until all Oscar could see was his head, leaning back into the crook of another’s neck. The shadow behind him nuzzled him affectionately, like a lover.

“See you soon, son,” his father said, then the snow took Oscar, leaving only the crushing weight on his chest, constriction and lingering agony.

“Oscar.” The snow began to clear. The cold and agony re-mained.

“Oscar.” Not his father’s voice. Someone else. Someone good.

“Oscar, come on.” Something battered his cheeks, he tried to move his head away from it, but the slaps continued.

The snow resolved into a canvas ceiling supported by metal poles. Harsh sodium lights.

The cash.

“Oscar, look at me.” Therese’s almond eyes, wet with concern, filled his vision. She waved a hand in front of him.

Balanced on her fingertips was a steel insect, its segmented carapace still glossed with his blood. One end dangled a long wire, stingerlike. The other housed a clear plastic dome, pulsing a gentle blue light. Black numbers had been stenciled on the side.

“We got it,” he croaked. His voice burned in his throat.

“We got it,” she said, biting back tears. “How are you?”

He began to sit up, the ball of pain in his chest expanded. His head swam with drugged bewilderment and nausea. He leaned over the table and dry-heaved, the spasm aggravating his agony.

“Oh, God,” he said.

Therese put her hands on his chest, whole and unscarred. “Oscar, lie down. You can’t move yet.”

He shook his head, the motion nearly made him pass out. “No time. We’ve gotta get Marty.” And after that? Later. Take it step by step.

He swung his feet over the edge of the cot. They slammed down on the ground, and he nearly vomited again, but the solidity of a hard surface made him feel somewhat steadier.

“Oh, Jesus, you’re crazy,” Therese said, putting her shoulder in his armpit to support him. The smell of her hair soothed him, then made him sick again. His vision faded and returned in time with the pulsing agony in his chest.

“They’ll kill him,” he said, and forced his weight onto his feet. His knees failed him, and he sagged against Therese, who steadied herself with one hand on the cot.

She couldn’t carry him. He’d have to dig deep. He took a shaking step.

It took them nearly a minute to get halfway across the tiny room, but they made it. Therese still dangled the ATTD between two fingers.

“No,” he croaked, “get rid of it. It could go off any minute.”

Outside, the cash was erupting in noise and chaos. The word must have begun to arrive. A loud buzz of helicopters sounded overhead. Deep booms, some sounding like magic, some not.

Therese set the ATTD down on the cot and helped Britton walk. “What’s going on?”

“Later, we’ve got to move.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

Britton slouched toward the dental unit. “Just look for MPs.”

They found them in abundance. A knot of them swarmed the urinalysis section, carbines pointed earthward but fingers braced tensely over triggers. Marty stood placidly inside a protective ring of surly Goblin orderlies. They snarled in their language at a translator who sat behind a laptop, shouting questions. The tent thronged with onlookers, furious Goblins, soldiers, and orderlies alike. Half of the MPs faced inward, keeping the angry Goblins from assaulting the translator. The other half faced outward, keeping the equally enraged humans from storming Marty.

Truelove and Downer stood outside the ring of MPs, lending their shouts to the throng. Truelove spotted Britton and ran to him.

“They’re trying to see if he had any accomplices on the staff,” the Necromancer said. “I’ve been trying to tell them it’s just a custom, but nobody is list— Wow. Are you okay?”

Britton nodded. “Need to talk to him.”

Truelove glanced nervously from Britton to Therese and back. “They’re not going to let you.”

Boom. Boom. The crackle of gunfire. “What the hell is going on out there?” Truelove asked. He took a step away from the circle, then looked nervously back to Marty.

“Stay here, I’m begging you,” Britton whispered as Therese helped him forward.

He tapped one of the MPs on the center of his body armor and pointed at the Goblin. The soldier wrinkled his brow. “Shouldn’t you be lying down?”

Therese gestured to Marty. “Please! We all know what you’re going to do to him, just let us say good- bye?”

“Fine by me, ma’am,” the MP said, “so long as you’re willing to pay for the lawyer when they write me up for disciplinary action.” He took a half step to better block their progress.

The Goblins continued to shout. The linguist typed furiously on his laptop, shouting back.