Control Point (13 page)

The creature flew forward, the halo of electricity pulsing for another strike. Britton scrambled backward on his hands, palms scraping the shattered earth.

And then the electricity winked out, the tendrils flickering off with tiny popping sounds and puffs of black smoke. The creature hung in the air for a moment, eyes wide, then plummeted, shrieking, to the ground. It struck hard and bounced, its huge head flopping on a scrawny neck, the white-painted surface turning red. It lay, stirring weakly.

Rampart hauled Britton to his feet and propelled him the last few feet to the helo. The gunner left his weapon and helped
them into the bay. A crew chief, head invisible in his flight helmet, knelt over him, clipped a carabiner to Britton’s belt and secured the other end to a metal ring in the center of the Blackhawk’s floor.

“He’s in!” the chief called to the pilots. “Let’s go!”

The escorts were left to scramble back to the Stryker’s relative safety as the Blackhawk lurched skyward. The Suppression took hold again as Rampart settled himself beside the crew chief. Only then did Britton realize that he hadn’t even thought to use his magic to escape when he had that brief chance. Even if he had thought of it, how could he have made it work? The Dampener protected him from the overwhelming power of the current, but he still lacked the control to call it to his will. He cursed himself, his heart pounding. He still imagined he could feel the tight pressure of the bomb within it.

Britton gripped the metal ring as the Blackhawk banked, watching out the open door past the gunner’s hip. Harlequin arced through the air toward one of the giant birds. The creatures on its back fired guns at him, the bullets flying wide.

That far above the ground, Britton could see the land outside the concrete barrier wall that ringed the LZ. It was dotted with small groups of the brown, squat humanoids, each surrounding one of the white-painted ones that had nearly fried him a moment ago. One of the white-painted creatures burst into a fireball, which shot upward, missing Harlequin by several feet. Britton recalled the words of the SOC Pyromancer who’d assaulted the school.
Theatrics don’t win battles. Skill beats will, every time.

That adage was being proved on the ground. Britton could make out army fire teams, moving and covering in perfect order. The troops poured fire and took cover behind the broken fragments of concrete barriers and the few Strykers that rolled with them, working with the near-perfect efficiency that had always made him so proud to be a soldier, man as machine. The creatures took the worst of it, falling back.

A piercing shriek dragged Britton’s gaze to Harlequin, who had conjured a thick gray cloud. It draped one of the birds. Britton could see its wingtip as it struggled to stay aloft, the feathers sopping from the cloud’s innards. The Aeromancer somersaulted upward, allowing the bird to pass beneath him
and alongside the Blackhawk, waving to the gunner as he went. The bird shrieked again, shaking free of the cloud—bursting out broadside of the helo.

The gunner grinned as he opened up with the minigun. The barrels spun hot as the weapon pumped one thousand rounds each second into the passing bird and its crew. Britton looked away, but not before he saw much of it dissolve in red mist, screaming as it hurtled earthward.

Harlequin turned to the second bird as it banked away from him. He shook his head and flew to the helo, matching its speed.

The bird shrieked as something impacted with its shoulder, exploding in a cloud of burning feathers. It rolled onto its side, flapping uselessly with the remaining wing. The massive talons flexed, grasping empty air as it fell.

Over its back roared two Apache attack helicopters. They buzzed along, vicious horned insects, metal thoraxes gleaming with armament—twenty-millimeter cannons, laser-guided Hellfire missiles, Hydra rocket pods. They spiraled over the fallen birds before taking up escort positions behind the Blackhawk. Britton’s throat tightened. He’d hoped to pilot one of those agile gunships long ago, before magic had carried him far from such dreams.

The fighting raged beneath them, but the creatures were falling back, helpless without air support. Erupting balls of fire and brief flashes of lightning spoke of magic on the ground, but it came less and less frequently, and, at last, they swept beyond it.

“What the hell are they?” Britton asked.

He could imagine the crew chief’s eyebrows arching behind his tinted visor. “Really big birds, sir.”

“No, I mean the things on their backs,” Britton said.

The chief shrugged. “Goblins.”

“Goblins? Is that what they really are?” Britton asked Rampart.

“Nobody knows what they are,” Rampart answered. “They’re the indigenous around here. Until somebody comes up with something better—they’re Goblins.”

Britton’s mind reeled. Goblins. Real, live Goblins. The storybook legends come to life. Were other creatures from
fantasy stories living here? Dragons? Unicorns? The Limbic Dampener kept his emotions from overwhelming him.

“They have guns?” Britton asked, his voice cracking with wonder.

“Every once in a while, they get lucky and take out a supply truck”—Rampart shrugged—“or one of the indig workers at the FOB smuggles one out. I’m not worried, though. They don’t know how to zero them, and their bodies are too small to handle the recoil. Half of them don’t bother to use the sights. It’s not stolen weapons you need to worry about with these bastards, it’s the magic. They live in the Source all their lives and come up Latent at around twice the rate we do.”

“Indig,” Britton breathed.

Rampart nodded. “A lot like the Mujahidin back in the old War on Terror. Bunch of broken-up tribes fighting themselves. The only thing they hate more than each other is us. They lay off somewhat in the winter, but they go on the warpath something fierce once the weather gets warm.”

Britton shook his head and rubbed his temples. Why not Goblins? They didn’t fit the description he’d come to know from his days of role-playing games and fantasy books. But the birds did—massive creatures with black beaks and talons, large enough to threaten a ship at sea? Britton had read of them in Persian mythology and comic books. They were Rocs.

The battle below him surged around a creature he couldn’t identify. A towering black figure, vaguely man-shaped, swept among the Goblin ranks, darting out toward the soldiers. It moved, lightning quick and oily smooth—one moment in one location and the next several feet forward. It gibbered, huge mouth slavering, flashing giant teeth in a horned head that reared ten feet above the multitude.

“Jesus,” Britton breathed. “What the hell is that?”

“What?” Rampart asked, but the helo had banked sharply and moved on, leaving the battle behind.

Britton looked out the open doors again as the Blackhawk banked, shedding altitude. Past the gunner’s boot, a much wider line of concrete blast barricades formed a massive wall. Behind it, makeshift wooden buildings stretched under corrugated-metal roofs. The spaces between were alive with people and vehicles.

“Where the hell are we?” Britton asked.

“Forward Operating Base Frontier,” the Suppressor answered. “Hope you like it, because you’re going to be spending an awful lot of time here. The FOB’s the one place in any world where Probes like you are permitted to exist.”

The helicopters descended toward a helo pad along a flight line long enough to support strike fighters and fixed-wing support aircraft. It was well maintained, with armored control towers and fueling facilities in good repair. A ground crewman waved them into position with lit wands. A Humvee drove out to meet them. The Apaches wheeled off and regained altitude, heading back to the fight.

Britton shook his head as he remembered yelling at Cheatham beside Dawes’s hospital bed.

Maybe they’ll take you to that secret base and train you!

There is no secret base! You don’t believe that conspiracy-theory crap!

The Blackhawk’s wheels touched down on the tarmac, the Humvee pulled up to receive him, and Oscar Britton realized it wasn’t crap after all.

The Humvee turned onto a dirt road that snaked its way between shipping containers converted into windowless housing. Each was surrounded by piled sandbags, gabions rigged from wire fencing and packed earth, or the occasional concrete blast barrier. Water tanks stood atop showers built from blue tarps stretched across plywood frames. Longer trailers and enormous military tents indicated all the patchwork efforts of a forward-deployed center—a Band-Aid of a dining facility, a smudge of a gym and Morale, Welfare, and Recreation building. Britton had called them the DFAC and MWR. He missed the membership those old acronyms implied.

The Humvee bumped past a busy Combat Surgical Hospital. Ankle-deep mud sucked at the tires. Britton felt naked without his weapons and armor, which an armorer along the flight line had forced him to check in, trading him a camouflage parka inadequate to the harsh cold.

The Forward Operating Base was a joint operation. Air force airmen in digital tiger stripes, navy sailors in work dungarees,
marched alongside SOC soldiers. Britton saw Marine Suppression Lance grunts in surly rows, their magic kept under wraps by their Suppressing officer, anchoring the line. His eyes grew huge at the number of full-fledged SOC Sorcerers simply walking around. He saw a Pyromancer helping a work crew by heating a piece of metal. Terramancers raised firm paths out of the mud. Aeromancers in flight suits streaked overhead.

More incredible were the Goblins. He saw them everywhere, wearing blue jumpsuits like prison uniforms save for the Entertech patches on the shoulder and chest. They clustered in groups, spreading gravel over the mud, tending tiny beds of grass, running the septic truck as it pumped out the latrines. As they passed the cash, Britton saw at least one of the things in blue scrubs carrying out a barrel marked as biological waste. Each group had at least two soldiers in full battle gear standing watchfully by. The other humans ignored them.

Harlequin followed Britton’s gaze to the Goblins and smiled. “You’re not the only Entertech employee we’ve got working out here. The indig are decent workers, when they’re not stealing supplies or spotting targets for their brethren outside the wire.”

The Humvee passed through a checkpoint, then rattled to a stop outside a forty-foot shipping container, gray paint rusting off its ridged metal sides.
P-4
was stenciled on the door. The flat roof was piled high with sandbags; more were stacked haphazardly around the sides. A small wooden staircase, stained dark with moisture, leaned precipitously away from the doorway before drowning in mud. Beside it stood a giant concrete staple, piled high with sandbags. A red-and-white sign reading
BUNKER
hung from the top. Several more identical converted containers stretched away in a row.

“Home, sweet home,” Harlequin said. “Chow hall’s up the road about a hundred yards. Latrine and showers are the other way just as far. DFAC is twenty-four/seven for sandwiches and cereal, standard mealtimes if you want indig serving you freshly grilled cats and dogs. Your supervisor will be meeting you outside the MWR tomorrow morning—0630 sharp. I recommend you get cleaned up, fed, and rested. Entertech’s a demanding company. They’re going to expect you to hit the ground running.”

Britton stepped out and nearly lost his boot to the thick mud. He turned to look up the track and froze. Three men were crossing the lane, military uniforms faced with red edging and gold buttons, the Indian flag stitched onto the shoulder. Their heads were wrapped in white turbans. Neatly trimmed beards hugged their chins.

Britton blinked at what glided along beside them. It towered over the makeshift structures, huge shoulders surmounting a chest as broad as a coffee table with biceps the size of footballs on at least a dozen pairs of arms. The torso terminated in a snake’s tail, as thick as an oil drum and trailing off out of Britton’s view. The vaguely humanoid collar sprouted into a bevy of snake’s heads on spear-length necks. The creature was covered in gleaming, jewel-like scales, shading from purple-green at the heads to jasmine-pink along the tail. An arsenal of swords, axes, and bladed discs were thrust haphazardly into a red silk sash around its waist.

A few of the heads swung his way, tasting the air with varicolored tongues as the party passed.

Harlequin tapped Britton’s shoulder. “I forgot to mention. FOB Frontier is a combined operation. The Sahir Corps are just one of the foreign attachés we’ve got here. You’re not to have any contact with them unless specifically authorized.”

The SOC Captain turned to Rampart and nodded. Britton felt the magical tide flow back into him, strictly controlled by the Dampener. Harlequin leaned forward and tapped his chest. “No more Suppression,” he said. “Just remember, we’ve got our eye on you. The FOB’s roughly thirty square miles. Your ATTD pops anywhere outside that zone, even for a minute and…” He grinned.

“Boom,” Britton finished for him.

“The Dampener should cover you for the next couple of days at a minimum. If, God forbid, you feel like you’re being overwhelmed anyway, just get down in the mud and shout ‘Suppress, Suppress, Suppress!’ with all you’ve got. I assure you that you will never be out of earshot of someone with significant Suppression capabilities anywhere on this FOB, day or night.”

“Sounds more like a warning,” Britton said.

“Take it however you like,” Harlequin said. “Good luck in
your new career. I have to say I’m very pleased that you elected to cooperate with us. You were a talented soldier, and I have every confidence that you’ll be just as good in your new role. Just remember what I’ve been telling you. Stick to the regs, and everything will be fine. The rules are in place to protect you. Don’t mess with them.