Control Point (36 page)

Footsteps. Britton slammed the folder shut and stood back from the table, his mind swamped with images of Billy drooling, his mother draping her pale arms around his neck, crooning in his ear.

Hayes stepped through the flap and squeaked at the sight of Britton, his jowls shaking. He took a step back and nearly tripped over himself. “What the hell are you doing here!?”

Britton pointed at the chunk of meat on the desk, and croaked “Tissue sample, sir. Fitzy said you’d want it.”

And then he shouldered past the captain without another word, not trusting anything he might say.

Billy, drooling, compliant, opening and closing gates at their will.

They’d do the same to Scylla.

If she didn’t play ball, they’d do the same to her.

Fitzy took Britton’s report stone-faced. He nodded curtly and sat Britton in front of a laptop, where he typed out in meticulous detail all the events he had just recounted. It took Britton over an hour to ensure he’d captured it all, Fitzy making low conversation into a radio while Britton typed.

Eventually, Britton stopped typing and turned, looking at the chief warrant officer while he paced the trailer. “What’s your problem?” Fitzy asked eventually.

“It’s Rampart, sir. I just…I’m sorry.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Britton was silent.

Fitzy paced forward, his shoulders bunching. “Rampart was SOC in his bones. That man had more steel in his dick than you do in your entire body. He doesn’t need your sorry.”

Britton was used to Fitzy’s posturing by then, and after what he’d just been through, it failed to impress. He shrugged. “Will there be a funeral?”

“There might be, but not for you. Rampart didn’t know you and didn’t want to know you. For you there’s work, and that starts tomorrow at 0600 sharp.”

And 0600 turned out to be more MAC practice. When Britton arrived, Truelove stood beside a wooden pallet covered with a blue plastic tarp. Ashen toes and pointed ears poked out from beneath it.

Truelove looked embarrassed. “Hi.”

“You okay?”

Truelove shrugged. “It’s what we trained for. I’ll be fine.”

“What about Downer?”

“Physically? She’s doing great.”

“Mentally?”

“I don’t know,” Truelove said. “She…she was hurt pretty bad. But she’s not talking about it.”

“What…”

“You got a jump start on your GIMAC,” Fitzy cut him off. “
And if you’re done socializing, we might as well get moving with that.”

“We’re gonna MAC?” Britton asked in disbelief, then regretted his tone, as Truelove’s face fell. Truelove was Fitzy’s height and lacked the chief warrant officer’s build.

He struggled to find something placating to say, but Fitzy interrupted him. “Hell, no. Rictus couldn’t MAC with a twelve-year-old girl. This is GIMAC for you, remember? Rictus has integrated MAC of his own.”

Truelove nodded nervously and dropped into a guard.

“We’ve been practicing on our own, while you worked with Fitzy,” he said, his voice apologetic. He raised his arms, and the pallet shuddered. The tarp flew off as ten Goblin corpses jerked their way to circle Britton. Their sightless eyes turned toward him, heads slewing on broken necks. Here, a nose was missing. There, a bit of jawbone protruded. Fresh from some meat locker, the corpses emanated cold. Britton could see traces of frost on what remained of their ears and noses. Truelove closed his eyes, spread his arms, and the zombies dropped into MAC guards of their own. “Hee-yah,” one of them groaned. Truelove smiled.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Britton said.

“No joke,” Fitzy said. “Feel free to gate in and out of Portcullis as needed. Richards’s dog pens are full. Pluck from them as needed to even the odds.”

“Ready or not.” Truelove smiled. “Here I come.”

They swarmed him with surprising speed. The first swiped for his arm, cold, dead fingers brushing his wrist, raising gooseflesh. He leapt backward, and one of the zombies grabbed him around the waist. They were small, but their dead strength was terrible and Britton felt the air squeezed out of him as the withered arms locked over his stomach.

He hammered his elbow backward, cracking the thing hard in the face, while simultaneously twisting his ankle behind it and sweeping its leg. It flew backward into another zombie, and Britton was already turning, pistoning a fist into the face of another opponent, seeking a way to break through the circle.

A zombie leapt into the air, kicking Britton hard in the chin, one frozen toe snapping off as his head rocked backward, knocking Britton into another zombie, which pinned his arms at his sides. Three more rushed him from the front.

He slid a gate open behind him, then pushed off with his thighs, driving himself and the zombie through the portal, crushing it against the hard concrete of the loading-bay floor. Two of the zombies stepped through the gate as he shut it, leaving a heap of half faces and torsos dropping to the concrete.

The thing beneath him ceased struggling and he stood, stomping hard on its face, his stomach lurching at the crunching sound beneath his heel.

He opened a gate beside Truelove and emerged. Fitzy leapt between them, waggling a finger. “He’s off-limits. Go dance with the dead.”

Britton turned just in time to dodge another leaping kick. He slid to one side, opening a gate in midair. The zombie passed through it, and he let it shut, kicking the next one hard in the chest and driving it back into its fellows.

Britton began to find his rhythm, the magic integrating seamlessly into the dance of the MAC. A corpse punched at him, he caught its arm, opened a gate and flipped it through, closing the portal on its shoulder, leaving him holding the limb, which he turned to fling in the face of his next assailant. It fell backward, decapitated by another gate as it tried to rise.

The remaining corpses paused, spreading out to circle him again, advancing more cautiously. Britton backed toward Truelove, careful not to get too close. “Can’t we talk about this?” he asked.

“Not a chance,” Truelove answered, grinning, “unless you want to surrender.”

One of the corpses took a tentative swipe at Britton, who chopped down hard on the wrist. The hand hung askew as the thing backed away. “Nasty,” Britton hissed. “Seriously, Rictus. With all due respect, that’s disgusting.”

Truelove laughed hard, his hands dropping to his knees. The circle of zombies paused.

Britton threw open another gate, pushing the magical current through it. He felt the penned dogs and roped one easily. The gate shimmered and spit it out. It snarled at the alien smell of the animated corpses and sprang, seizing one by the throat. Britton dove over it, scissor-kicking a zombie in the face and sending it rolling. He spun as he landed, sliding a gate like a cleaver down the line of the circle, cutting through three more.
He sprang after the gate, shutting it just as he emerged on the last corpse, grabbing it by the throat and lifting it off the ground. Its dead face was blank, its little legs kicked at him. He squeezed the thin neck, like chilled rubber. It stank of chemical preservatives.

He wrinkled his nose. “We done here? I think I’m going to be sick.”

Fitzy nodded, and Truelove lowered his arms. The corpse went limp in Britton’s grip, and he dropped it, wiping his hand on his trousers.

Fitzy began to gather the broken corpses and drag them into a pile in the corner, where two soldiers moved them onto the discarded tarp. A fresh pallet was wheeled in through another entrance. “Give me a hand here, it’ll go faster,” Fitzy said. A few of the corpses had traces of the white paint that dotted Marty’s face and completely covered the Goblin sorcerers they had fought at the LZ.

When the floor was clear, Fitzy called for another round, doubling the number of zombies. Britton flew through the fight, the gates opening and cutting with fluid precision. “Zombies are inefficient,” Fitzy commented. “The real enemy will be smarter and harder. Remember that and don’t get cocky.”

What real enemy?
Britton thought.
What could possibly be nastier than that blob of flesh we just took out?

But despite Fitzy’s warning, Britton found it hard not to get cocky. He slid the gates around like giant razors, dispatching his opponents five at a time.
My God,
he thought, finally appreciating the power of GIMAC.
I am truly beginning to master this. I’m a one-man army. I have rescued hostages, I have taken out a Render who flattened an entire NYPD SWAT team.
By the end of the third round, he toyed with the corpses, gating in and out behind them. He pulled one into the loading bay, threw it to the dogs, then leapt out behind another, dropkicking it into its fellows before gating back out of sight.

By the end of the practice, he felt as if he were flying. Truelove threw his hands up. “Enough,” he said, “uncle.”

Fitzy clapped lightly, one corner of his mouth slightly twisted. “Adequate.”

Britton nodded gratefully and clapped Truelove on the shoulder. “That was kick-ass, man. Seriously.”

Truelove grinned, transforming his face, showing some of the confidence Britton expected in a man his age. “You made pretty short work of the whole crew.”

“Yeah,” Britton agreed, “but it won’t be like that when you let ’em loose on a real enemy. Man, it’s going to scare the crap out of them!” It wasn’t idle praise. He remembered the dead faces circling him, empty eyes staring.

Truelove grew pensive. “I’ve never been in a real battle. I mean, nothing beyond these little raids.”

Britton clapped him on the shoulder. “Neither have I. I don’t think wars are fought like that anymore. It’s no big deal.”

“I think it’s a big deal,” Truelove said. “We still work for the army, you know? What if we have to fight hundreds of people, like the training we just did, only real?”

“Then we figure it out as we go,” Britton said. “It’s serious, but that doesn’t mean it has to be heavy.”

“What was it like when you rescued those hostages?”

Britton thought about it for a moment. “It’s like what you think it would be like. Shouting, confusion, terror. But you just follow your training, and everything sort of snaps together and works.”

“It works for you,” Truelove said.

“It’ll work for you, too.” Britton nodded. “Hell, it already did.”

“What if it doesn’t?” Truelove asked.

“That’s why we work as a team. So we can lean on each other.”

“I wasn’t a lot of help back there, in the sewers.”

“Are you kidding me? If you hadn’t held that blob in place, I would never have had the chance to get Downer what she needed to finish it off. We did it together, Simon. It wouldn’t have worked without all of us.”

“It wasn’t enough to stop her…” He trailed off, but Britton knew what Truelove was picturing. Downer on the ground, her lower body twisted and bloody.

“That’s combat, Simon,” Britton said. “It’s messy and dangerous, even when things go off perfectly. It’s the business we’re in. Downer is alive because of you. Remember that.”

Truelove looked silently back at him, eyes grateful.

“I’m going to shower and get changed,” Britton said. “I’ll meet you at the OC, then we can grab chow?”

Truelove nodded. “I’m gonna stop by the cash first. That
fight gave me a splitting headache. Lemme see if I can get a couple of aspirin first.”

Britton accompanied him, hoping to see Therese or Marty. They approached the hospital just as the flaps whipped open, a squad of MPs rushing through in helmets and body armor, carbines slung across their backs.

Struggling in their arms, hands zip-cuffed behind him, was a Goblin contractor. The squad dragged him away from the cash, long feet trailing in the mud.

Britton looked to Truelove, who shrugged. He turned to one of the orderlies, who was retrieving the tent flap from where it had snagged on one of the support poles. “What the heck was that?”

The orderly shrugged. “Entertech Goblin contractor. They busted him stealing from the cash.”

The worm,
Britton thought.
Marty tried after all. That outstanding, sweet, fantastic little bastard. In spite of everything, he still tried, just because I asked him to.

“What’ll they do to him?” Britton asked.

“Fire him, I guess,” the orderly replied. “He stole some kind of experimental medication from the Special Projects tent. You know Goblins. They’re hooked on sugar, caffeine pills, any kind of stimulant. It was only a matter of time.”

Britton’s stomach lurched. He turned to Truelove. The Necromancer had turned pale.

“They’re firing him,” he said. “Oscar, they’ll kick him out of the FOB.”

“So?” Britton asked.

“So,” Truelove answered, “he’s a collaborator. This base is surrounded by hostile tribes. He’ll be dead before he makes it twenty feet.”

Britton rushed through the flaps. He fumbled through the receiving area, pushing past several nurses who yelled at him, making his way to the urinalysis section. Marty was nowhere to be seen, but one of the Goblin orderlies recognized him and sat him on a folding chair while he disappeared. He returned a moment later with Marty in tow.

Britton gripped his elbow urgently. “I need to talk to you.”

Marty nodded and pulled Britton through the back of the tent and out into a muddy, but private section.

“Okay,” Marty said, his eyes huge with concern. “No anger. Okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Britton whispered fiercely. “That Goblin, you sent him? For the worm?”

Marty smiled.

“Thank you, Marty, but…”

“Thank you,” Marty interrupted. “I thank you. You help me first.”

“Marty, they got him. They caught him.”

Marty nodded. “Okay. He mine Logauk.”

Britton looked at him, uncomprehending. Marty tapped his eyelids, then put his hand behind his neck. “My Logauk. He mine…” He paused, searching for the word. “…my contractor?”

“He works for you?” Britton remembered the respect Marty commanded among the Goblin orderlies in the cash, how he had threatened the Physiomancer with a work stoppage.

“But they caught him! They fired him! Truelove says he’ll be killed!”

Marty shrugged. “Sorrahhad fight. No like Mattab On Sorrah. We help.”