Control Point (39 page)

“No,” he replied. “I only know how many lives I took. Sorrahhad means Defenders, right? What is it you suppose they’re defending?”

“That’s stupid,” she replied. “That’s just their name for themselves. Of course they’re going to make it nice like that.”

The tide of mutters sounded across the patronage as it always did when Marty entered. The little Goblin made his way to the bar, smiling.

“Christ, Marty,” Britton said. “You can’t come here anymore. Fitzy is going to pitch a fit. He’s laying down the law about us hanging out now.”

Marty wiggled his ears and mounted a stool. “Fitzy is…”

Britton cut him off with a raised hand. “Stop. Enough with that.”

He pointed at Chris, his finger mimicking a gun. “Give him his usual, and be forewarned that I’m in no mood for your bullshit right now.”

Chris took one look at Britton’s face and filled a cup with sugar. Truelove helped Marty onto the stool, shaking his head. “He’s right, Marty. Fitzy’s gone off the deep end lately. We don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“You hurt?” Marty asked, standing on his stool and reaching out for Britton. “Big fight, no?”

“Yeah,” Britton said. “Big fight. Must have killed about a hundred of your countrymen, Marty.”

But Marty nodded sympathetically, clucking in his throat. “I no anger, Uskar. Sorrahhad. They fight. No help.” His fingers found Britton’s scalp and roamed over it, searching down the back of his neck, looking for hidden injuries.

“You see…” Marty searched for the word. “Bird head? You see bird head?”

Britton nodded. “Yeah, a skull. Painted red and orange. Marty, I saw that same symbol before. But I saw it…I saw it in my own world, when I rescued some of my own people.”

Marty nodded, smiling. “Lost. You are lost people. I say you lost good. Sorrahhad say you lost bad.”

“What do you mean, lost bad? Even if you think we’re good, and we hurt you…”

“Lost good. They Sorrahhad,” Marty repeated, nodding. “They Heptahad On Dephapdt. They say you lost bad. They fight. Bad. You okay.”

“Marty, that’s not the point!” Britton said.

“What’s not the point?” Fitzy swayed in the doorway. In all
their time at the FOB, they had never seen him there. Nor had they ever seen him drunk. Their instructor stank of whiskey, the fumes reaching them where they sat. His face twisted in rage, eyes swimming.

A SOC captain with confident eyes, young and trim, rose from one of the tables, walking carefully toward him, Britton could see the flash of his lapel pin, the Aeromancer’s blowing wind. “Chief warrant officer,” he said, “these premises are off-limits to warrants.”

Fitzy ignored him, jabbing a finger at Marty. “I thought I told you not to hang out with that little shit. Why can’t you just follow orders, damn it?”

“You’re not setting much of an example yourself,” the Aeromancer said, putting his hand on Fitzy’s shoulder. “Civilian contractors can drink here, but you can’t. Besides, you look like you’ve had enough already. Why don’t we get you outside, and some fresh air will…”

Fitzy brought a knee up into the man’s crotch with explosive force. The captain doubled over in time to catch Fitzy’s fist in his stomach. He collapsed on the floor, and Fitzy stepped over him. The other officers sat at their tables, looking down, up, anywhere but at Fitzy’s eyes, roving the room in search of another challenge.

Fitzy turned back to Britton, pointing. “Get him the hell out of here. I see you talking with him, I swear to God you’re both meat, starting with him.”

“It’s okay, sir,” Truelove began, “we were just…”

“Nobody’s talking to you, needledick,” Fitzy spit, his eyes never leaving Britton’s.

“Come on, Marty,” Britton said, easing the Goblin off the chair. He took the creature’s hand and began circling around Fitzy, moving toward the exit. Downer began chattering at him, but Britton missed her words, focusing on the door. Fitzy shouted something at her and turned just as Britton reached the exit.

“Where the hell are you going?” he shrieked.

“Following your orders, sir. Getting him out of here,” Britton said, and left, moving quickly.

He heard the door slam, then spring open again as Fitzy shuffled out after him, yelling at him to stop.

Britton picked up speed, half dragging the Goblin down the track toward the cash. The mud sucked at his boots, but Marty’s long, three-toed feet spanned the surface as easily as snowshoes.

“Stop!” Marty said. “He anger! I go! No problem, okay!”

“No, Marty,” Britton replied through clenched teeth. “I am not leaving you alone in the dark with him. Not like this. He’ll kill you. Once we’re back to the cash, we’ll be fine.”

Marty was silent as Britton dragged him along, Fitzy lurching behind, too drunk to catch up to them but too fit and fast for them to lose him, shouting obscenities in their wake.

Marty jerked his hand free, but matched Britton’s pace as they trudged the rest of the way, and the lights of the giant hospital tent began gleaming in the distance.

Britton stopped short. Marty kept up the pace, rushing forward and moving into the light of the tent, mixing with the crowd of orderlies, nurses, and medics who made the place a hive of activity day and night.

Britton turned as the Goblin shot him a thankful glance and disappeared inside. He suppressed the urge to run off on his own, even when the sloshing of boots and whiskey stink announced Fitzy’s arrival.

“Where the hell did that rat get off to?” the chief warrant officer whispered in Britton’s ear.

“He’s gone, sir.”

“You’re going to learn to obey orders, Keystone,” Fitzy slurred. “God as my witness, I will make you. You’ve got potential, but it only counts if you play on the team.”

And that’s what it comes down to,
Britton thought as he faced off against the chief warrant officer.
No matter what good you do, no matter how much your magic affects the world, you will still belong to them. This drunken, teetering madman who treats Marty like dirt will be your boss until he’s replaced by someone worse.

Because Fitzy spelled it out for you. You’re not one of them, and you’ll never be. You’re a weapon, Oscar Britton. You’re a tool. This Coven may be becoming your family, but you’re all just tools together, all pretending that you are loved by an organization that only seeks to own you.

He remembered the report on Scylla. They’d gladly cut into
her brain, destroy her mind. Was that what had happened to Billy? Was that why he shook and drooled under his mother’s arms? Was that what they would do to Britton if they decided that the tool was more trouble than it was worth?

These people can never be your family. This place can never be your home.

As if to accentuate the point, Fitzy tapped Britton’s chest. “Push it too far, Keystone, and we can always give you a little reminder, the last one you’ll ever need.”

And that’s why you have the ATTD. That’s why they’ll never take it out, no matter how loyal you become. Why earn your respect when they can own you outright?

You’re no different than precision munitions or a fighter jet. You’re an expensive toy, nothing more. You may have gained some skill at using magic, but it’s not yours. You can still only do what they want you to when they want you to.

Deep in his heart, he rebelled against the growing kernel of feeling that maybe Scylla was right.

If Fitzy remembered the night’s altercation, he gave no sign. But starting the next morning, the tempo of their training increased.

“It’s time you stopped being useless,” Fitzy growled at them, as they gathered in the practice yard where they’d first tested out. “You’re going to be operating against Selfers, and Selfers use magic. You’re soldiers…or as close as bloodsucking contactors can get to it. That’s given you a range of skills in firearms, combat-casualty care, hand-to-hand combat, wilderness survival, not to mention the courage, leadership, and discipline necessary to get tough jobs done. Why, I’d hazard to say that even without your magic, you’d be a force to be reckoned with.

“The Selfer has none of these traits. All he has is magic. Take that away from him, and you have a frightened child, helpless and ripe for the righteous punishment that you will
mete out on behalf of the government of the United States and God Almighty upon whom our sovereignty depends.

“And that’s what we’re going to teach you now. How to take that magic away.”

Fitzy tapped the armored fist on his chest. “Suppression is a highly sophisticated art. It is an act of intricate skill rather than power. This is why Rump Latents like me wind up assigned to it so frequently. If you can learn the knack, and I assure you that you can and will, you can interdict anyone’s magical capability.

“And that’s the thing, isn’t it?” he asked, coming closer to Britton. “We all know that my magic is ten times weaker than yours. But with proper training, that’s just fine.”

As he spoke, three nervous-looking Novices filed into the compound. All three were male, broad-shouldered, and tall.

“SAOLCC has seen fit to tap Cepheus and Camelopardalis Covens to loan us some Terramancers,” Fitzy said. “These men were chosen because of their facility with nonsentient automatons, what we affectionately call ‘tar babies.’ ” As he spoke, the men spread their arms, and the soil before them bubbled upward until roughly man-shaped piles of earth swayed before them, chips of rock sparkling from within.

“You may consider these tar babies as your incentive to get this right the first time. They will clobber the snot out of you until you can destroy them. The only way you can do that without getting me highly agitated is by Suppressing the magical flow that animates them. You will do this by Binding your own magical current to theirs, without giving it shape—such as a gate”—he pointed to Britton—“or a sentient elemental”—he nodded to Downer.

“This is conducted, like most magical exercises, largely by feel. The only way to learn it is to do it, so let’s start learning.”

The going was tougher than Britton expected. He stood across from the automaton. The Novice behind it saluted and dropped into a MAC guard, the tar baby following suit, the cut of its hips and shoulders mimicking its driver exactly. It lunged for Britton, throwing a rocky right cross at him that he easily blocked. But the automaton was made of hard earth and rock, and Britton danced backward, cradling a bruised arm.

Fitzy laughed. “You won’t get far that way.”

Britton reached out a hand and tried to visualize his current flowing through the automaton. Before he could blink, a gate had opened in the middle of the creature, cutting it neatly in half. The Novice behind backed out of his guard and raised his hands. Fresh earth flowed upward to fill the cracks, knitting the tar baby back together while Fitzy yelled. “What part of ‘don’t use your magic except to Suppress’ didn’t you understand?”

“Sorry, sir,” Britton said. “I didn’t mean to. This is new to me.”

“My boot up your ass isn’t new to you,” Fitzy shouted, “and that’s what’s coming if you keep this crap up. Do it right, Keystone!”

Beside him, Downer’s tar baby was already a pile of loose rocks and clods of dirt. “It’s easy.” She beamed.

“How the hell are you doing it?” Britton asked.

“Umm. It’s like…it’s like there’s a string from the Novice to the tar baby,” she said. “Try opening your gate there.”

“It’s not group therapy, Keystone!” Fitzy shouted, and nodded to the Novice, who charged the automaton forward, catching Britton off guard. He ducked backward, but not before a rocky hand swatted him hard on the ear, leaving his head spinning.

Britton focused on the image of a chain connecting Novice and tar baby and tried again. His mind flashed a vision of Portcullis’s loading bay out of habit and for a moment, a gate flashed open in front of the Novice’s face. He gasped and stumbled backward before Britton could close it. The automaton stumbled backward as well, raising its arms in time with its master to ward off the gate.

“Damn it!” Fitzy snarled, striding forward.

Britton sidestepped a few paces and concentrated on calling the magic, Binding it to the thread between tar baby and Novice, pushing all other thoughts from his mind. Fitzy reached him, raising a hand, then stopped as the automaton collapsed.

Britton could feel his flow pushed outward, intersected with the Novice’s. The pressure of the foreign flow interleaved with his own, a gentle pulsing in his chest. As his mounted, it yielded slightly.

“I got it,” he said, raising his hands. “I got it, sir.”

Fitzy nodded stiffly at the collapsed automaton. “Lucky thing, too,” he said, and dropped his hand. “Let’s see you do it again.”

Britton couldn’t do it again for much of the next round, but neither did he make the mistake of opening a gate. When he finally managed the Suppression, Fitzy simply called for another go. By the fifth fight, both he and the Novice were sweating. The fatigue made it harder to concentrate on rolling back the magic, forcing him to fight the tar baby as best he could, his forearms, shins, and chest quickly becoming a field of bruises. The pain made him long for a trip to the cash for more of Marty’s healing leaves.

But by the end of the day, he was Suppressing as consistently as Downer.

The Coven’s spirits were high as they wrapped up the day’s session. They traded jokes and slapped one another’s backs as they took turns rolling one another’s magic back. Even Fitzy cracked a smile and pronounced their efforts “something approaching competence,” before giving them liberty and leaving them to their own devices.