Shadow Ops 3: Breach Zone (3 page)

But she hadn’t won the goblin Defender tribes to her banner by promising mercy. They wanted revenge on humanity, and they would have it. She knew no single life was worth losing the loyalty of half her army.

She had to sacrifice a few for the good of many. She need only allow it until victory was secured, then she would turn her cheek, give the good cop control. She thought briefly of Mao’s axiom:
The people are the sea, and the insurgent is the fish. So long as the sea is hospitable to the fish, you will never catch them all.
First she would hurt them, then she would win them.

The
Gahe
came to stand at her side, watching impassively. She suppressed a shiver. The things were damn cold. It thought-pulsed to her, pictures forming in her mind. The
Gahe
could speak to anyone with their thought-pictures. It was a useful trait, and had made it possible to communicate with the goblin tribes, to give them the words of inspiration needed to bring them to her banner. Revenge against the humans for FOB Frontier, that hated outpost in the Source that had brought such misery. Scylla had destroyed its perimeter, opened it wide for their plunder. Now she could complete their revenge. More importantly, she promised that with their help she could bend the humans to submission, ensure they never again set foot on goblin lands.

Even now, the creatures poured through the breach between the planes, eager to vent their rage. Too long had they been helpless in the face of humanity’s superior technology and magical might. Now they would show the people who had built a military outpost in their backyard the other end of the spear.

The breach was one of two in New York, rotted out of thin spots between the planes. The
Gahe
could sense them but only pass through singly when some lucky shift in the planar fabric permitted it.

But they could show Scylla where the thin spots were, and her rotting magic Bound easily to anything.

The
Gahe
flashed another picture in her mind. The second breach, opened out in the water off Manhattan’s tip. The other half of a pincer, closing around New York’s tender throat. She nodded, and the
Gahe
changed the subject to the third breach, in Mescalero, showing her an image of the dust-choked pass between red cliffs even now filling up with goblins,
Gahe
marching at their head. Few humans lived out in that wasteland, the least populated corner of a sparsely populated reservation. Those few ran out to the
Gahe
, grinning like fools, shouting greetings and wordless whoops of joy. The Apache Selfers, who worshipped the
Gahe
as their ‘Mountain Gods’.

The
Gahe
thought-pulsed the image again. The single Mescalero breach wasn’t enough. It pulsed images of the six thin spots it had shown her across the reservation grounds.

It didn’t care about New York beyond the chance to visit violence on the humans who had shunted its children, as it thought of the Apache, into desert prisons. Once, the Apache had ruled the mountains as far as they could see. The white eyes had stolen everything from them: their families, their lives, their land. And now they would do the same in the Source.

Scylla smiled at the irony; she’d always thought it was humanity who would be influenced by the strangeness of the Source, but the influence ran both ways. To the Apache, FOB Frontier was another Fort Sill, an enemy encampment in the midst of an indigenous homeland, and the
Gahe
saw it that way, too.

It wanted to be in Mescalero. All the
Gahe
did. But that wasn’t the deal. Scylla would rot the other thin spots open in Mescalero only after she was paid.

Her price was New York.

The goblin reached with the javelin, pricking Naeem’s neck. His eyes ranged over the creature’s shoulder, finding hers, pleading.

In spite of herself, Scylla hissed loudly, and the goblin froze, looking up at her. She motioned sharply and it stepped back, leaving Naeem gasping, a small bead of blood working its way down to stain his collar. The creature’s eyes narrowed, and she saw the dawning sense of betrayal. Revenge denied, a promise broken.

She knew it was a tactical error, a softness she couldn’t afford if she was to win this. She told herself that when Latent-kind took its rightful place at the helm of the world, they would still have to live alongside humans like Naeem. There was no need to antagonize them needlessly. Let her begin showing mercy now.

But she saw the anger in the goblin’s eyes and knew the right of it.

Naeem fumbled frantically under the counter, and the elevator door chimed and opened.

‘Thank you, Naeem,’ she said, then turned and entered the elevator.

‘Wait here,’ she said to the goblins. They hungered for revenge, but they were terrified of her magic, and she’d shown her willingness to use it when she wasn’t obeyed. It would hold them, and do double duty in cementing her position at the head of this army. If she was to lead, she had to be obeyed.

The
Gahe
joined her as the doors slid shut, and the elevator sped skyward. It was precisely as she remembered it, save that the new owner had removed the end table she’d kept in the elevator car, along with the apple-shaped dish her sister had given her as a college-graduation gift. She’d used it to store change and keys for years.

The elevator rose quickly enough to put butterflies in her stomach though much of that could be anger, or satisfaction. Outside, her army was spreading through the streets of New York, beginning to make good on the debt she owed this government, this country – justice delayed but not denied. Her apartment was only one small sliver of that, and perhaps the least important, but it would feel so good to make this right.

And make it right, she would. The invasion was one small indulgence, the bite of chocolate cake before launching the new exercise routine. She gambled to win, not just for herself, but for all people, Latent and human alike. When the dust cleared, Latent people would be free to use their powers as they saw fit, and humans would understand their place in the genetic order, no longer tying themselves in knots to hang on to power they’d long since lost the right to hold. With magic decriminalized, there would be no more need to fight one another. Many had died to bring her to this point, but their numbers paled compared to how many she would save. The new order would be just. The new order would be peaceful. The new order would be free.

At last, the doors chimed again and slid open on the past.

She didn’t recognize the place. A man stood in the broad kitchen that connected to the open living room. He’d repainted, stark white covering the soft colors she’d preferred. The appliances had been replaced, a central stove with hood put in. Whoever this man was, he liked to cook. He was slim, gray-haired, good-looking in a distinguished way, in his late fifties. He wore slacks and an expensive-looking button-down shirt. She was sure she knew him from somewhere, but with his face contorted by fear, it was hard to say from where. He stared openmouthed as she walked in, the
Gahe
moving off into a corner.

Scylla was familiar with many types of fear. Some froze and screamed, as Naeem had. Some resorted to anger. This man was one of the latter. ‘Who the fuc . . .’ he began, his face purpling.

‘I’m the owner of this unit,’ she said, ‘and I don’t remember selling it to you. So, the real question is, who the fuck are you?’

She let her eyes roam the living-room walls, scanning across a painted family portrait, some expensive-looking Asian tapestries, stopping at a number of corporate plaques. She paused as she read the name, then looked at the corporate logo.

Rage curdled in her stomach, souring all thoughts of freedom and justice, leaving only the sick bile of revenge. ‘Tom Hicks. Entertech’s pride and joy. Why am I not surprised?’

Recognition dawned across the man’s face. Angry fear gave way to another kind, sick and weak. Hicks’s knees buckled, and he sagged against the expensive, granite countertop, staying upright only by an act of supreme will. The
Gahe
turned to the ceiling-high windows, tracing one long claw across the surface, leaving trails of dirty hoarfrost. Scylla had owned the entire floor, but she favored the south-facing glass wall that overlooked the cobblestone plaza where the famous statue of a bronze bull stood. The
Gahe
looked out over it, watching as her army spread across the street below.

‘Look,’ Hicks said. ‘They told me you were dead. I had no idea that . . . I’ll just leave. You can have the place back. I’m happy to make arrangements to get it put back into your . . .’

‘Oh, please,’ Scylla said. ‘I don’t care about the apartment. I’m here to free you. To free everyone. Things are about to change, and I’m going to need your help.’

This would be the tricky part. The man would have to be made to listen to reason, to understand his place in the new order. Her first convert. ‘Limbic Dampener is going to play an important role here. I’ll need someone to interface with Entertech, someone they trust to . . .’

Hicks launched himself over the counter, thudded to the tile behind, and stood, gun in hand.

The
Gahe
stutter-flashed across the floor, moving in short, teleporting hops to his side, seizing his arm. He cried out at its freezing touch, shivering, teeth chattering. He fired, the round vanishing into the creature’s torso as if it had been swallowed. The
Gahe
didn’t so much as flinch.

Scylla swallowed her shock, bit down on the rush of adrenaline. Disappointing. Humans never learned. It was bad enough that they tried to make her a slave, but they were so addicted to power that they’d rather die than yield one ounce of it. They’d take the carrot eventually, but first they’d need plenty of stick.

‘From the moment I Manifested, I swore I’d find a way to do some good with this,’ she said as he pulled against the monster’s grip, lips turning blue, crystals of ice forming on his arm, his gasps misting the freezing envelope of air around the
Gahe
. ‘You took that from me. At first I was angry, I thought I’d been robbed. But now I understand that you were just prepping me for the bigger show. This way will be much faster. I’m sorry you won’t get to see it.’

She leaned forward as his shivering grew more violent, close enough to feel the cold nip at her nose. ‘I’m not a monster, you know. Someone has to make the tough choice. Someone has to break the eggs to make the omelet. You’ll never change on your own.’

But he didn’t hear her. He slumped to the floor, his frozen arm snapping off in the
Gahe
’s grip. She Bound her magic into his chest cavity, liquefying his heart and lungs. No sense in being petty. She’d made her point.

She turned back to the
Gahe
, then twirled briefly, taking in the space she once called her ‘deluxe apartment in the sky.’ It pained her to see this strange man’s imprint on it, his furniture, his artwork. The place even smelled of his cologne.

She went to the window, watching as a troop of goblins raced down the street, spear tips trailing shredded clothing, the spoils of raided shops. One of them dragged a mannequin behind it by a single plastic leg.

Yes, the landscape had changed.

But it was good to be home.

Chapter Two

Second Chance

The ‘goblins,’ as the army calls them, are a highly diverse species, adapting to their environment. The Three-Foots tribe trades with the Po-na-tu-ree, an aquatic subspecies of goblin. Usually furs or cattle horns acquired in raids are exchanged for fish and aquatic mammals. The sea has molded the Ponaturi; they are as comfortable under the water as above it. Their physical forms are much more varied than their land-bound cousins. Some look more like fish or octopus than goblin. They are crusted with barnacles and kelp, but they still hold the same basic beliefs as all goblins, and are united with them in their fervent hatred of humanity and the devastation our presence in the Source has wrought.

—Simon Truelove
A Sojourn Among the Mattab On Sorrah

The press conference drew to a close, and Lieutenant Colonel Jan Thorsson sweated beneath the makeup. The heat from the stage lights made his feet feel like they were burning inside his reflective, artificial leather shoes. The discomfort was a distant thing, an awareness that had no power to affect him. The Dampener helped, but most of his sangfroid was born of long experience. As special advisor to the Reawakening Commission, he was a man well used to television appearances.

His actions at FOB Frontier had betrayed his commander in chief but saved the lives of thousands, making him a pariah in the government and a hero to the public. That public acclaim had drummed the president he betrayed out of office and forced the new one to promote him and keep him in front of the cameras. Thorsson knew that President Porter thought him a traitor, but keeping the hero of FOB Frontier around as a spokesman helped lend the new administration legitimacy.

The assembled reporters shouted a flood of questions. Words ran together, amplified by the tight confines of the pressroom. Thorsson steadied himself behind the podium, remembering his public-affairs training.
Back straight. Don’t fidget. No verbal pauses. Look serious, but not like you’ve got a stick up your ass.

‘I’ll answer that,’ he said, pointing to a reporter in the front row, a young man in a button-down plaid shirt about two sizes too small, jeans cuffed deliberately high, showing paisley socks.

Thorsson’s gesture quelled the sea of questions. The assembled reporters sat down as a single body.

‘The Porter administration has no intention of abandoning the policies of the Walsh administration,’ Thorsson said. ‘President Walsh’s violation of the McGauer-Linden Act and his trafficking in Probe magic does not invalidate the need for systems to remain in place to protect the American people from the dangers of unrestricted magic use. What happened at FOB Frontier was the exception that proves the rule.’

Thorsson had been an exception himself. When Walsh had abandoned the FOB, leaving thousands of Americans to die to keep his secret, Thorsson broke ranks and freed the political prisoner Oscar Britton, the nation’s worst enemy and the only man with the power to bring everyone home alive. But exceptions had to prove the rule. If they became the rule, the machine broke down. Everything unraveled.

He quelled the latest surge of questions with a wave of his hand. ‘Please . . . Please. Settle down. Let me put it this way: If you find out that a public official has been embezzling money, that’s not an argument to legalize embezzlement. It’s an argument to prosecute the wrongdoer and revisit how we can better protect our funds. It’s the same case here. No further questions.’

Further questions followed him as he left the podium for the door between two flagpoles, one bearing the Stars and Stripes and the other the emblem of the Supernatural Operations Corps. On the latter, the eye in the pyramid was surrounded by symbols of the four elements representing legal magical schools: Pyromancy, Hydromancy, Aeromancy, and Terramancy. The red cross above symbolized Physiomancy. The logo read:
OUR GIFTS, FOR OUR NATION
.

The young reporter intercepted him as he turned the doorknob. ‘Sir!’

Thorsson sighed. ‘Give me some space, huh? You’ve got your quote.’

The reporter shoved a digital recorder under Thorsson’s nose. ‘How do
you
feel about the administration’s recommitment to the law?’

Thorsson pushed the recorder down. ‘Get that out of my face. I told you question time was over.’ He shot a dangerous glare over the reporter’s shoulder at another man who was considering joining the ad hoc questioning, and the man thought better of it.

The reporter wasn’t fazed. He switched off the recorder and pocketed it. ‘Fine. Off the record, just tell me.’

‘Off the record is the same as on the record,’ Thorsson said. ‘I’m a military officer below flag grade. My job isn’t to set policy. My job isn’t to interpret policy. My job isn’t even to have an opinion. My job is to carry out the will of my civilian masters, who are ultimately elected by you. How I feel about this, about anything, is irrelevant.’

The reporter leaned in closer, lowering his voice. ‘But . . . I mean, FOB Frontier, man. You rubbed the president’s face in it. You saved all those people, he got the boot, and you got promoted. You’re the motherfucking Harlequin. That’s got to feel amazing.’

Thorsson bridled at the man’s use of his call sign, the radio names that kept Sorcerers apart from the rest of the world.

Being the motherfucking Harlequin didn’t feel amazing. It felt exhausting, isolating.

‘I did what I felt was right to save the lives of those people,’ Harlequin said.

‘And to free Latent people.’

‘Latent people are already free. They have certain responsibilities that others don’t, but that comes with having certain powers that others don’t. FOB Frontier was never a political statement. I was saving lives. That’s it.’

The reporter gave him a knowing nod. ‘Well, I’ll say it, if you won’t. You’re a fucking hero. Porter’s going to have to change his tune soon enough.’

Harlequin felt blood rush to his cheeks. His magical tide surged. He opened his mouth to answer, but the reporter began to back away. ‘I got it! I got it! You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted to say thanks for your service.’

The reporter nodded as if they were both in on the same inside joke, and Harlequin felt exhaustion swamp him. No matter what he said, the reactions were the same. If he wouldn’t be the hero they wanted, they’d just make him that way regardless. He shook his head, went through the door, and shut it behind him, closing his eyes in the air-conditioned space beyond, feeling a modicum of serenity return as the door lock clicked behind him, shutting out the maelstrom of buzzing voices.

He breathed for a moment, calming himself, trying to keep his mind in the present. It wandered too readily to the past nowadays, and that was a dark path. There were decisions back there, decisions that had saved some lives but also cost some. Decisions that couldn’t be changed.

He looked up at the TV monitor mounted to the wall. They’d be rebroadcasting the highlights from the press conference. Hopefully, he’d come off better than he thought he had.

But instead, the screen showed a breaking news clip, Oscar Britton holding court, another guerrilla press conference of his own, held in some deserted field. Britton would stay only long enough to make his point, then go back to the Source long before anyone could get close enough to apprehend him. Not that the SOC would ever do that on camera. After FOB Frontier, Britton was a bigger public hero than Harlequin.

‘All right!’ Britton shouted. ‘Shut the hell up if you want me to talk.’

Britton’s time on the run had made him leaner, harder-looking. He still kept his head shaved so close it shone in the sun. He still looked like he could bend cold iron with his bare hands. Beside him stood Therese Del Aqua, the Physiomancer who had escaped with him and returned to help save the people who’d held her prisoner. Her long brown hair hung nearly to her waist now, ragged, in need of a cut. It did little to diminish her fierce beauty.

The buzz subsided, and Britton had to lean back as a half dozen microphones were thrust in his face. ‘I’ve heard that President Porter has recommitted himself to the misguided principles of the McGauer-Linden Act. He doesn’t get it, and if you support him, neither do you. Latent people are still people. We are citizens of this country, and we have the same rights as everyone else.

‘The problem is a government that traffics in the same practices it prohibits. The problem is a law that makes it illegal for a class of people to simply exist. The people who are so hard over keeping Latent people second-class citizens are the same people who were willing to let thirty thousand people die to keep a secret.

‘Well, I’m done with secrets. This law needs to change, and it needs to change now. You hear me Porter? I’m talking to you. A fancy suit and an office you weren’t even elected to doesn’t give you the right to put your boot on my neck. The only crime I ever committed was to Manifest a power I never asked for.

‘The government uses a drug called Limbic Dampener to help the SOC control the emotional center of the brain, which conducts magic. If it were freely distributed, we wouldn’t need a damn McGauer-Linden Act. Nobody would go nova. Nobody would ever have to go Selfer. It’s expensive, but so is the cost of enforcing the current laws. And it doesn’t have to be so expensive. The price is kept high, so Entertech and its subsidiaries can profit off the drug. The distribution is kept controlled, so the SOC can have a monopoly on magical power. You want to do some investigative reporting? Investigate that.’

Therese moved up and jostled Britton aside, looking into the camera. ‘He’s right. I may not be a Probe, but I’m a criminal, too. And for what? Let me show you something.’ She pointed, and the camera swung to cover a boom-mic operator, a young man in his early twenties with a thin scrabble of beard and much thicker glasses.

She moved toward him, and he dropped the boom, backing up, raising his hands. ‘Sir,’ she said. ‘It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you. Let me do this.’

The cameraman and one of the reporters began yelling at the boom operator to let her, and he acquiesced reluctantly, closing his eyes and leaning away as she placed her hands over his face. A moment later, she pulled her hand back, taking his glasses. The boom operator stood blinking, a smile spreading across his face.

‘How’s your vision?’ she asked.

He blinked, blushing. ‘Perfect. It’s perfect.’

She tossed his glasses over her shoulder and turned back to the camera. ‘He won’t be needing these anymore. That’s my great crime? A gun owner can shoot people, but they’re still allowed to own guns. Sure, I
can
use my magic to hurt people, but I
don’t
. We have free will, and with Limbic Dampener, we’d have control, too.’

Britton overrode the chorus of questions. ‘I beg you to look past your fear. Latent people want the same things you do. Running them into the ground isn’t going to make them less likely to harm you. It’s only going to make them more likely to see you as an enemy. Let us live among you. As equals. Distribute the drug. Change. The. Law.’

Harlequin stared. It was all true, but that didn’t mean it would help. Harlequin had been in front of TV cameras non-stop since Britton had first escaped. Rants like that would frighten as many people as it convinced. In his heart, he wished Britton well.
You do it your way, and I’ll do it my way. Let’s see who changes the world first.

He closed his eyes, gave himself another minute of peace.

The door at the far end of the room opened, closed. ‘Hey, Jan.’

Harlequin opened his eyes to see the familiar face of Lieutenant Colonel Rick Allen, call sign Crucible.

He felt the smile spread across his face. ‘Holy crap, Rick. What the hell are you doing here?’

He gave Crucible a brief hug, then stepped back, still shaking his hand, grinning. ‘I haven’t seen you in forever!’

He could see the urgency in Crucible’s face. The Pyromancer was deeply worried about something, but histrionics had never been his style, and Harlequin knew he’d get to whatever it was in his own time.

Crucible forced a broad smile. ‘I see you all the time, Hollywood! You’re on TV every other day! Hell, I’m getting sick of your ugly mug.’

Harlequin’s smile vanished. ‘Don’t call me that.’

‘Whoa.’ Crucible’s forced smile didn’t falter. ‘What? Ugly mug? I’m just kidding. You’re a very attractive man. If I weren’t happily married, I’d jump your bones right here.’

‘Hollywood. That’s what everyone calls me now. I’m fucking sick of it. They think I like being on TV.’

‘No shame in liking it. You’re good at it, and you’re helping. Slinging lightning isn’t the only thing Army Sorcerers do.’

‘What am I helping, Rick? Tell me how this helps anything.’

Crucible was quiet for a moment. ‘Sorry, Jan. I really was just kidding about the Hollywood thing.’

‘I know,’ Harlequin said. ‘What’s going on? This isn’t a social call.’

Crucible creased his mouth into a thin line and took a deep breath.

‘How are you doing?’ he finally asked.

‘I’m okay,’ Harlequin said. ‘I’m sorry to be so pissy. I’m just getting tired of being a poster boy for a revolution I don’t want. I did what I had to do to save the FOB, but I don’t want the whole system to come down. Magic still needs to be controlled. Let Oscar Britton carry that torch . . . wherever the hell he is.’

Crucible waved a hand. ‘Nobody is going to mess with him now. He’s way too popular. If you think you’re a folk hero . . . That guy is . . .’

‘Hollywood,’ Harlequin finished for him. ‘Rick. You’re practically crawling out of your own skin. What’s the problem?’

Crucible reached into his pocket and pulled out his smartphone. ‘There’s trouble in New York City. They want you to head out there and lock it down.’

‘What kind of trouble?’ Harlequin worked to keep the excitement out of his voice.

Crucible held up his smartphone. ‘A cop took this on Wall Street this morning.’ He thumbed through some photographs before settling on a video clip stopped on the frozen image of the cobblestone street that ran past Federal Hall, the giant columns rising out of the broad stone steps like some giant’s gap-toothed smile. The street was crowded with people, mostly in suits and ties, lacking the cameras and maps that would have marked them as tourists. Lunchtime then, the bankers, analysts, and computer geeks who made the country’s financial system run heading out for a bite or a cigarette.