Control Point (24 page)

For all his talk, Britton found Salamander surprisingly lenient, at times like a kindly old father, even giving them the day off control practice to play pickup football in the SASS yard. Britton sat with Therese and watched Swift weave through the other enrollees, the ball tucked under his arm.

“Guy’s got talent,” Britton said.

Therese nodded. “He does. Pyre says he was a receiver in high school. But he cheats a lot, too.”

“Cheats?” Britton asked.

“Watch.” She grinned.

A squat woman with broad shoulders and short hair, whom Britton recognized from the No-No Crew, raced to intercept Swift. “That’s Peapod,” Therese said. “She never told me her real name. Woman’s rugby star at U of New Hampshire.” She ducked her head and angled toward him, lowering her shoulders and pushing from her thighs. She moved directly across Swift’s path, there was no way Britton could see for him to avoid her.

Britton smiled as Peapod’s thick thigh muscles propelled her on, steady as a freight train. “Oh, man,” he said. “This is going to hurt.”

Swift grinned, stuck out an arm.

His fingertips lightly brushed Peapod’s forehead as he vaulted over her, corkscrewing through the air and landing behind her, not missing a step.

“He’s an Aeromancer,” Britton said, swiveling to look at Salamander, who stood with his arms crossed, chuckling.

Therese nodded.

“Isn’t he going to get in trouble?” Britton asked.

“I told you, Salamander’s a good guy. He lets it slide when it’s harmless like this. I personally think he likes it.”

“Because it demonstrates control.”

Therese nodded. “Yeah. And I think it does his heart good to see people playing with magic. It can get kind of serious in the SOC, you know?”

Britton nodded. “Do I ever. I think that’s what bugs me the most about magic.”

“What?” Therese asked.

“You know. When you’re a kid, you read stories about it, and you’re told that magic is this wild, kick-ass, amazing thing. It’s unicorns and flying carpets and adventure. But then you actually come face-to-face with magic, and it—”

“It’s deadly,” she finished for him.

“More than that,” he added. “It’s boring. It’s hyperregulated and bound up in red tape. It’s every bit as controlled and locked down as a missile arsenal. There’s nothing adventurous about it. Or, at least, not the kind of adventure anyone would want to have.”

Peapod continued after Swift, who danced lightly out of reach, floating through the air. She lunged, slid on her forearms in the hardened mud, cursed, and rolled over on her back. She gestured toward Swift, and a small lip of earth rose in front of his foot, tripping him. He went down hard, the ball spiraling out of his grasp. Downer caught it, pushing hard in the other direction. Her face was ferocious, the concentration intense.

“Go go go!” Britton cheered, clapping.

He laughed, and Therese laughed with him, putting her head on his shoulder.
God, it feels so good to laugh, almost normal.
He put his arm around Therese, savoring the smell of her hair, feeling for all the world like a regular guy watching a game of pickup ball with his girl under his arm.
Except she’s not my girlfriend, and I’m on a secret military base in a magical parallel world, and I have a radio transmitter packed with explosives implanted in my heart.
There was nothing regular guy about that at all.

Pyre charged Downer, and Peapod blocked him with equal ferocity, upending him and sending him over her shoulder. Downer crossed into the end zone with a shout and spiked the ball, dancing for a moment before Peapod vaulted her onto her
shoulders, carrying her above the shouts of her teammates. Downer’s face was a study in adolescent joy.

Salamander was doubled over with laughter. Swift got to his feet, grinning and dusting himself off. “All right! All right!” he shouted. “Huddle!” He stripped off his shirt and jogged toward Pyre, sweating freely despite the cold air. His chest was dominated by a broad tattoo of a scissor-tailed bird, pointed wings spread, black beak pointing skyward.

Wavesign sulked on the sidelines, squatting on his haunches. Tsunami jogged past him on the way to the field, motioning him to join. He ignored her, and she shrugged, charging out on to the grass. He scowled for a moment, then looked up at Britton, and they held one another’s eyes. Britton jerked his head toward the game and nodded.
Get in there,
he mouthed.

Wavesign looked away, pretending he hadn’t seen. Britton reached down and picked up a small chunk of earth, hardened by the cold. He chucked it at Wavesign, striking his shoulder.

The young Hydromancer looked back at him and frowned, then broke into a smile when Britton made a face at him.

“Come on, what’s wrong with you?” Britton asked. “You never played football?”

Wavesign looked at the ground and shrugged. “Pretty decent hands, actually. But I was too small to block.”

“So? Get in there! I can’t understand why you extricate yourself from everything.”

“Come on, Wavesign!” Tsunami shouted.

“You think those guys are a bad influence anyway,” Wavesign said to Britton.

“Only sometimes. What are they going to do now? Influence you to be better at football? Besides, Tsunami’s not one of the jackass crew.”

Wavesign looked annoyed. “You don’t get it.”

“Maybe you don’t get it,” Britton said. “You had decent hands. That doesn’t change.”

Wavesign snorted, holding up his hands, so slick with moisture that they looked greasy. “I don’t know if you noticed, but they’re not exactly sticky fingers anymore.”

Britton paused, then jerked his head at Wavesign’s hands. “Kind of makes you tough to tackle, though, doesn’t it?”

Now it was Wavesign’s turn to pause. After a moment, he shrugged and joined the game.

Swift made a face, but after a failed pass to Pyre, he handed the ball off to Wavesign, who ran hard for the end zone, showing surprising agility. Downer and Peapod both ran to block him with all the single-mindedness of runaway trains. Wavesign paused, ducked, then pushed left. Downer threw herself at him and fell short, giving Peapod the chance to make the tackle as Wavesign backpedaled. The Hydromancer spun as Peapod tried to grapple him, her arms sliding on the greasy seaweed surface of his skin. She slid in the dirt again, and Wavesign gave a victory cry as he hurtled toward the improvised end zone.

“Not fair, you slippery fuck!” Peapod groused.

“What do you want?” Wavesign called back. “I’ve got control issues!”

Salamander chuckled, and Britton smirked. It was good to see Wavesign make light of his issues for even a brief moment.

Pyre jogged over to Britton and Therese. “Come on, big man. Might as well get out here and give us a chance to pound on you.”

Britton grinned. “You sure you want to take that on? It’s your funeral.”

Pyre gestured to Therese. “Unless you think you can do a better job. Now that I think about it, she might be a better linebacker than you.”

“You calling me fat?” Therese groused.

“Heck no,” Pyre said archly. “Just calling you tougher than Mr. Candypants here.”

Britton laughed and Therese grinned.

A shot rang out from the fence line, and they all crouched instinctively. Britton stared through the line of chain link that separated them from the Source beyond the FOB. Two small black dots had surfaced in the waving surface of the saw-toothed grasses and were moving quickly.

“Goblin spotters,” Pyre said. “They’re always out there watching the FOB.”

“FO’s.” Britton nodded. Another shot sounded from one of the SASS guard towers, and one of the dots disappeared into the grass.

“FOs?” Pyre asked.

“Sorry, I keep thinking everybody is in the army out here. Forward observers. They call in fire. You know, for artillery.”

“Oh, right. Well, yeah. We call them spotters. They sight in for the magical attacks,” Pyre said.

Another shot, the second dot vanished.

“Looks like they got them both,” Therese said.

“There’ll be more,” Pyre said. “There always are.”

The group stood in silence, the jovial mood suddenly turned sober.
That’s war. You kill, then you try to pretend that everything’s as it was.
After a moment, the football players returned to their huddle, the chatter breaking the tension.

“So?” Pyre said. “Coming?”

“I should get in there,” Britton said, trying to shrug off the sound of the gunshots, the drifting odor of cordite. “I can be anywhere on the field that I want.” He stood, dusting himself off.

Salamander abruptly stopped laughing and shook his head. “Not you,” he said.

“But…”

“I didn’t stutter, did I?” the major said. Noting Britton’s crestfallen look, his voice softened. “I’m sorry, Novice. You want to get out there, fine, but no magic.”

“That’s bullshit,” Britton began.

“No, it’s common sense, something you apparently lack. If Swift is momentarily indiscreet, then maybe there’s an unfair touchdown. If you leave the FOB in an effort to get around a blocker, then I’ve got a huge mess on my hands and the SOC is down one Portamancer. They’re not fucking around about the ATTD, Oscar. Don’t you risk it. Not ever.”

Britton knew Salamander was right, but the surly anger wouldn’t leave him. He turned to Pyre, “I guess that’s an order,” and sat back down.

“Not an order,” Salamander said, “just friendly advice.

“Of course, it just so happens if you elect not to follow it, you die.”

“Fine,” Britton said, standing and rubbing his hands together. “No magic, I get it. But you can’t stop me from playing.”

“I can do whatever the hell I want with you,” Salamander
said. “But so long as you don’t use magic, I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your getting embarrassed out on the field.”

Britton cocked an eyebrow at Pyre. “So? Candypants, huh?”

Pyre shrugged. “We’ll see.”

“Oh,” said Britton, jogging out to the field. “I do believe you will.”

Mornings at the SASS were followed by afternoon MAC practice, one-on-one, under the giant tent. Britton improved slowly. At times, he managed to turn some of the blows, disengage the mount, or control the battlespace for a moment, but Fitzy had years on him. The smaller man always won out in the end, and Britton spent his evenings in the OC under Marty’s care. The little Goblin never hesitated to take care of him, and Britton felt a growing sense of camaraderie. The bruises faded to mottled patches by morning most times, and the swelling had gone, though Britton still went about looking like he’d just been hit by a car most days. He counted himself lucky that he hadn’t lost a tooth.

Until he did.

Fitzy’s boot split his lip and sent one of his lower canines spinning, lost in the mud. The blood was too much, and Fitzy
had gotten tired of being spattered every time he closed. At last, he’d sent Britton to the hospital in disgust. “Get that hole plugged up and get your ass back here.”

“Sir, there’s a Physiomancer in the SASS. Let me see her.”

“Negative, Novice. Your authorized hours in the SASS are over for the day, and I don’t need to be breaking protocol just to preserve your good looks. The United States government is interested in your performance, not your charisma. You will go directly to the cash, then immediately report back here, and if I find out you went anywhere else in between, there will be hell to pay.”

Britton had spun on his heel and jogged away. He had no intention of returning, no matter how long it took to get seen.

Colored canvas partitions, suspended by strong lines snaking through steel grommets, divided the massive hospital tent. Shadows played off the fabric, giving a fun-house cast to the rows of steel cots, medical electronics, and shelving. Navy corpsmen bustled back and forth between white-coated army doctors. Britton moved down a double row of makeshift beds where the more badly wounded drowsed in drug-induced slumber. Shadows writhed amid groans from behind a partition under a sign reading
TRAUMA.

Other signs hung throughout the tent.
BURN UNIT, SURGERY, RADIOLOGY.
Britton searched until he found one that read
DENTAL UNIT.
He followed it out of the main cash tent and down a short track toward another one. The signs took him through the phlebotomy section, where blue-scrubbed orderlies took blood from a dozen pale-looking men. The other side of the hallway was occupied with a row of makeshift stalls rigged behind ribbons of canvas under a sign reading
URINALYSIS.

The orderlies collecting the yellow vials from the occupants of the stalls were entirely Goblin contractors. Blue cloth masks designed for human faces contended with giant pointed noses and ears. A few of the Goblins had gone so far as to cut holes in them for their noses to poke through.

The sign to the dental unit directed him straight through, but Britton stopped short. Marty stood near the tent exit, a steel test-tube tray, brimming with stoppered tubes half-filled with yellow-green urine, in both hands. The two stared at one another before Marty turned to one of the other Goblin orderlies and chattered in their own language, passing him the tray.
The Goblins surrounding Marty bowed in unison, deeply, backing slightly away, muttering softly in their guttural hissing tongue.

Marty reached out and touched Britton’s face, his rough hands surprisingly gentle. “Come,” he said, taking Britton’s hand and leading him the way he had come. They pushed back into the main hospital tent and out a side entrance over a makeshift wooden boardwalk that kept them out of the mud and into another tent with a sign reading
RESEARCH/SPECIAL PROJECTS.