Free Shadow Ops: Fortress Frontier-ARC (pdf conv.) by Myke Cole Page A

turned back to the Suppressor and arched an eyebrow.
    “You’re clear to go, sir,” the Suppressor said.
    Bookbinder Drew the magic and felt for the new captain’s current. He found the flow instantly, and felt the same sense of intertwining, of tugging on the tide. The captain’s eye’s widened.
    “You sure this is okay, sir?” he asked.
    “It’s fine,” Bookbinder said, gritting his teeth. He felt the current suffuse his own, his pores shot through with the magic, low, calm, solid.
    Earthy.
    “You’re a Terramancer.”
    The captain’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you know, sir?”
    The doctor cut him off as the Suppressor rolled Bookbinder’s magic back. “That’ll be all, Captain, thank you.”
    “Sir,” the captain said, and left.
    “See?” Bookbinder said.
    “He was a big guy,” the Suppressor said. “Terramancers usually are.”
    “So? Get someone else,” Bookbinder groused.
    The doctor nodded. “That’s exactly what we’ll do.”
    They repeated the experiment five more times, with a Hydromancer, an Aeromancer, and three more Pyromancers.
    Bookbinder nailed it each and every time.
    Bookbinder’s diagnosis remained the same; “Stifled Latency,” which Bookbinder knew meant, “We have no idea what the hell is going on.” He experimented on the way back to his hooch that evening, trying to sense the schools of other Sorcerers, only looking at their pins after he’d a chance to wrap his current around theirs, reeling it in long enough to get a hint of their magic. He had to stop after three tries, as his subjects began looking wildly around as soon as his current began to pull against theirs, forcing him to let it go to prevent being discovered.
    He lay awake that night, stomach twisted with loneliness.
    Was this his power? He could tell what other Latents’ schools were? What was the good in that?
    That couldn’t be it. He felt something more. His current wrapped around the magic of others, pulled it into him. It doubled his own power, swelled the reservoir until he felt the outpouring would overwhelm him. Identifying the school was the tip of the iceberg.
    He tried to lay out the events of the test, then stopped himself.
    Everything bled together. It seemed that so much had happened so fast. He couldn’t focus. His fingers strayed instinctively to his wedding band, twisting it on his finger.
    Bunny. Oh God, I wish you were here. You would slow me down and talk me through it.
    But his wife wasn’t there. Alan Bookbinder was alone.
    Just calm down and try to figure this out.
    But his mind was full of Julie and the children. No matter how hard Bookbinder tried, he couldn’t stop feeling sorry for himself. Frustrated tears began to flow, initiating a new round of self-loathing when he couldn’t stop them. Some colonel, crying into his pillow. Bookbinder was still cursing himself when he drifted off to sleep.
    And awoke to the sound of explosions.
    At first, he thought it was the standard run of goblin magical indirect fire, but even as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he knew he was wrong.
    Boom, boom, brakabrakabrakabraka.
    Those weren’t magical strikes. Those were conventional rounds. Small-arms fire, crackling frantically.
    The sound of the good guys.
    Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the loudspeaker public address system.” . . . action stations. I say again, action stations.”
    They were under attack.
    Bookbinder leapt out of his rack, cracking his head against the pressboard wardrobe. He cursed, rubbing the injury as he yanked on his uniform, racing out of his hooch still buckling on his gun belt, bootlaces trailing in the mud.
    He heard the whine of rotors as helicopters raced overhead, searchlights beaming out toward the perimeter, their underbellies lit by the flickering of distant fire. Whistles and whumps sounded as mortar rounds impacted somewhere. Boots pounded in the mud around him as soldiers raced every which way.
    In the distance, he heard the growl of