Control Point (18 page)

Beyond it, a chain-link fence rose some thirty feet in the air, topped by razor wire. Wooden guard towers broke its length into sections, covered by peaked roofs. The railings sported spotlights and light machine guns fixed by hard points to the metal railings. Magic Suppressors patrolled the catwalks intersecting them, black body armor displayed the armored fist with its perennial clutch of lightning bolts.

Through the fence line, Britton could make out a row of low-domed Quonset huts, their corrugated-metal roofs patched with rust and stenciled with numbers. People lounged outside them, smoking, sitting, sullenly talking. They contrasted sharply with the crisp uniforms of everyone else Britton had seen on the FOB thus far. Most wore a patchwork of civilian clothes; cheap hiking jackets and blue jeans. They were a mix of men and women, and here and there Britton spotted people wearing the one-piece orange jumpsuits he had had found himself in when he’d first woken from the shotgun blast. The biggest shock was their hair, a variety of lengths and shades, defying the military orderliness present everywhere else.

A long row of blast barricades separated the line of Quonset huts from a flat, muddy field, where groups of people in civilian clothes or cast-off military uniforms stood in orderly rows facing two SOC officers. As Britton approached the fence line, he watched the officers extend their hands, pillars of flame rising from the earth before them. A moment later, the rows of civilians followed suit with mixed results. Some of the pillars sputtered and collapsed, some teetered wildly, some failed to manifest at all.

Across from the Quonset huts stood a small replica of the plaza Britton had seen outside the P pods; a chow hall, a morale facility, rows of schoolhouses. It was a base unto itself, all packed tightly within the confines of the razor-wire-topped fencing and guard towers.

Britton, Downer, Truelove, and Richards silently followed Fitzy toward a gap in the fence line, overlooked by two large guard towers. There, the fence was wheeled at the bottom to
form giant sliding panels that rolled aside as they approached. Guards scurried out to drag wooden barriers wrapped in razor wire out of the way.

A long sign spanned the length between the two guard towers.
FORWARD OPERATING BASE FRONTIER, IT READ. SUITABILITY ASSESSMENT AND MAGIC INDOCTRINATION SECTION.

Just inside the gate, a short walk from the entrance to the Quonset huts, a waist-high bit of telephone pole had been erected in the mud. A thinner pole reached from it roughly ten feet skyward. Lowered about the base was a rigid plastic American flag, colored reflective orange, the stars and stripes in subdued black.
They want to be sure everyone can see it clearly when it goes up,
Britton thought.

Just beyond it, tucked into a corner of the compound, was a flat-topped cinder-block pillbox, scarcely seven feet high and fitted with a single, rusty metal door stenciled with the words:
INTENSIVE ROOM.
The door was handleless, its chipped surface marked only by a sliding panel at eye level. Two Suppressors stood vigilantly just outside it, their belts replete will the full scope of law-enforcement panoply—collapsing baton, pepper spray, Taser, zip cuffs.

The guards snapped crisp salutes, which Fitzy returned as they entered. The knot of indolent-looking civilians rose to their feet, extinguishing cigarettes and looking toward the group, whispering among themselves.

A small cluster of them stood apart from the rest, casting surly glances toward Fitzy and his Coven. They surrounded a tall man, pale and sickly thin, his black hair plastered to his forehead. His face was narrow and arrogant, with a hooked blade of a nose and small, dark eyes. His mouth was set in a look of dramatic disapproval. Noting Britton’s gaze, the pale man crossed his arms over his chest and cocked an eyebrow. Belts of lightning sprang from his shoulders to crisscross his chest before one of the Suppressors on the catwalk above him rolled his magic back. The Suppressor yelled something and was met by the man’s middle finger. But his eyes never left Britton. The group gave a wide berth to a long-haired boy not much older than Downer, his clothing soaked, skin beaded with moisture. The water coursing through his hair made it look grayish, slick as seaweed. The boy’s wet skin and clothing made him
shiver in the chilly air, and one of the soldiers guarding them offered him a parka in military camouflage. The boy looked sheepishly like he might take it, then shook his head angrily at a glare from the black-haired man. The rest of the group nodded their approval of the refusal. The boy stood shaking, looking miserable.

“What’s that all about?” Britton asked.

“That’s the No-No Crew,” Fitzy replied, “and the piece of crap they have elected to lead them. They’d rather have that kid freeze to death than take a coat from one of us. You want to learn how to be worthless, there’s your best bet. I catch you hanging with them, and I’ll know you’re well and truly lost. The upside of that will be that you’ll have outlived your usefulness, and I can pound you into oblivion with a clear conscience.”

He turned and grinned at Britton, his sunglasses preventing Britton from telling if his eyes were smiling or not.

“The No-No Crew?” Downer asked. “Why do they call them that?”

“I suspect you’ll find out shortly,” Fitzy answered.

A SOC major, whip-thin and with a shock of flaming red hair, strode forward to meet them. The pale sun flashed off the Pyromancer’s pin secured to his lapel. He returned Fitzy’s salute, then shook his hand with genuine affection. “Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons.” He nodded to Richards and Truelove. “Good to see you two again as well. Colonel Taylor told me to expect you. So these are the new enrollees?”

“Yes, sir,” Fitzy replied. “Just these two”—he indicated Downer and Britton—“I’ll be collecting them just before chow. Colonel Taylor just wants the control quals met, and we’ll take it from there.”

The major chuckled. “You sure you don’t want them spending the night? We just had four enrollees raise the flag this morning. Got a few empty bunks in the squad bay.”

Fitzy didn’t appear to appreciate the humor. “Thank you for the offer, sir, but Colonel Taylor’s orders are clear. They’ll be bunking in the P pods.”

“What’s the matter?” the pale man called. “Afraid we might be a bad influence? Teach them how to think for themselves?”

“Ah, our dear Swift,” the major said. He nodded confidentially to Britton and Downer. “You’d best steer clear of that
one. He won’t be happy until no one is. All righty then, we’d best get you started. I’m Major Salamander, and I run our little corner of paradise here.”

“You obey the major’s commands as if they were my own,” Fitzy growled, “with a sense of deference and urgency.”

“All right, Chief Warrant Officer, I’ll take it from here,” Salamander said indulgently. He returned Fitzy’s salute as the chief warrant officer led Richards and Truelove back out through the gate, then steered Downer and Britton toward the line of Quonset huts. Swift moved to intercept them, his group coming with him, but a SOC Aeromancer leapt from one of the guard towers and hovered over them, conjuring a gust of wind that knocked them all backward, checking them hard against the hut wall.

“Sorry about that,” Salamander said. “Some folks are bigger fans of how we do things around here than others, but I’m pleased to say that we get through to pretty much everybody sooner or later.

“So, on behalf of the Supernatural Operations Corps and the Camp Commandant, welcome to FOB Frontier’s Suitability Assessment Section, or as most folks call it, the SASS. This is where we put our captured Selfers until we can be certain that they can be trusted with a SOC commission. We aim to please, and I know you’re going to enjoy your time here.”

Over Salamander’s shoulder, Britton could see the far end of the compound, lined by another length of high chain-link, razor-wire-topped fence. Through it, he could see the rolling plain of land outside the camp. The SASS was located right up against the edge of the FOB, with only a few bits of chain link between the inmates and whatever roamed outside.

Britton thought of the fighting he’d seen coming from the LZ to the FOB, and shuddered. The wind picked up, turning it into a full-blown shiver, and he felt Downer jockey against his shoulder instinctively.

Behind them, the gates rattled shut with a click, and he could hear the scuffling of boots as the bladed barriers were drawn back into place.

Major Salamander led them opposite the pillbox to a low building: plain, unadorned, and constructed of plywood and corrugated metal. A screen door swung on rusted spring hinges, shutting out clouds of tiny, weird, varicolored bugs.

Inside, a uniformed SOC sergeant sat behind a plastic desk typing at a laptop. He took Britton’s and Downer’s names, checked their badges, and tapped away. He handed each of them a laminated piece of poorly mimeographed paper that listed bulleted rules of conduct for the SASS and explained what was required for enrollees to be deemed “suitable.”

“Just remember,” the sergeant said, his voice monotone from long practice, “our watchwords here are ‘safe and controlled.’ Don’t rumble with the other enrollees, follow the
orders of your instructors, and, above all, no unauthorized magic use. We’ve got Suppressors but prefer not to engage them. Every time your magic is forcibly Suppressed, you will be assigned a score of plus one. These points are deducted over time. A score of zero is preferred for suitable SOC candidates and contractors.”

“I can’t control my magic,” Downer said, her voice anxious.

“Don’t worry about that, Novice,” Salamander answered, steering them both back outside. “We’re going to start teaching you to get a handle on it as of today.

“The rules here are simple,” he said, glancing at Britton, his voice taking on a harder edge. “Just remember what the sergeant showed you and…ah, perfect timing. Take a look.”

One of the SASS enrollees, a young man with his hair in a ponytail, shivering in cast-off bits of military uniforms, had broken away from the group practicing their Pyromancy and made his way toward the main gate. None of the guards moved to stop him, but Swift and the group around him erupted, shrieking and calling after him.

“Don’t do it!” Swift cried, running after him. Three soldiers emerged from the base of one of the guard towers and advanced, weapons pointed at him and his small gang, who began to back up.

“Stand down, Swift!” Major Salamander shouted to him, smiling. “Looks like you lost another one. You just watch and enjoy.”

The long-haired man shot a sheepish glance toward Swift, who called out to him. “Don’t! Don’t be their dog!”

He looked at his feet and marched on toward the pole with the plastic US flag.

One of the soldiers switched his carbine from single shot to three-round-burst with an audible click. He pointed it at Swift’s face. “With all due respect, sir, shut up.”

The long-haired man reached the flag and hauled on the thin white cord that anchored it to the pole, raising it to the top in a few moments. The soldiers clapped in unison. Applause echoed from the fence line, guard towers, and gate.

“If I could trouble you to just wait one moment, please,” Major Salamander said to Downer and Britton as he stepped forward.

He stood at the position of attention in front of the young
man and raised his right hand. The young man imitated him with the earnest awkwardness Britton had seen in new recruits since he first joined the army.

“Do you swear to use magic only in service to the duly authorized government of the United States of America, abiding by the tenets of the McGauer-Linden Act?” Salamander asked.

“No!” chorused Swift and his group, pumping their fists in the air.

“I d…I do,” the young man said, his eyes locked straight forward.

“Do you agree to obey the orders of the superiors appointed over you?”

“No!” Swift’s group shouted again. The soldiers pressed forward, muzzles leveled.

“I do,” the man said.

Major Salamander shook his hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the SOC, son. I’m proud of you, and the army is lucky to have you. Sergeant Perelli!”

“Sir?” One of the soldiers peeled away from covering Swift’s group, trotted over, and saluted.

“If you’d be so kind as to take young master…” He looked a question at the man.

“Ruiz, sir. Everybody called me Rock Monkey,” the long-haired man said.

“Ruiz! Right! The Terramancer. I remember,” Salamander said. He turned back to the sergeant. “Please take young master Ruiz here for outprocessing and assignment to an SAOLCC Coven.”

“My great pleasure, sir,” Sergeant Perelli said, leading the man toward the same low building where Britton and Downer had signed in.

Major Salamander turned to face Britton and narrowed his eyes. “Two simple questions, with two simple answers. That’s all we ask of our enrollees here. Once they’re on the Dampener and under our expert instruction, most master the basics of keeping their magic under control in fairly short order. But their loyalty to their country and their suitability to handle magic in its service remains an open question. Takes a little time for some folks. There are always holdouts, like Swift and
his No-No Crew over there, but, eventually, they always come around.”

“What happens if they don’t?” Britton asked.