heading back to the Home Plane, but I should be back around in the next few weeks. I’ll call when I’m ready.”
“Have a safe trip,” Taylor said.
The Sculptor turned and stalked off. Taylor’s death grip on Bookbinder eased with every step the contractor took away from them. When Bookbinder finally broke free, he noticed that the colonel was sweating.
“What the hell was that?” Bookbinder asked.
“Alan, I’m going to say this once,” Taylor said. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re a full bird or the J1 of this post. Don’t you ever, ever get into it with that particular contractor again.”
Bookbinder felt the blood rush to his face. “Is the whole SOC out of its mind? You’ve got me shooting puppies, dodging magical indirect, and now I’m supposed to be deferring to contractors? Last time I checked, those guys work for us!”
Bookbinder felt the breaking point. If he was going to stop Taylor’s treating him like an inconvenient stepchild, he was going to have to lay down the law. He put on his best command voice. “I also don’t care that you’re SOC and do things differently. The army is still the army, and I’m not going to let a contractor treat me like that.”
Taylor turned purple. A vein throbbed redly in his forehead.
Crucible and Fitzsimmons took a step back, and Bookbinder’s courage fled as quickly as it had come. They waited in tense silence, Bookbinder fighting the panicked urge to apologize.
At last, Taylor smiled indulgently and spoke as if to a child.
“Oh yes, you will. With this contractor you most certainly will. You have never seen a Physiomancer who can do what he can. Next time, I’ll let you get into it with him and see how you like it. You’re like a goddamn newborn babe. You don’t even realize when someone saves your life.”
Chapter V
Closed Session
To be honest, I’m not a fan of the term “Rump Latent.” It’s dismissive and unfair. The proper term for them is “Unmanifested Latencies,” and they play an important role in the SOC. Our Unmanifested make up the bulk of our Suppressing Corps, and their ability to sense magical currents in others make them an invaluable tool in tracking and identifying Selfers. Those are mission-critical roles in this organization. There’s nothing ”rump” about them.
—Lieutenant General Alexander Gatanas
Commandant, Supernatural Operations Corps
As it turned out, life on a secret base in an alternate magical dimension was much like life back home. Bookbinder spent his days with his butt planted in a swivel-backed black chair identical to the one in his office on the Pentagon’s E–Ring doing paperwork.
While goblins, rocs, and God knew what else cavorted outside the wire, Bookbinder stared at his computer screen until his head ached, poring over spreadsheets documenting everything from shipments of Meals-Ready–to–Eat to unfilled personnel billets. Oscar Britton, the most wanted criminal in the country, worked for him, but only to the extent of authorizing his budget line and operating costs. The world he knew was miles away, but Alan Bookbinder’s world hadn’t changed a bit.
Except for one thing.
He missed his family so much he ached. He made his calls from a darkened squad bay, via a specially rigged state–of–the-art Single Channel Ground and Airborne Radio System.
When Bookbinder first arrived to use the system, the Radio Telephone Operator handed him the handset, then sat, folded his arms, and stared at the ceiling.
“You’re going to hang around? This is a private call,” Bookbinder said.
“Sorry, sir. You’re calling through a Portamantic Gate. Security risk. I have to supervise the equipment.”
“I’m talking to my wife!”
“And I’ve got to answer to my first sergeant. Respectfully, sir, I have to stay here.”
Bookbinder turned his back on the private. There was a long silence. Bookbinder was just about to tell the RTO it wasn’t working when the handset issued a
“Have a safe trip,” Taylor said.
The Sculptor turned and stalked off. Taylor’s death grip on Bookbinder eased with every step the contractor took away from them. When Bookbinder finally broke free, he noticed that the colonel was sweating.
“What the hell was that?” Bookbinder asked.
“Alan, I’m going to say this once,” Taylor said. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re a full bird or the J1 of this post. Don’t you ever, ever get into it with that particular contractor again.”
Bookbinder felt the blood rush to his face. “Is the whole SOC out of its mind? You’ve got me shooting puppies, dodging magical indirect, and now I’m supposed to be deferring to contractors? Last time I checked, those guys work for us!”
Bookbinder felt the breaking point. If he was going to stop Taylor’s treating him like an inconvenient stepchild, he was going to have to lay down the law. He put on his best command voice. “I also don’t care that you’re SOC and do things differently. The army is still the army, and I’m not going to let a contractor treat me like that.”
Taylor turned purple. A vein throbbed redly in his forehead.
Crucible and Fitzsimmons took a step back, and Bookbinder’s courage fled as quickly as it had come. They waited in tense silence, Bookbinder fighting the panicked urge to apologize.
At last, Taylor smiled indulgently and spoke as if to a child.
“Oh yes, you will. With this contractor you most certainly will. You have never seen a Physiomancer who can do what he can. Next time, I’ll let you get into it with him and see how you like it. You’re like a goddamn newborn babe. You don’t even realize when someone saves your life.”
Chapter V
Closed Session
To be honest, I’m not a fan of the term “Rump Latent.” It’s dismissive and unfair. The proper term for them is “Unmanifested Latencies,” and they play an important role in the SOC. Our Unmanifested make up the bulk of our Suppressing Corps, and their ability to sense magical currents in others make them an invaluable tool in tracking and identifying Selfers. Those are mission-critical roles in this organization. There’s nothing ”rump” about them.
—Lieutenant General Alexander Gatanas
Commandant, Supernatural Operations Corps
As it turned out, life on a secret base in an alternate magical dimension was much like life back home. Bookbinder spent his days with his butt planted in a swivel-backed black chair identical to the one in his office on the Pentagon’s E–Ring doing paperwork.
While goblins, rocs, and God knew what else cavorted outside the wire, Bookbinder stared at his computer screen until his head ached, poring over spreadsheets documenting everything from shipments of Meals-Ready–to–Eat to unfilled personnel billets. Oscar Britton, the most wanted criminal in the country, worked for him, but only to the extent of authorizing his budget line and operating costs. The world he knew was miles away, but Alan Bookbinder’s world hadn’t changed a bit.
Except for one thing.
He missed his family so much he ached. He made his calls from a darkened squad bay, via a specially rigged state–of–the-art Single Channel Ground and Airborne Radio System.
When Bookbinder first arrived to use the system, the Radio Telephone Operator handed him the handset, then sat, folded his arms, and stared at the ceiling.
“You’re going to hang around? This is a private call,” Bookbinder said.
“Sorry, sir. You’re calling through a Portamantic Gate. Security risk. I have to supervise the equipment.”
“I’m talking to my wife!”
“And I’ve got to answer to my first sergeant. Respectfully, sir, I have to stay here.”
Bookbinder turned his back on the private. There was a long silence. Bookbinder was just about to tell the RTO it wasn’t working when the handset issued a
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