Control Point (12 page)

“I am overjoyed to serve my country in any way I can, sir.” She massaged Billy’s shoulders. “Billy’s been a good boy, Captain. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for his bear back?”

“That’s not up to me, ma’am.” Harlequin sighed. “The CO said three days. But you know you can count on me to put in a good word.”

“So, what can my son do for his country today?” Miss Cartwright asked.

“A comms portal first, if you please. Just a quick status check,” Harlequin said.

Miss Cartwright leaned low, her soft chin grazing her son’s ear. “Sweetheart, are you ready to do your nice thing for Momma? Just the little hole, please. Thanks, baby. Momma loves you.”

Billy’s mouth moved, making tiny sounds. His mother seemed to understand. “No, sweetie. Momma’s right here, there’s nothing to be scared of. Just the little hole, then you get a treat, okay?”

The pallid figure in the chair whipped his head side to side, whining, straining the leads connected to his head. His mother dug her fingertips into his shoulders and waited. A moment later, a tiny pinpoint of static light opened in the air before them.

Harlequin lost no time. “Comms line to LSA Barbican. I need Landing Zone status for entry.”

“Roger that,” a voice came from the darkness. Radio static was followed by a muttered voice. A moment later, the voice called out again. “Barbican confirms. LZ is hot.”

“How long till they have it clear?” Harlequin asked.

“No estimate,” the voice came back. “LZ Logs says it could be an hour, could be a week.”

Harlequin swore. “Damn it. We don’t have time for that. I need an escort, please, on the hop. Do they have assets ready for cover?”

“Roger that, sir,” the voice replied. “They’re ready for you. Platoon sergeant says be ready to come out shooting.”

“Damn it,” Rampart muttered under his breath.

“Will you secure that crap?” Harlequin said to him. “Or did you join the army for the free clothes?”

“Sir,” Rampart said through gritted teeth, “if we’re going into a firefight, I need to be able to lay off him in case we get hit by indig sorcerers. You sure he won’t go nova?”

Harlequin swore again, tapping his chin. “You’re right, we can’t risk it. I was going to wait until we arrived.”

“Your call, sir,” Rampart said. “He fries himself, I don’t want it on my conscience.”

“You mean you don’t want it on your record,” Harlequin said. “You got Dampener?”

Rampart shook his head, but Don nodded and produced a syringe filled with a clear yellow fluid that looked disturbingly like urine. A white label read—
SOC DISPENSARY—6A. SOC USE ONLY AS ORDERED. ALL OTHERS RETURN TO CO IMMEDIATELY.

Harlequin handed Britton the syringe. “Inject all of the fluid into either thigh. Go right through your trousers. Be sure to use it all.”

Britton looked dubiously at the needle and hesitated.

“Are you kidding me?” Harlequin yelled. “We got you, you idiot. Do as you’re fucking told.”

Harlequin’s words struck home. Britton stuck the needle in, depressing the plunger.

In seconds, he felt calmer. The anger at Harlequin, the sadness at losing his family, the fear over his uncertain future, all shifted. The emotions shunted off, compartmented, available at his wish. He rifled through them, calling up his nervousness, feeling the magic rolling along with it as much as the
Suppression would allow, then pushing both away. His mouth went uncomfortably dry, his tongue quickly feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth. He looked up at Harlequin, feeling the serenity on his face. “Got any water?”

The Aeromancer laughed. “Cottonmouth’s a bitch, eh? That’s the worst part of the Limbic Dampener. It helps control your emotions. It’ll make calling magic slightly more difficult and impair the power a bit. Well worth it, though. Your control will greatly increase, and there’s no danger of your going nova. The injection will last anywhere up to three weeks depending on your metabolism, and on a big guy like you, I’d imagine it’s pretty slow.”

“And pricey,” Rampart added. “You just injected roughly the cost of an Abrams tank into your leg, my friend. We don’t just hand that stuff out.”

Britton’s eyes went wide.

“We save it for special cases,” Harlequin said. “People with serious control problems, or”—he paused for dramatic effect, one corner of his mouth rising—“particularly valuable magical assets.”

An engine revved in the darkness. A massive eight-wheeled Stryker armored vehicle rolled into view, headlights blinding. A soldier sat behind the fifty-caliber machine gun, still buckling on his helmet.

Miss Cartwright pressed a piece of candy into Billy’s hand. She kissed his cheeks and whispered into his ear. He shook, the leads trembling.

The gunner gave Harlequin the thumbs-up sign, and the hatch in the back of the vehicle hissed down. Four soldiers sat on metal benches inside, each as battle-ready as Britton and Rampart, still adjusting straps and slamming magazines into their weapons.

The blackness rolled back. A giant gate—easily twice the size of anything Britton had conjured, opened in front of the vehicle. Billy yelped and grinned, drooling. His mother had thrown her arms around his neck, her mouth still moving against his ear.

“He’s a Portamancer,” Britton said.

“Just like you,” Harlequin said. “Or just like you will be if you don’t do as you’re told. Get in the Stryker, Oscar. We’re moving.”

Britton’s mouth went dry, but not from the Dampener. The thought of being killed frightened him, but the thought of spending the rest of his life as a drooling idiot shook his bones. Only the Dampener kept him from being paralyzed with fear.

Beyond the gate, Britton could make out a cratered track. The Stryker’s massive wheels would make short work of it. A soldier raced across his field of view, weapon blazing. In the distance, a ball of fire bloomed.

“Sir,” called one of the soldiers inside the vehicle. “Seat’s warm for you.”

They got in. The hatch shut, leaving them in the cramped half-light of the vehicle cabin. Claustrophobia, fear, and excitement all rose in Britton’s gut. Controlled by the Dampener, the emotions barely impacted his tide at all. His face remained calm.

“You’re not going to gear up, sir?” one of the soldiers asked Harlequin.

Harlequin balled his fists as the vehicle lurched forward, the bench vibrating. Electricity blazed between his knuckles. “Just keep your geared-up ass out of my way, and you might learn something.”

Britton felt the sudden change in magical flow as they pierced the gate. Rampart’s Suppressing field intensified, then softened as he adjusted for the increased current on the gate’s far side.

“Welcome to the Source,” Harlequin said, grinning fiercely.

Overhead, the gunner cursed as he opened up with the fifty-cal, blazing lead at some unknown foe.

The Stryker rocked on the uneven track. Britton could hear the dull booming of explosions and the staccato rhythm of the machine gun despite the armored hull.

And something more—the rush of wind and the crack of lightning striking, far louder and closer than any lightning should have been. He heard banging on the hull and a muttered conversation as the gunner ceased firing. A moment later, he called down into the squad bay. “They cut the road, sir. Rotary wing’s the only way to the Forward Operating Base. Blackhawk is spinning up on the pad right now.”

Harlequin cursed and jerked a thumb at Britton. “Close detail on our guest here. Anything happens to him between here and the helo, you’ll wish it had happened to you. Rampart! If you don’t run Suppression, I have to, so keep yourself out of the fight. Dampener or no Dampener, I’m not taking any chances. You keep his flow blocked. Oscar, keep your head down and go where I damn well tell you! On deck!”

The hatch dropped, and the dawn flooded over them. Even the half-light was dazzling, the rough ground glittering with bits of crushed rock. The air had the same intense, alive smell, tainted with other odors, all strengthened by the Source’s heightened sense of things: gasoline, cordite, ozone, and blood.

A Blackhawk helicopter stood thirty feet across from them, rotors spinning. A gunner stood in the open door behind the whirling barrels of a minigun, its blurred muzzles blazing, spitting a stream of rounds into the distance. The scream of the motor and the clatter of casings on the cracked concrete pad were loud enough to hear over the beating rotors, swirling up enough dust that Britton jerked his sunglasses over his eyes as the escort lowered the goggles on their helmets.

They stumbled down the ramp. Harlequin leapt out of the hatch, rocketing airborne. The dust whipped up by the Blackhawk’s rotors whirled around him, his magic gathering it into a funnel. The sunglasses were too dark in the early light, so Britton slipped them back onto the cap brim, taking advantage of Harlequin’s drawing off the dust.

He caught his breath.

Over Harlequin’s shoulder, Britton could see a massive bird banking toward them. Its brown feathers were flecked with gold, black beak opened wide enough to swallow a car. A mottled bird’s nest of ropes was strapped between its wings.

“Move, damn it!” Rampart said, shoving him hard. The escort pushed across the perennial saw-edged grass, withered and burned in patches, making for the helo. A long line of concrete blast barriers formed a wall that stretched past Britton’s field of vision.

The helo gunner stopped firing, motioning them onward. The escort stopped short as a long, metal javelin thudded into the earth before them, quivering. It was quickly followed by the popping sound and dancing earth that indicated rounds impacting. Britton threw himself backward, knocking Rampart into the soldier behind him. The three went stumbling.

The soldiers in front of him scattered, firing their carbines skyward. The gunner in the helo worked the ammunition feed to his minigun with panicked speed.

The bird circled above them, the basket on its back writhing. Britton’s eyes widened as he saw it was crammed with
small, brown-skinned humanoids. Huge heads topped gnarled bodies and large, pointed ears jutted, pinned back by the wind of the giant bird’s descent. Garish paint adorned their faces—ragged stripes, handprints, streaking stars. One of them, painted completely white, clung flat to the bird’s neck, just behind its head. Most of the creatures in the basket brandished bright metal javelins in their long, thin hands, but at least one held a carbine.

One of the creatures hefted a grenade launcher meant to be attached to the underside of a rifle. It shouted something Britton could not hear and fired, the recoil knocking it back into the basket. The grenade detonated way off mark, but succeeded in spraying the group with spinning fragments of dirt and rock. One of the escorting soldiers cursed and collapsed, dropping his carbine and grabbing his ankle.

Britton spun away, shielding his eyes from the scattering dirt. He looked back at the bird. Red holes blossomed in its wings as bullets tore into it, but it didn’t seem to notice. It opened its giant beak in a piercing cry and dove lower. Britton raised his carbine and sighted down it. Rampart slapped the barrel down. “What the hell are you doing? Get your ass in the helo!”

Britton hesitated. The men around him were his captors and enemies, but his instincts rebelled against leaving fellow soldiers in the midst of a fight, his muscles responding to the sight of the uniforms and the sound of gunfire, rooting his legs to the spot.

A cluster of javelins burst from the basket. One of the escorts fell gurgling, impaled through the neck. Bullets plucked two of the squat, brown-skinned creatures shrieking out of the basket. More rounds tore into the bird.

It just kept coming. Britton could feel the wind swept toward them by its massive wings.

Rampart threw his shoulder into Britton, setting his legs moving again as the two ran for the helo.

A funnel of wind drilled horizontally through the air, focusing all the gathered dust into a gritty corkscrew. The tornado slammed into the bird’s back, rolling it over and sending it tumbling across the track until it slammed against the concrete barrier wall. Gold-flecked feathers, each as long as a sword, exploded from the impact and showered down around
them. The small creatures tumbled from the basket, pitching across the ground. A few stirred. Blasts of sizzling electricity turned them into piles of smoking meat before they could rise.

Harlequin swooped low over them, the remains of the dust devil swirling about his fists. “Damn it, Rampart! How hard is it to get him in a damned helo?” He kicked off in the air and shot skyward, making for two more of the birds, distant but closing fast.

Rampart cursed and hurled Britton forward. The helo gunner had reloaded his minigun but checked his fire as Harlequin swerved in front of the spinning muzzles.

A hammerblow threw Britton on his back, his body armor digging a trough in the rough ground, his nose filled with a burning stink.

He blinked, struggling to rise onto his elbows, weighed down by his gear. His carbine was gone. His magazine pouches smoldered in his vest. The magazines inside must have ab-sorbed the blast. They were melted, the bullets fused with their containers.

One of the brown creatures rose some fifty feet over the concrete barrier wall, its body wreathed in blue electricity. Its eyes were long and yellow, catlike. Its long nose hooked over a snarling mouth, showing tiny pointed teeth. Its skin was crusted with thick white paint.

“Christ!” Rampart said. “Don’t you run!” Britton felt the magic tide return as the Suppression fell away. The flow came gently, controlled by the Dampener in his blood. Rampart dropped his carbine to dangle from its sling and raced forward, hands outstretched.