Control Point (22 page)

Tsunami snorted. “Like Swift? That a-hole has been nudged every which way since I got here. If Wavesign’s anything like him, it’s a lost cause.” She gestured at the squeaking of a metal door.

Over Wavesign’s shoulder, Swift was already being hauled out of the pillbox. He was even paler than before, shaking. He slumped in the guards’ arms, pliant and passive. A soldier gestured back toward the group, and he nodded, offering no resistance as he made his way back toward the rest of the enrollees, his head down, meeting no one’s eyes.

Britton suddenly felt sympathy for the man, despite the injury to his cheek. “Jesus, what happened to him?” he asked Therese.

She shrugged. “Scylla’s extra creepy. You’ll see her eventually, when they exercise her around the yard. She gives me chills.”

“Who is she? Why is she in there?”

But before Therese could answer, Fitzy’s voice barked from the SASS gate, motioning Britton over. “Playtime’s over, Novice! Get your ass in gear. School starts for real now.”

Britton knew better than to argue after the drubbing Fitzy had given him that morning and headed over to him. He had already forgotten Therese’s words as his mind focused on the new challenge of dealing with Fitzy’s ire, but as he moved past the pillbox, he heard the panel in the doorway slide open.

“Such pretty doorways, Oscar Britton.” The voice that drifted through the panel was liquid amber, rich and haunting. “Oh, they are beautiful.”

Britton turned to answer, but the Suppressor guarding the door kicked it hard, then again, and finally the panel shut. For all his show of force, the man looked terrified as he turned away.

Britton had jogged the rest of the way toward Fitzy before he realized that chills had run up his spine.

Truelove and Richards met them outside the P pods, where another converted trailer bore the Shadow Coven logo of the ghosted star behind the moon.

“It was awesome!” Downer gushed, but her voice trailed off as she saw Truelove and Richards standing in silence. Britton followed their gazes to where a huge man walked, hands thrust in his pockets, shoulders hunched. His nearly shaved head sported ginger-colored hair to rival Richards’s own. His cold blue eyes took in Shadow Coven as he pushed past them, his camouflage-pattern parka not matching anything Britton had ever seen before. As the man passed, Britton caught the flag sewn onto his shoulder even as the man’s magical current hit him hard enough to make him grimace. Whoever the stranger was, he was highly Latent.

Their eyes followed him, staring unabashedly as he moved along until he was gone from sight behind one of the concrete blast barricades.

“Who was that?” Richards asked.

Britton shook his head. “Russian army, I think. At least, that was the flag sewn on his jacket.”

“Didn’t know they had a SOC.”

Britton thought of the giant snake creature he’d seen when he’d first arrived on the FOB. “Everybody does. Harlequin said we’re not to talk to them unless authorized.”

Downer opened her mouth to say something, then shut it. An awkward silence followed.

Richards broke it, grinning. “I thought you might like it,” he said, clapping Downer on the shoulder.

“Like what?”

“The training. The SASS. The Dampener. All of it.”

“SASS isn’t so bad,” said Truelove. “The videos are pretty annoying, but once you get your magic down, it’s actually a lot of fun. Did you meet Swift?”

“That guy was a piece of work,” Britton said.

“Yeah,” Truelove said. “If the guy would let the Dampener scale back his anger, he’d be set, but he just can’t stop fighting. He rode me pretty hard when I went through.”

“The Dampener is incredible,” Britton said. “Skill really does beat will.”

“Yeah, it is pretty incredible…” Truelove said.

“What’s incredible, needledick,” Fitzy cut him off as he tromped toward them, “is your unrivaled ability to state the obvious. Perhaps if you had Manifested in the magical ability to shut the hell up, you’d say less stupid stuff. Now, if you’d be so kind as to refrain from teaching our new arrival how to be a moron, maybe I won’t have to break another nail administering a repeat ass-kicking to him.”

Truelove stood at attention, his eyes focused on the middle distance, but not before Britton caught him casting an embarrassed glance at Downer, who didn’t appear to notice.

Fitzy warmed to his task, stepping closer to Truelove. “You put on a brave face, little man, but we both know that if it weren’t for this ‘incredible’ Dampener you keep going on about, you’d be crying all four of your eyes out right now.”

Thanks for reminding me that I’ve got to get out of here,
Britton thought.
For a minute there, I was starting to enjoy myself.

“All right, I suppose some congratulations are in order,” Fitzy said. “Not that learning a little basic control is much of an accomplishment. The Novices in the SASS are raw meat. If you hadn’t mastered the basics so quickly, I’d have been disappointed. Well”—he looked back to Truelove—“more disappointed than I already am, anyhow.

“You all just remember one thing: You are Coven Four, Shadow Coven, the magic behind the magic. You are this Corps’ secret weapon against all that is unknown and terrible in the world. When the army can’t cut it, they call the SOC, when the SOC can’t cut it, they call us. Like it or not, that’s your role, and I expect you all to act like it. Almighty God must have a particular sense of humor to have Manifested such rare and precious abilities in a pack of imbeciles like you, but we will all simply have to cowboy up and go to war with the army we have.

“And that, folks, is exactly what we intend to do. We’re going to get started right now.”

He led the Coven back into the converted trailer, stomping up a small flight of wooden steps, the Coven following,
pushing past a cluster of Goblins hauling bags of trash out of the room.

Inside was a simple classroom that was a near-exact copy of the SASS schoolhouse, complete with whiteboard and plastic folding chairs. The Coven sat while Fitzy stood in front of the board.

“Among the many functions you will have as Shadow Coven, first and foremost is to not embarrass me. You have all Manifested in prohibited schools, or in Richards’s case, perfected a practice that has been outlawed under an amendment to the Geneva Convention. By all rights, you should be rotting in jail or strapped to a lethal injection table, and, with a little work, you might still get there. However, for the time being, the president of the United States himself is giving you a free pass so long as you put your skills to work in the service of this country. What I expect from each and every one of you is to earn that amnesty, and to make certain that your customers do not regret their decision to take a chance on you. I can assure you that I will take any failure to meet that standard as a personal affront and deal with you accordingly.

“First off, we are arranging the Coven so that each of you performs roles in proportion to your Manifested ability. These are as follows.” He turned to write on the board.

“Downer, you will provide force protection, under the call sign ‘Prometheus.’ Truelove, you will provide combat overmatch capabilities, under the call sign ‘Rictus.’ Richards, you will provide reserve capability as required, under the call sign ‘Whisper.’ Britton, you will provide logistical support under the call sign ‘Keystone.’ These capabilities do not absolve you of your duties as agents of the United States Army. The primary mission of this organization is to kill people and destroy property. You will ensure that, whatever the designation I have just given you, you are properly trained to put warheads on foreheads when called to do so. Is that perfectly clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the Coven said in unison.

“The great thing about Probe schools is that they’re all pretty much force multipliers,” Fitzy went on. “The constitution of this particular Coven, now with instantaneous transport”—he gestured to Britton—“enables you to deliver a hammerblow whenever and wherever the SOC needs it. In short, the four of
you can show up in an enemy’s backyard and have an army there inside of a minute. We are going to train to do just that.

“First things first; some ground rules. You will not use your magical abilities except in the line of duty when specifically authorized. You will not speak to or associate with the indig unless specifically authorized. You will obey all my orders as if they were the word of the Almighty Himself. Also clear?”

“Sir.”

“Outstanding,” Fitzy said. “This is trailer B-6. We will meet here every afternoon, after you complete your SASS morning indoc and basic control training. By then I expect you to have completed your time sheet and eaten a proper breakfast. Big-boy rules, people. Nobody will wake you up and ensure you get anywhere on time, but I will personally kick your ass if you are even slightly tardy. Instructions will be written on this whiteboard or delivered in person. Because your abilities are unique, much of your training and some of your assignments will be performed independently. As unit cohesion is a goal, I will try to keep you together as much as humanly possible, but it won’t always be. For now, you will follow me to the adjacent trailer.”

The adjacent trailer was empty and covered with soft matting. A short-haired, kind-voiced older woman dressed in a white jumpsuit greeted them and bade them sit Indian style on the mats. The next two hours were spent in meditation exercises. The woman led them first through stretches, then chants, and finally silence, attempting to rid their minds of conscious thought. Britton heard Truelove begin snoring faintly during the last of the exercises, but the Necromancer was brought around by Fitzy’s boot in his ribs. Richards smirked but choked back his laughter before Fitzy could provide similar disci-pline.

“Try to take this seriously,” the instructor admonished. “Dis-ciplining your emotions is the key to magical control. Even the Dampener isn’t as effective as a person who has attained true self-mastery. Meditation is an important part of that.”

The other soldiers in the evening chow hall avoided them, stepping out of line as the Coven approached. The few humans
working the food lines slopped the food onto their trays in a hurry, thrusting them at the Coven as if trying to ward them off. The Goblins murmured among themselves in their own language. A few bowed to Britton as he passed, tapping their closed eyelids as Marty had done.

Marty appeared among a cluster of humans and Goblins from the cash, all in blue medical scrubs. He waved to the Coven, and Truelove waved back. “How’s it going?”

“You just secure that crap, Rictus,” Fitzy snarled. “You want to buttfuck your fairy-tale boyfriend in the privacy of your own hooch, then I guess everyone is entitled to blow off a little steam, no matter how nasty that particular mental image may be. But God as my witness, you will not fraternize on my watch!”

Marty looked at his feet and moved on.

They ate without speaking. Fitzy munched away beside them, eyes fixed straight ahead.

Back at the trailer, they were split up.

Britton followed Fitzy down another track to a huge canvas tent that enclosed a bare patch of ground some hundred feet square. Foam mats lay scattered about. Ropes hung from metal brackets attached to the tent’s canopy. Their breath steamed in the cold air. Fitzy strolled to the center of the tent and faced Britton.

“You get the pleasure of spending more time with me than any of the other Novices in the Coven, Keystone. This is because while all of Coven Four must develop hand-to-hand combat skills, your training plan calls for particular expertise in the Modern Army Combative system, which we will now refer to as MAC. It just so happens that before I Manifested, I had the pleasure of serving as a MAC instructor in the Eleventh Infantry. Before being assigned to lead Shadow Coven, I taught MAC to the SOC. I don’t think I’ve ever taught fewer than ten men in a class. But you get one-on-one training, which perhaps makes you the luckiest man on this whole damned FOB.

“The end goal will be to develop a concept coined by my predecessor, with the only other Portamancer we had the pleasure to work with—Gate-Integrated MAC or GIMAC. I affectionately term this as ‘gate-fu.’ But if I ever hear you call it by
that name, I will hand you your ass more than I am about to. GIMAC integrates all the MAC moves with conjured gates, used as a cutting weapon. You will also use your magic to position yourself more advantageously against your opponent.”

“You’re going to teach me hand-to-hand combat?” Britton asked.

“For the nonce,” Fitzy replied, “I will forgive you for asking a question out of turn. I will even tell you that, once you have learned how to integrate your Gate Sorcery with MAC, you will be deadlier than an entire rifle company. You’ll use your gates like an extra fist. No, like a cleaver, only one that can cut through absolutely anything. You’ll be able to appear in the enemy’s backfield and take out fifty of him before he knows you showed up. But there’s a long, long way to go before you can do that, and we have to crawl before we can walk. So, MAC first, GIMAC when you’re ready. Now, let’s begin.”

Fitzy advanced. Britton retreated, hands extended. “Sir, I’ve done some MAC before, but I’m not ready to…”

Fitzy snapped a kick at Britton’s knee. Britton jerked his leg back, slapping the boot down, but Fitzy landed on it and brought the other foot up, crashing into Britton’s head and sending him sprawling. Even under the influence of the Dampener, the magic threatened to surface, and Britton concentrated on shunting it back.

“Get up,” Fitzy said.

Britton propped himself up on his elbows, hesitating.

“Learning to take a hit is the first step to being able to deliver one, Novice. Now get the hell up, or I’ll just pound you while you’re down.”

Britton jumped to his feet, and Fitzy snapped a jab at his face. Britton dodged, trying to remember what little MAC he’d had before. As an aviator, it had hardly been stressed, and he regretted his refusal to “roll” with the rest of his team when they practiced between sorties. He hooked Fitzy’s arm in his own, whipping his elbow toward the chief warrant officer’s face. Fitzy jerked his head back and out of the way, flexing his hooked arm. The man was impossibly strong. Despite being half his size, he yanked Britton toward him, using his own momentum against him. Fitzy’s fist pounded Britton’s gut so
hard that he lost his dinner, forcing the Master Suppressor to leap backward to avoid being spattered.