Fires of Man Read online

  After a brief ride, Agent emerged in the lobby, with its marble ceiling and tiled floors. He passed through the security checkpoint with everyone else; he could have easily bypassed the whole thing, but his powers were not for trivialities. He behaved as a normal person.

  Sometimes, he needed the practice.

  Next, he made for the rear bank of elevators. He swiped his access card, then hit the button for the fifty-eighth floor. The doors whirred shut and he ascended. He stepped out into a dimly lit hall and headed through a set of double doors at the opposite end.

  The conference room beyond was large, with violet carpet and maps along the walls. Men were seated around a rectangular table. At the table’s head sat Chamberlain Creigan, engaged in heated discussion with Magister General Virard. Commander Tiberian Barrett sat nearby, arms folded, watching. A score of other men—chamberlain’s aides, advisors, a few senators from the Armed Services Panel, and other military officers—waited in silence.

  Agent took the one remaining seat, to Barrett’s right. Barrett nodded at Agent, and Agent returned the gesture.

  “. . . And go behind the rest of the Senate’s back?” Creigan was saying. “It’s immoral. And illegal.” He gestured angrily at an LCD display at the far end of the room, which displayed the environs of the Grisham Desert.

  “To tell the Senate about the operation,” Virard said, “we would have to tell them about the psions. But we can’t tell them about the psions, and thus, neither can we inform them of the operation.”

  “This plan is wholly unnecessary,” Creigan said. “Active hostilities are on hold.”

  “Psionics are the new face of warfare, Chamberlain,” Virard said. “More versatile and, in a way, more dangerous even than nuclear weapons. If we had an opportunity to reduce Orion’s nuclear stockpile, would we not leap at it?”

  Creigan grimaced. “What’s to stop them from retaliating? With psions or, God forbid, a nuclear strike?”

  “They must keep their people in the dark every bit as much as we,” Virard replied. “How can they strike back without revealing the truth?” He motioned to the map. “Grisham provides us with a unique opportunity. Orion has deluded itself into thinking the desert provides protection. We can cripple their Psi Corps in one fell swoop.”

  Creigan rubbed at his temples. “People will die.”

  “Soldiers,” Virard said. “Enemy combatants. Not innocents.”

  “I don’t know,” Creigan said.

  Virard’s eyes turned to Agent. The general smiled. “Mr. Black, so nice to see you.”

  Agent nodded, first to Virard, then to Creigan. The chamberlain shrank back as though he thought Agent would murder him on the spot.

  “Well,” Creigan said, “let’s at least hear the details.” He licked his lips.

  “As you wish.” Virard raised a remote and the LCD flickered to show a view of the training outposts outside of Grisham. “Commander Barrett will lead several units in a tactical strike against these training camps. A prolonged assault. We may be able to overwhelm at least one of these outposts in the beginning, but I expect Grisham will mobilize their forces quickly. The goal is to draw out the fighting long enough so that Agent and his team can slip into Orion’s military compound undetected.”

  “How will we gain access?” Agent asked.

  “You can handle the details,” Virard said. “Worst case, you, with your . . . unique skill set, will infiltrate alone. However, the more of you that get inside, the more smoothly things will go. Your man Jackson is already in Grisham, doing surveillance. He should have some ideas.”

  Agent nodded.

  Virard meant Operative Cole Jackson, one of Agent’s personally-trained subordinates; a man who would likely succeed the mantle of “Agent” some day. Virard had requested Cole for a special assignment a month prior, without informing Agent of the details. Apparently the general had been keeping this operation close to the vest.

  “Once we’re inside?” Agent already had an idea of the answer. He knew his mentor’s mind well.

  “You’ll plant explosives throughout the structure.”

  Creigan’s mouth dropped. “This sounds like terrorism.”

  Virard shook his head. “We’re at war. This is a calculated military strike.”

  “We haven’t had any more than border skirmishes in a decade,” said Creigan. “This is a clear escalation.”

  “They’re building an army of psions as surely as we are. How long can that last before it comes to a head? They’ll still have however many psions that are outside of Grisham, but the majority of their might is concentrated there, in that one base. We can end this stalemate with a single blow.”

  “What then?” Creigan asked. “Do we invade? What are your intentions, David?”

  Virard laughed. “Invade? Hardly. We force them to lift their embargoes. We make them defer to us in the international sphere. We’ve no need to conquer them to rule them. They will know fear—that we can strike at any time. And to avoid the inevitable panic that would result from putting psionics out in the open, they’ll have to keep their mouths shut.”

  “You really think it’s that simple?” Creigan straightened himself in his seat, showing some backbone at last. “You believe they’ll just roll over and die?”

  “Things may grow more dangerous for our forces in the ensuing months,” Virard said, “but we’ll have the advantage. That’s more than we can say now. Or would you rather wait until they attack first?”

  “They wouldn’t . . .” Creigan’s eyes darted back and forth, looking for support from the other men around the table. He focused on one man, in the regalia of a four-star general. “General Trudot? Thoughts?”

  Trudot stared back at Creigan from beneath his heavy brow. “I stand with Magister General Virard,” he said.

  Creigan gulped. He looked to another man, a major general. “Gibbs?”

  “I’m also with the Magister General.”

  “Commander Barrett? Anything to add?” Creigan asked.

  Agent’s eyes flicked to Barrett. The commander was a strong man, and dutiful; he was the closest thing Agent had to a peer, perhaps. Barrett was also a man of few words. That was something Agent could appreciate.

  Barrett surveyed them calmly, his heavily-muscled arms folded beneath a fall of dreadlocks. “‘A man with power and the will to use it is a man ordained to rule.’”

  Creigan’s eyes bulged. “Quoting scripture? Do you think this is a joke?” he demanded.

  “Our commander is a devout man,” Virard said.

  “I have to think about this,” Creigan said, “and discuss it with my cabinet, those who are apprised of the . . . relevant details. Gentlemen.” He rose from his seat and strode from the room. Several other men followed at Creigan’s heels, already jostling for his attention.

  Virard turned to Agent. “Ready your team,” the general said. “You leave for Grisham in two days. I’ll contact you with further information once the operation is in effect. Until then, reconnaissance is your only objective.”

  “Yes, sir,” Agent said. Two days? That was sooner than he had planned. “The Waverly boy?”

  “Commander Barrett will oversee the young man’s development for the time being,” Virard said. He nodded a curt dismissal.

  Agent and Barrett left the room. As they headed to the elevator, Barrett cast a sidelong glance in Agent’s direction. “What do you think of this?” he asked.

  Agent gave a slight shrug. It did not matter what he thought of it. He had his orders. “I do what is required,” he said. “No less.”

  “Admirable.” As if amused, the corners of Barrett’s mouth quirked upward. It made him look almost feral, on the verge of a snarl. “I have a sister. At Grisham.” He turned to Agent. “Do you believe in fate?”

  Fate? What was the man blathering about?

  “No,” Barrett said, “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

  Agent did not know if the comment was meant as an insult, but he ignored i
t. “Waverly has great potential. I trust you’ll do your best to draw it out of him.”

  “Of course,” said Barrett. “I look forward to meeting him. You haven’t scared him too much, have you?”

  Agent stared straight ahead. “I wouldn’t know.” It was the truth.

  The elevator arrived. They rode to the lobby and parted in silence.

  As Agent descended into the parking garage, he considered Barrett. An interesting man, but odd. That someone like Barrett could believe in such a callow thing as destiny . . . Perhaps Agent could understand it, objectively. A crime had been done to Barrett in youth, and it had led the man to where he was today. Some men might see fate in that.

  For Agent, there was only chaos.

  Chaos was the arrangement of all things and events in innumerable ways. Every so often, what resembled a pattern emerged. One had to remember the pattern was an illusion. It was the human mind’s way of organizing data in significant ways. The truth was that everything was random. Existence was pure entropy. It was entropy that had taken Agent from the jungles of Tripana to the capital of Calchis. Entropy that had made him a killer.

  The notion that all of that had actually been some sort of fate?

  Preposterous.

  Agent got into his car and left the garage, heading for home. The midday sun hung high above, a sphere of molten fury crowning the spire of the Federal Building.

  Soon, Grisham. Another place that would burn in his wake.

  13

  FAITH

  Faith stepped into the frigid air with Cha’a’ni on her arm. She had again bundled her scarves and zipped her heavy coat, while the old man wore no more than he had inside his hut. The cold seemed not to touch the Galuak the way it did others.

  They strode through a field of tribal dwellings. Men and women stopped to bow their heads to Cha’a’ni. The children did not bow; they came forward so the old man could touch them on the brow.

  It was an old custom, Faith had learned, a blessing for the next generation to receive the wisdom of their ancestors. It was held that any boy or girl might someday be chieftain; therefore, no child should ever bow his head to another. Tradition held that, at the end of adolescence, a person could be raised to the position of To’chu’nak, “One Who Will Be Chief.” This “One” would spend years studying and training, and when the chieftain passed on, he was elevated as the new chieftain.

  The current To’chu’nak, U’go, a formidable, stern-faced man, had waited nearly thirty years to succeed Cha’a’ni. Faith could not help but admire his tenacity.

  The sky had lightened, and now the huge white protective bubble that housed the dig site contrasted starkly with the clean blue sky behind it. A procession of workers wound its way inside, shouldering through the clear plastic flaps that marked the entrance. A group of Galuak trailed Faith and Cha’a’ni, chattering excitedly. More than once she heard the words i’hala meti, or “lady doctor,” which most of the tribe had taken to calling her. Some said it with a measure of awe, some with affection, and others with disdain. Regardless of Cha’a’ni’s efforts, there were still those Galuak who saw the excavation as a defilement, and her as an interloper.

  Faith and her entourage passed into the inner ring of tents around the bubble, where Faith’s own lodgings were situated. A number of Calchan laborers were emerging into the morning light, as well as a fellow archaeologist. As Faith passed by at the head of a throng of tribesmen, she was met with sideways glances and raised eyebrows. She ignored them. Today would be a historic day, and she meant to share it with the natives. She entered the bubble, the tribesmen at her heels.

  As always, the first sight of the monument left her reeling in amazement. The plateau towered over Faith. The ziggurat lay to the right, the reliefs on its terraces illuminated by spotlights; the pyramid was off to the left, standing its silent vigil. The pyramid bore no carvings or reliefs—it was unadorned and mysterious. A wide stairway had been cut into the side of the plateau, and the steps were carved with astounding regularity.

  Now that all the rime had been melted or carted away, the bubble was kept at an amenable seventy-two degrees. It had been an arduous process, getting this far. Removing the soft, billowy snow on top had been the easy part. It was only when they had reached the hard-packed ice underneath that the real work began. Faith had used ground-penetrating radar to get a picture of the site’s shape and depth, and then she’d had the workers employ targeted thawing, using electric heaters and sometimes even hair dryers to soften but not melt the ice. This had been followed by conscientious removal with chisels and picks, though only after each ice stratum had been painstakingly catalogued for age and composition.

  She’d been afraid, at first, to melt the ice on the chance it might contain some encased artifact. But the cost—and logistical headache—of refrigerating it and shipping it back to Calchis to be x-rayed and analyzed had proven too much. She remembered how each day she had walked past stations where industrials heaters had caused the huge glacial chunks to weep and then turn to puddles. She’d been terrified some priceless find would be destroyed.

  But thankfully, that hadn’t come to pass.

  When at last the excavation had neared the heart of the temple complex, Faith had discovered something strange: the deeper ice was soft. After further radar surveys, she’d found flowing water channels beneath the plateau. The structures sat atop a geothermal vent, which had given rise to subterranean hot springs. She had no way of knowing for sure, but she was confident the ancients had chosen this spot for that very reason.

  After that, the rest of the work had gone off without a hitch.

  And now, here she was. At her young age, she felt like she’d already found her magnum opus.

  Faith sloughed off her down coat, her top sweater, her snow pants, her scarf, and gloves. A pair of dry work boots and her backpack of tools waited for her in a cubby—one among a hundred others. As for the tribesmen, she had them wrap plastic booties around their thick hide moccasins, to keep them from tracking in snow and dirt. Faith also asked them to towel off so they would not drip melted snow from their clothing, dreadlocks, and beards. There was no small amount of grumbling.

  Afterward, Faith began her ascent slowly, allowing Cha’a’ni to brace himself on her shoulder. He was hale for his age, but it did not hurt to be cautious. A fall down these steps would splinter his old bones. Meanwhile, the rest of the Galuak waited reverently below. It was not until Faith and Cha’a’ni reached the top that they began their own climb.

  Suddenly Faith found herself accosted by a squirrel of a man—Professor Paul Durban. He paused only long enough in wringing his spindly hands to smooth back the wisps of gray that fringed his bald pate. “What’s all this, Miss Santia?” he asked. He was more than twenty-five years her senior and had expressed from day one—without subtlety—that he thought he should be in charge. Over the three long years, she had managed to cull a modicum of respect from him, but he still made a point of “forgetting” her title at least once a day.

  “Doctor Santia,” she corrected him. “Professor.”

  “Yes, Dr. Santia,” he said, “what are all of these . . . people doing here?” He had almost said “savages.” Durban was a man who had little regard for modern-day cultures that stood between him and his next big find.

  “I invited them,” Faith said. “I thought they should be here when we enter the pyramid.”

  “Yes. Well.” Durban swallowed and his eyes flitted to Cha’a’ni at her side. The professor always seemed to forget the old chieftain could understand them. “Are you certain that’s wise? They could be disruptive.”

  Cha’a’ni waved a hand dismissively. “I will keep my people in line,” he said.

  This did not appear to reassure Durban. The professor suspended his hand-wringing again, this time to adjust his glasses. He fixed his eyes on Faith. She returned his stare. Let him try to intimidate her. She would not bat an eyelash.

  Finally Durban sighed and pout
ed his lips and said, “Yes, well, come along then.”

  It was all Faith could do to bite off a comment about not needing his permission; she didn’t want to squabble today. She made herself smile and nod. When Durban turned to lead them on, Cha’a’ni nudged her with a bony elbow, his eyes twinkling. He whispered, “Wise woman let man play chief; unwise man think it really so.” Faith suppressed a chuckle. Cha’a’ni’s own wife had passed long before Faith had ever arrived in Zenith. She would have liked to have met the woman.

  Durban glanced back. “Did you say something?”

  “Not a word,” said Faith.

  Before they made their way to the pyramid, Faith couldn’t help but pause and appreciate the ziggurat opposite it. Beautiful reliefs—stylized panels carved into the stone—adorned every level of the structure. Some showed the daily lives of the ancients; others demonstrated religious ceremonies. Still more depicted everything from the birth of the world, to man’s journey into the afterlife, with souls rising to paradisiacal realms or descending to hellish underworlds.

  Their written language was pictographic, though some images were more abstract than others. There were arms and eyes, waves and lightning, and other symbols Faith couldn’t identify. The most amazing panel was more than a hundred feet long, set in the wall of the second highest tier, directly beneath the shrine level. Men and women were shown surrounded by halos, summoning up infernos or other phenomena. These figures were gods, Faith assumed, or else the Zenithians of old imagined their forebears wielding extraordinary magical powers.

  She would have given anything to be able to read their cryptic language. But these ancients were long dead, as were any other cultures that might have interacted with them. She was still hoping she might find something in the pyramid that would help her decipher this lost tongue, but she knew that was optimistic at best.

  She was already mulling over chapters of the book she would write on this lost civilization. Much of it would be guesswork. Her pages would be filled with “perhaps” and “it is possible.” The full breadth of the discovery might take decades to quantify; more if they could find other buried structures.