Control Point (17 page)

“Sir?” Britton asked.

“I take your charming but clueless expression to mean that you have no idea what I’m talking about,” Fitzsimmons said.

“I saw those fields on the time sheet, sir,” Britton answered, “but I didn’t know what codes to put in.”

“And why the hell not, Novice?” Fitzsimmons asked. “Surely you’ve read sections nine A and B in the manual that I left on the rack in your hooch. Had you bothered to perform the requisite reading required by your job, which, might I remind you, your conditional pardon depends on, you would have found those sections entitled ‘timekeeping’ in twenty-four-point font.”

“Sir,” Britton explained, “that manual was enormous, I didn’t have a chance to…”

“Is that a fixed or rotary wing whine I’m hearing, Novice?” Fitzsimmons asked. “Do you honestly think I give a rat’s ass for whatever bullshit excuses you care to mine at this particular moment? Ooooh, I was really tired, sir. That manual was just too big, sir. Like I give a fuck about any of that.”

Britton swallowed his anger and nodded. Such treatment might work in boot camp, but he was a former officer and pilot and not even in the army anymore. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll go
check the codes in the manual right now.” He turned his back on the man and moved toward the P pods. He’d barely taken a step when the chief warrant officer slapped him in the back of the head so hard that he stumbled forward. Britton whirled, the Dampener easing the magic that flowed along the current of his anger.

“I was warned that you weren’t very smart,” Fitzsimmons said, moving so close that the brim of his cap touched Britton’s chin. “I also heard that you assaulted a chief petty officer last night in an effort to assist a damned Goblin. You also used your magic under unauthorized circumstances before we’d had a chance to enroll you in the SASS. Not off to a very good start, Novice. So, no. You don’t get to go check the manual now. Instead, you get to do fifty push-ups, and I’d like to hear you say ‘sir’ at the end of each count off. On my deck, right now.”

Britton looked down at the thick mud—wet, chilly, and at least four inches deep. For a moment, his composure failed him. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Fitzy grabbed Britton’s balls, squeezing hard. Britton howled, pushing him backward, and letting the surge of magic flow through the Dampener’s wall. The man smiled, and Britton felt his magical current roll back as the Suppression took hold.

Fitzy kicked Britton hard in the knee. As Britton doubled over, he grabbed his neck and slammed a knee into his stomach. Britton fell face-first in the mud and struggled to rise out of the choking thickness. He could feel Fitzy’s boot on his back.

“Count off, Novice!” the chief warrant officer roared. “I don’t have all damned day!”

“Fuck you!” Britton struggled, but Fitzy’s boot held him down with surprising strength. He leaned down and pressed a fingertip into the base of Britton’s neck. Pain blossomed into numbness. Britton’s face dropped into the mud, and Fitzy held it there. Just when he felt he would choke, Fitzy let him lift it a few inches. He gulped air, swallowing mud in the process. He sputtered, choking.

“Count off!”

Britton tried to speak but couldn’t find the breath. His face went down in the mud again until his universe shrank to a pinhole filled entirely by the need for air. His throat burned. His
lungs swelled. When he thought they might burst, Fitzy let him raise his head.

“Count off.” Fitzy’s voice was calmer.

Britton got his arms underneath him, but his veins felt full of lead. He managed one agonizing push-up. “One.”

“One what, Novice?”

“One, sir.”

“That’s better. The agreed number was fifty.”

Britton thought of air and how badly he wanted it. His peripheral vision filled with onlookers, but he swallowed his pride and channeled his rage and humiliation into his arms. He collapsed at thirty-two, his chest a flaming wreck. Fitzy took his boot off his back and Britton rolled over, coughing.

“You still owe me eighteen, but I’ll collect later, Novice. On your feet.”

Chastened, Britton rose, gasping. He remembered his time as a butter-bar lieutenant straight out of his commissioning. He’d been dressed down and humiliated in front of a crowd before. He stared straight ahead, ignoring the eyes around him. He knew when he was beaten.

“We have an understanding?” Fitzy asked.

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Outstanding, Novice.” He gestured past the chow hall. “About half a klick down that way you’ll find a checkpoint. The guard there will let you in. There’s a muster field just beyond it. You’ve already met Downer and Truelove. Form up with them when you arrive. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Much better, Novice. That mud looks fantastic on you. It’s an outstanding reminder of the fact that I am your government customer and a very demanding one at that. I’m going to expect top-notch customer service from you, and you wouldn’t want me to have to let your project manager know that I’m dissatisfied with your performance, would you?” He tapped Britton’s chest meaningfully. Britton felt the ATTD nestled in his heart beneath his sternum.

“No, sir.”

“Make tracks, Novice. I’ll meet you there shortly.”

Britton trudged through the ankle-deep mud down the track beyond. It wasn’t the beating that angered him most though he
felt his magic surge at the thought. It was the comment about defending Marty. Britton already had an inkling of the status Goblins held at the FOB, and it felt far too close to the way Selfers were treated in his own world. So far, Marty appeared far more decent than most of the humans he’d met on the FOB.

At the end of the track, a small plywood booth held a single SOC guard, shivering in his mud-spattered parka. The area beyond was screened by two corrugated metal doors on wheels, topped with barbed wire and protruding from ad hoc walls of concrete blast barriers and piles of sandbags. A huge yellow sign hung from one of them, bearing the SOC arms.
RESTRICTED AREA: APPROPRIATELY BADGED SOC PERSONNEL AND CONTRACTORS ONLY. ABSOLUTELY NO FOREIGN NATIONALS OR SOURCE-INDIGENOUS CONTRACTORS PERMITTED WITHOUT ESCORT
.

Britton cleared the mud off his badge, but the guard was already opening the gate at the sight of his uniform. Britton stepped past and into a broad field, nearly stumbling as his feet touched hard ground. Beyond the gate, the earth was dry and smooth as a hardwood floor. Goblin contractors toiled in small teams along the edges of the square, keeping their eyes scrupulously on their work, their minders watching them closely.

The area before him looked like a holiday campsite, with ten low, star-shaped buildings clad in cheap vinyl siding abutting a parade ground. Each entrance was marked by a swinging brown sign. Britton scanned them; one read
COVEN 6. CAMELOPARDALIS.
Below that, in smaller
SCRIPT—NOTHING IS BEYOND OUR REACH!
Beneath the writing was a stylized image of a giraffe stretching its long neck toward an apple on a branch. Coven Five bore the image of a belching furnace with the words
FORNAX. HELL HATH NO FURY!
Coven Seven fielded the image of a swan, beneath which was written:
CYGNUS. GRACE UNDER FIRE.
Here was an arrow in flight. There a peacock with feathers spread in a glorious sunburst.

The Covens had begun to assemble, each clustering around a yellow pennant stapled to a wooden pole. Each bore the image of the Coven assigned to them. Behind each Coven stood a Suppressor, the fist-lightning symbol on a black band around his upper arm.

Britton spotted Truelove, shouldering the only black pennant
in the field, fluttering the ghosted star behind the moon.
COVEN 4—UMBRA, IT READ, THE MAGIC BEHIND THE MAGIC.

Downer stood at attention beside Truelove. A third man, tall, broad-shouldered, with close-cropped ginger hair, stood behind them. Shadow Coven alone wore Entertech uniforms. The rest of the Covens were in standard digital camouflage, their SOC shoulder patches and magical-school lapel pins the only indicators they were not regular soldiers.

The soldiers to either side of Shadow Coven whispered, moving away reflexively. Britton jogged over and fell in beside the redheaded man. He had a wide, doughy face, spotted with freckles. His mouth was lined, wrinkled into a permanent smile. Beside the Coven symbol on his chest was a stylized image of a man calling, three wolves howling in answer. He winked at Britton, and two sparrows landed on the guy’s head, twittering and hopping. He paid them no mind, the corners of his eyes smiling.

Truelove turned, took in Britton and the mud drying all over him, and mouthed,
What happened to you?
Britton shook his head and stared straight ahead. One of the Novices of Carina Coven stared frankly at the birds, his eyes platter wide. Britton noted a Terramancer’s lapel pin.

“Just what the hell are you looking at, Novice?” Fitzy yelled, arriving on Britton’s heels and turning to the Novice from Carina.

“Nothing, sir.” The man’s voice cracked.

“Sure didn’t look like nothing, Novice,” Fitzy seethed. “Looked like you were staring at one of our erstwhile contractors here, who, I might remind you, are none of your damned concern.”

“It’s just birds, sir,” the Novice quaked.

“Birds?” Fitzy asked. “What goddamned birds are you talking about, son?”

The sparrows chirped triumphantly, dancing and flapping their wings atop the redhead’s ball cap. His shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

“Uh, sir…I guess…” the Novice stuttered.

“You guess nothing, Novice,” Fitzy said. “You’re a goddamn earthmoving, rock-crushing combat Terramancer of the Supernatural Operations Corps. You are not some kind of
pansy-assed Selfer Druid who chats with bunny rabbits and cuddly puppies. If, in its wisdom, the Corps elects to examine certain practices via its contractual staff, that is no affair of yours and is certainly covered by the nondisclosure agreement inherent in your security clearance which, if I remember correctly, you agreed to abide by. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Perfectly, sir,” the Novice said.

“Now tell me again what the hell you were looking at?” Fitzy demanded.

“Nothing, sir,” the Novice said, recovering his composure. “I am not aware of what you are referring to, sir.”

“Outstanding,” Fitzy said, then spun on the redhead. “Get rid of ’em, Richards, or, God as my witness, I will have your ass.” Richards’s smile vanished, and the birds took wing.

Britton marveled at the disciplined rows, awash in the mixed currents of so much channeled magic. He had never seen so many Sorcerers in one place.

Fitzsimmons took his place in front of the Coven pennant as a stern-looking SOC lieutenant colonel strode out in front of the assembly, the flame pattern on his lapel pin marking him as Pyromancer.

“Morning, campers!” he said. “I apologize for the repeat here, but we have a newly constituted Coven joining us.” He nodded toward Fitzy’s group. “So, I’m going to ask for your patience while I go over the indoc brief one more time.” He turned to Coven Four and went on. “My name is Lieutenant Colonel Allen, but you may refer to me by my call sign of Crucible. I want you to know that I live up to my name, and you are going to have to pass through me before you can graduate here. ‘Here’ is the SOC’s Sorcerer’s Apprentice/Officer Leadership Combined Course or SAOLCC. This is our Source campus, and it is a rare honor for all of you to be here. I need not remind you that the existence of this campus, or FOB Frontier in general, is classified at the secret level, and you are forbidden to discuss anything you do or see here with any persons who do not have a strict need to know.

“You will live, work, and train with your Covens for the rest of your tenure here. You will notice that our new Coven is contractually provided.” He gestured to Coven Four. “Umbra
Coven is a private entity that will work on the fringes of this school. You will assist them as required, but they are outside the realm of your concern, and I do not want to hear anyone in this assemblage discussing them beyond what is specifically required of you in training exercises. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”

“Yes, sir!” the assembled Novices responded in a single voice.

“Outstanding,” he said. “I will insist on military discipline here at all times. At the head of each pennant, you will see your Coven Commander. I fully expect each of you to adhere to his word as if it were my own, the very word of God Himself. That said, we’re not the regular army, and it is essential that you feel free to ask questions. This is just like high school, folks. Raise a hand and wait to be called on. Everyone clear?”

“Yes, sir!” the Novices chorused.

“Very well,” Crucible said. “Any questions before we get started?”

Silence. Britton looked uneasily at Fitzy’s broad shoulders. Crucible’s words sinking in. Obey his orders like the word of God. He felt his magic surge.

“All right, you will follow me to the practice field on the other side of your quarters. Coven Four, please follow Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons to enroll in Suitability Assessment. Fall out in Coven order!”

Crucible led the way past the star-shaped buildings to a corridor of firm ground that snaked off through a tiny opening in the blast barricades across from them. A massive concrete dome rose off in the distance, the surface pitted and showing rusted rebar supports.

Signs were mounted to the barricade wall pointing to the either direction:
TERRAMANTIC ENGINEERING RANGE, WEATHER CONTROL RANGE, FLIGHT EXERCISE ACTIVITY, FIRE CONTROL RANGE, AND SUITABILITY ASSESSMENT.
Noise sounded in the background, obscured by the maze of concrete walls. Britton heard booms, sizzling, tortured groans of metal.

The group moved through the gap to a football-field-sized parade ground surrounded by high sandbag walls. The ground had been left to mud—blasted in places, burned in others. The mud rose into weird shapes, vaguely resembling sculpture. Here
and there were bits of rock walls. A few dark patches looked suspiciously like blood. Fitzy gestured to Shadow Coven, walking them in the opposite direction, through a separate gap in the blast barricades.