Fortress Frontier Page 12

  Even from this distance, he could see the FOB’s perimeter.

  The concrete barricade walls and razor wire were gone, rotted and blown away on the wind. But a tall, thick, earthen wall stood in its place. It sported solid-looking parapets and guard towers, patrolled by black dots Britton assumed were soldiers. SOC Terramancy was breathtaking in its speed and efficiency. Britton marveled at how quickly they’d managed to raise effective defenses. A pair of Apaches spun around the perimeter. Dust rose from the ground as a pair of Abrams tanks followed on the ground.

  “I can’t make it out that well without binoculars . . . but it looks . . .”

  “It looks locked down.” Downer sounded relieved. “They won the fight and sealed the breach. They’re okay.”

  Britton rested his forehead against the ground, letting the waves of relief wash over him. The FOB hadn’t been destroyed.

  That much, at least, was off his conscience. But he still had to find Scylla.

  “Okay . . .” he said, then stopped as Downer got to her feet.

  “Sarah! Get down!”

  She shook her head. “I’m going back.”

  “You’re what?” Truelove got to his knees and resisted as Britton tried to drag him back to the grass.

  “I’m not going after Scylla. Not unless it’s as part of a SOC unit.”

  “Sarah,” Britton hissed, “get down before they spot us! You’re not going back.”

  “You saved my life, and I owe you for that. But I’m not a fucking turncoat. I never stopped being army.”

  “Sarah, please,” Therese said. “You were never army.”

  “She’s right,” Britton added. “You were a contractor like me.

  You’re a Probe, and you’ll always be a Probe. You can never be one of them. Sarah, they put a bomb in my chest. They were they were going to murder Marty just for following his own customs.

  They forced people, you included, to join the military. That’s what you’re going back to.

  “You want to belong to something? Belong to us. We belonged to each other on those missions. We can do that again.”

  “They never forced me to join,” Downer said without much conviction. “I had a choice.”

  “What choice did you really have?” Britton asked.

  Truelove caught her elbow. “Sarah, stay.”

  She froze. “Stay with me,” he said again.

  Downer sank to her knees, her eyes on the grass beneath her.

  When she looked up, tears streaked down her cheeks. Her voice was that of the young girl she was, all military professionalism leeched away. “Where am I supposed to go? Back to my religious nutjob mom? She thinks I’m dead and would hate me for being a Probe anyway. After we get Scylla, then what? You want me to live on the run, hiding in the sewer system under New York City? Like it or not, there’s only one place in the world where I can be alive legitimately and legally”—she pointed at the Terramantic earthwork that sealed the perimeter beach—“and it’s behind that wall. You blew that option. I can still go back.”

  She hitched back a sob. “I don’t have anywhere else.”

  Therese wrapped her arms around her. “Yes, you do. You’ve got us.”

  Truelove put his hand on her shoulder. “Sarah, you’re like a gun to the army. As soon as they’re done with you, they kill you, or experiment on you. You saw what they did to that goblin village. What they did to Oscar.”

  “What they did to Billy and what they were going to do to Scylla,” Britton added. “They were going to carve up her brain to make her compliant. That’s exactly what they’ll do if they capture her now, and all of her power will be at their disposal.

  And you know they won’t stop until they do capture her.

  “That’s why we’ve got to get to her first. And you’ve got one thing she can’t rot, elemental magic. Fire doesn’t rot, Sarah. Neither does wind. We need your help to make this right.”

  Downer mastered herself, pushing back from Therese’s embrace. “I’m tired of all this running and fighting. I just want . . .” to go home. Britton finished for her in his mind.

  “I know you are,” Britton said. “But there’s no home for you behind those walls, not the kind you want, anyway. I just need you to dig a little bit deeper and hold on a little bit longer. First, we fix this . . . thing I did. I know it’s on me, but I need your help to set it right. Then, we link up with Swift and make the kind of home we all need. A way we can be safe and free, all the time, without having to look over our shoulders. If you still decide that you want to go back to them, you can say I captured you, forced you. And you can bring them the news that they no longer have Scylla to worry about, that you took her down. That should count for something.”

  “He’s right, sweetheart,” Therese said. “Can you do that?”

  Downer nodded, sniffling, and lowered herself into the grass again. The others followed suit.

  “What are we going to do with Scylla when we find her?”

  Truelove asked. “I mean, we have to kill her, right?”

  “No,” Therese said. “She deserves a chance at least. I’ve done some bad things in my time—”

  “You did what you had to in order to defend yourself,” Britton cut her off. “That’s nothing anyone would ever be ashamed of.”

  Therese paused. “I agree we can’t let the SOC take her back, but we need to give her a chance to join us when we link up with Swift.”

  “That’s crazy,” Britton said. “You saw what she did to the FOB, Therese. That woman is insane.”

  “Still”—color rose in Therese’s cheeks—“ you just want to keep on adding to the body count, Oscar? Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”

  Britton swore under his breath. He couldn’t get into this now.

  He would deal with her misgivings when they caught up to Scylla. For now, he had to keep the group together. He pointed over their backs, away from the FOB. “Last time I saw her, she went that way. If there’s a trail to follow, that’s where we’re going to find it.”

  “You know how to track?” Downer asked. “They never taught me that in Shadow Coven.”

  Britton shook his head. “Me neither, but we have to try.”

  “And what if there’s no trail?” Downer asked.

  “Then we head back, link up with Swift. But we’re not giving up until we’ve searched long and hard. Scylla was alone, without any gear or food. She can’t have gone far. And while we weren’t trained to track, she wasn’t trained to hide either.

  “We’re going to low crawl in that direction for a bit; and then we can walk at a crouch. I think the FOB has its hands full cleaning up close to the perimeter, but we need to stay frosty. It won’t be long before they’ve got some kind of helo patrol out after Scylla.”

  They turned, positioning their elbows and knees to carry them forward. He looked over at Truelove, gesturing to the corpses around him.

  “Can you, uh, get these mobile? Have ’em stay down and crawl after us?”

  Truelove frowned. “Now?”

  “If we run into her, an army of corpses to soak up her magic are exactly what we’ll need, and this is best stockpile of them we’re likely to run into. Once we get out there”—he pointed to at the lightening horizon—“ we don’t know what we’ll find.”

  Britton felt the tide of Truelove’s magic coalesce and flow outward. The grasses around them stirred as wolf, human and goblin corpses flipped over and low crawled into a cluster behind them. A dead man in an air force uniform crouched over to them and deposited four scavenged pistols before returning to the hastily assembled brigade of dead. “Thought we might need these,” Truelove said, taking one. Britton followed suit. Therese and Downer wrinkled their noses and took theirs as well.

  “Nasty,” Downer muttered.

  “War usually is,” Britton said. “Stay low.” He crawled forward.

  The group followed, and the army of corpses slithered along behind them, silent and determined, leaving only the
gently swaying grass to mark their passage.

  Chapter IX

  Tracking

  What do you expect us to do? Lie still and let you kill us, imprison us, strip of us of our humanity? You’ve outlawed our existence. You provide no options for those who Manifest in the so called Probe schools. And then you call us criminals? Brand us terrorists for killing to defend ourselves? When you give people no options, they dig in and fight. The American Revolution was a classic example.

  And you know how that turned out.

  —Big Bear, Houston Street Selfers

  Video “Message for the President of the United States” distributed

  on the Internet and the streets of New York City

  After only an hour of searching, they picked up her trail.

  Scylla had made no effort to hide her passage. Where dense clumps of grass or rock formations impeded her, she’d simply Drawn her magic and decayed them until they could be bypassed, not even bothering to take a step out of her way.

  By the time Britton deemed they had gone far enough from the FOB to stand up, he smelled the sulfur stink of putrefaction.

  A few steps onward, the ground opened up. A gray-black dusting of powdered rock was strewn across bare soil. To either side, the grass was sheened with gray-black slime, the stinking remains of vegetation. In the center of the trail was a purple smear that might have once been a bird.

  “Jesus,” he breathed. Beside him, Therese crossed herself.

  Truelove brought a hand to his mouth, trying to filter the rising stink through his fingers. Behind him, the shambling line of zombies silently imitated his movement.

  You did this, Britton thought. You let her go. The moment he’d freed her, Scylla had murdered hundreds, breaching the FOB’s perimeter and inviting a massive goblin attack. In the resulting battle, Therese had been forced to break her vow never to use her healing magic offensively, tearing flesh instead of knitting it. Britton knew she still blamed him for that.

  “Well,” Downer said, “I guess we don’t have to worry about tracking her.”

  Britton took a knee and gathered them around. “All right, we’re on her, apparently. We need to be ready in case we find her. Remember, she’s just one Sorcerer, and we’re four. We do this by the numbers. I’ll run Suppression. Truelove and Downer should swamp her with elementals and zombies, and Therese will run defense.

  “Honestly, Therese, I’m not sure how your healing will match up against her . . . rotting. If I can’t keep her properly Suppressed, then hopefully you can restore our flesh quicker than she can strip it down. Nobody will ask you to Rend, but if there’s not need for your magic, there’s no reason you can’t walk over punch her in the face, right?”

  Therese smirked. “Got it.”

  “Everybody cool with that?” Britton asked. “Am I missing anything?”

  “Sounds about right,” Truelove said.

  “It’s four on one,” Downer added. “What could go wrong?”

  “Don’t,” Therese said. “You’ll jinx it.”

  Britton grunted, and they pushed on. A pack of demon horses sniffed them out after the first few hours. Britton had encountered them before; they were blind and vicious, a weird combination between horse and hyena, with an unsettling ability to mimic any sound they heard, including human voices. He wasted no time, sending a gate sliding horizontally through them, cutting three in half and sending the rest fleeing, mimicking the wet slicing sound the micron-thin edge of the portal made. The ground rose as the sun dipped in the sky, fat and clearer than the one on the Home Plane, going from soft yellow to brilliant orange.

  Britton froze as he heard helicopter rotors in the distance.

  He snapped open a gate back to the bowl of frozen rose moss and ushered the group through, the corpses dropping once Truelove’s magic left them, lying hidden in the tall grass. Britton and his group waited in the frozen bowl on the Home Plane.

  After fifteen minutes, Britton opened a pinhole of a gate, looked, listened and determined that the danger had passed. They moved back through the gate and took up the march again. The corpses were tugged to their feet by Truelove’s magic, trudging along behind them, silent save for the dragging shuffle of their feet.

  Britton kept his eyes forward and tried not to think about it.

  A cold breeze picked up, and Britton turned to Downer.

  “Sarah? Best to be ready.” He nodded to Truelove’s corpses.

  “Let’s get something up and running.”

  Downer nodded, and a small column of whirling funnels of air appeared. They shimmered, visible mostly by dint of the leaves, pebbles and clods of earth transiting their spinning cores.

  Britton had faced similar things when he’d fought Downer before he’d come up Latent.

  Air elementals.

  They forged on. Truelove and Downer lagged behind a few paces, talking softly. Britton turned to Therese. “Looks like they’re searching for Scylla, all right.”

  No answer.

  “Maybe they’re just doing a patrol, not searching for her. Who knows why they’re out?”

  Still no answer.

  Britton sighed. “Therese, please. I did what I had to. I got us out safe. They would have killed Marty. They would have experimented on those of us who didn’t play ball.”

  Therese’s eyes stayed fixed on the horizon. “Are you talking to me or to yourself?”

  “I don’t know. Both?”

  “It’s between you and God, Oscar. It’s not for me to judge you.”

  “I feel judged.”

  “What do you want me to say? You let Scylla out. She butchered half the FOB. You killed Fitzy. You didn’t lift a finger to save Harlequin. You left me to do that.”

  “Therese, that’s not fair.”

  “Fair doesn’t enter into it, Oscar. You made choices. You are responsible for them.” She choked on her next words. “God, Oscar! I had to Rend! I swore I’d never do it again!”

  “I know, but would you rather Marty be dead? Would you rather all of us still be prisoners? You helped me, Therese, you . . .”

  “You tricked me, Oscar. Or, at least, you influenced me. I didn’t know what was happening. I was trying to save you.”

  “And I was trying to save you! To save all of us.”

  “And you did that, at the price of Lord knows how many hundreds of others.”

  “Therese, please. I’m alone in all of this. I need some . . .”

  “Some what?” she asked.

  Some support. I’ve lost everything.

  “I need some help. I can’t do this by myself. Didn’t we have something back there? Weren’t we headed somewhere?” he asked.

  “Maybe, Oscar. But that was before . . . all this. I’m here, aren’t I? Besides, what is it exactly you’re trying to do?”

  “Take care of us.”

  “Nobody asked you to do that.”

  “We both know that nobody else is going to.”

  “God will, Oscar. He already is. You should try prayer. Maybe he’ll find a way to forgive you, and maybe I will, too. But not now, Oscar. Not now.”

  Britton thought of his father, the only other religious person he’d ever been close to. Stanley Britton had advised his son to pray as well.

  But Britton didn’t try.

  He thought of his mother, eyes wide and accusing. He thought of Billy’s mother, screaming as her son’s brains spattered her floral print dress. He thought of hundreds of soldiers, curdling to piles of purple slime under the baleful tides of Scylla’s rotting magic.

  How could he pray? Even if there was a God, there was no way he would listen.

  Not to him. Not now.

  He choked down hot anger. “I thought you Christians were supposed to believe in forgiveness, to actually imitate your God.

  When I was a kid, I almost bought that.

  “I did what I had to, for all of us. It’s not my fault it worked out the way it did, just as it’s not your fault that you had to Rend your d
ad’s friend for putting his hands on you. You want to show a little of that supposed Christian forgiveness?

  “You can start with yourself. Then you can forgive me. Because you’re not the only one who’s alone out here, or the only one who’s trying, and I could use some goddamn support.”

  “Oscar, I . . .” she began, then broke off as he dropped to one knee, raising a fist. The rest of the group followed suit, Truelove’s column of corpses joining them. The Necromancer drew his pistol, holding it in a two-handed grip, muzzle pointing at the ground. The zombies imitated him, hands clasped together around an imaginary gun handle.

  Downer’s elementals fanned out in front, ripping up the grass in small patches.

  Britton pointed around a tuft of grass. The edge of a log palisade, much like the village they’d just left jutted out. “Stay here,” he whispered. “I’m going to take a look.”

  They nodded, and he opened a gate, jumping back to the rose moss bowl and back out to low crawl into the rough grass farther to his left, where he had a better view of the palisade.

  It was some kind of goblin FOB, much smaller than Marty’s village. The logs looked hastily sharpened and assembled, with crude, peaked huts beyond. A pole leaned drunkenly beside the gate, a red-and-orange-striped bird skull affixed to the top.

  Britton paused, listening. Nothing. The place seemed deserted. The wind suddenly changed.

  The smell hit him like a wall.

  The goblin FOB stank somewhere south of gangrene. He gagged, eyes watering. Drawing his pistol, he got to one knee, bringing more of the encampment into view. One whole side of it was simply gone. The palisade walked along the hard ground, then vanished into scattered black dust and glistening purplish slime that Britton had come to associate with Scylla’s dark magic.

  He walked forward at a crouch, keeping his pistol ready, and advanced on the encampment. By the time he was level with the decayed opening in the palisade wall, he was breathing only through his mouth. After a moment, even that wasn’t enough, and he lifted the front flap of his shirt over his mouth and nose.

  It didn’t help.

  This must have been an outpost established by the Defender clans to supply larger groups of goblins reconnoitering and attacking FOB Frontier. Britton thought he could see the remains of a cistern and a corral for the fat, bleating creatures the goblins herded. The remaining buildings were puckered in on themselves, the wood wet-looking and sagging like overripe fruit, edges gone to powder or dripping slime. The frozen ground was plastered with purple and yellow stains, slick and viscous, here and there chunky with the remains of the goblins Scylla had worked her power over. There was the upper part of a skull, the eye still staring unseeing off into the distance beside a long, pointed ear. Here was an arm, the fist still gripping a spear shaft coated in the mucal ruin that had once been its owner. There had been sorcerers here as well, the scraps left of them painted chalky white in goblin fashion. Beyond the silent remains, the place was deserted. The trail of withered grass led off beyond the gap in the palisade wall.