Fires of Man Page 12

  The prospect of revealing it all to the world left her nearly shaking with excitement.

  Tearing herself away from the friezes, Faith led her party to a supply station that had been set up near the pyramid. They stopped near a series of tables set up on thick mats, the surfaces covered with tools and necessities. Rows of bottled water sat neatly arranged on one table. Faith grabbed two; she stuck one in a holder on her belt and the other in her backpack. She already had a flashlight, but she grabbed a spare, plus a pack of batteries. She also took a hard hat with a high beam attached. Next, she appropriated a fifty-foot coil of polypropylene rope and a number of hitches she hoped she would not have to use. There was no telling what they would find inside the structure, and while the thought of having to damage the interior pained her, the preservation of human life took precedence.

  In addition to what she had taken, Faith already had a full complement of tools in her backpack, including cleaning picks, brushes, and a battery-powered air jet for clearing away dust. She had a pair of digital cameras, with two spare memory cards apiece. She wanted to be able to document everything, and then some. She also had a small voice recorder, and one of her assistants—a lanky grad student named George—attached a tiny pinhole camera to her hard hat. The camera streamed directly to George’s laptop.

  Nearby, the rest of Faith’s initial survey team made similar preparations. Aside from Durban, there were three others.

  One was Mona Vassey, a sturdy woman in her forties, whose short gray hair made a spiky halo around her head. Vassey and her wife Janine had both been professors at Faith’s alma mater, and had been among the first Faith had invited on the dig. Janine had made several visits to the site over the past few years, but she chose to remain at Albrecht to teach. Mona often stayed up after work hours to video chat and regale Janine with the day’s happenings.

  The next member of the team was Felix Assande—swarthy, black-haired, and good-looking in a craggy sort of way, with a defined jaw, prominent cheekbones, and an aquiline nose that bordered on hawkish, but suited his face. Assande fancied himself something of an adventurer. He was well trained and, better yet, well funded. He came from old family money that he’d invested wisely, and his fortune had only grown since his estate passed to him. While Assande, as one of the dig’s benefactors, was rarely inclined to engage in grunt work, he was more than capable in the field.

  In the early days of the excavation, Assande had invited Faith into his bed more times than she could count—days without showers and all—but she had politely and firmly declined. Even so, he hadn’t stopped flirting with her. She could admit she didn’t find the pastime entirely disagreeable, with Tiberian gone.

  The last of her team was Ivar Dabakian, a weathered man of sixty who had headed up any number of his own excavations. Unlike Durban, Ivar recognized where the authority lay. This didn’t stop him from amenably voicing his opinion. Sometimes he came to her with an idea, other times a qualm, and Faith always heard him out. He had many years of experience, and Faith had no problem following good advice.

  With all prepared, Faith moved toward the pyramid entrance—a yawning rectangular hole in the limestone. She could feel a slight stir in the air, a warm breeze wafting from the structure’s interior—from the hot springs, no doubt. She shouldered off her pack and stripped down to her work pants and tanktop. She made a point of ignoring Assande’s longing glance before he began to peel off layers himself.

  Faith cleared her throat and turned to the group. “Ready to get this moving?” Everyone nodded. “All right, then.” She took out her tape recorder, flipped it on. “This is Dr. Faith Santia on the morning of April seventeen, 2012 . . .” She checked her watch. “It’s 7:32 a.m. The survey team is—”

  Suddenly, she heard a loud yell from behind her.

  She whirled around.

  One of the Galuak had broken free of the group. He held a slender bow with a bone-tipped arrow nocked and ready. “Gi’la!” he screamed.

  He’s calling me a thief. It was all she had time to think before the arrow sprang from the bow.

  It all happened so quickly. Before Faith could get her body to move, her mind told her it was too late.

  She was going to die.

  Then Cha’a’ni was there, strangely calm. He took the arrow meant for her; when the shaft pierced his chest, he crumpled like paper.

  “No,” Faith yelled. She rushed to his side. “Medic! We need a medic here now!”

  She looked up and saw the other Galuak had pinned the assassin to the ground. Faith recognized the shooter from around the cook fires, but she did not know his name. Now the hatred he had directed at her had been replaced with anguish.

  Faith returned her attention to Cha’a’ni. The old man’s breath rattled. She was no medical professional, but she understood the significance. The arrow had punctured a lung. She stared helplessly at the wound.

  “Somebody . . . The shirt, toss me that shirt!” She pointed at the pile of her discarded sweaters. Wordlessly, Assande did as she asked. With the garment in hand, Faith wadded it and pressed it against the puncture to staunch the blood.

  The chieftain gasped in pain.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Please, hold on. Help is coming.”

  Cha’a’ni grunted, his wrinkled face pale but relaxed.

  A moment later, an EMT pushed his way through the crowd of Galuak. The tribesmen were wide-eyed with shock and grief. Children wailed and clutched at their mothers’ skirts. Faith shifted over and gripped the old man’s hand while the medic knelt to examine the injury. After a moment the man shook his head and said, “We’ll need to move him to the medical center. Keep up that pressure.” Briefly, he placed a hand atop Faith’s own in reassurance, then dashed off to find more help.

  Cha’a’ni rolled his head to the side and smiled at her. “No tears, Doctor,” he managed.

  Faith had not even noticed the tears staining her cheeks. She tried to smile back. “Why did you . . . ?” she began, then stopped. “No, don’t answer. Save your strength.”

  “Go,” he said. “Inside.” His eyes flicked toward the pyramid.

  She shook her head. “I can’t. Not after this.”

  “Nothing . . . you can do.” Blood flecked his lips. “You will tell me . . . all about . . . what is inside.” He coughed feebly.

  “I’m not leaving you,” she said.

  “Please . . . Doctor.”

  “My name isn’t Doctor,” she said. “It’s Faith.”

  He smiled weakly and reached to touch her face with the hand on his uninjured side. “Ga’ala’lu. I have faith in you.”

  Then the medic was back, with three workmen bearing a hand stretcher. As soon as one of them was in position to take over pressure on the wound, Faith stepped aside. They loaded the old man onto the stretcher and carried him away. No one spoke. Where Cha’a’ni had fallen, a red stain marred the floor.

  Faith felt sick. The arrow had been meant for her. Threats on her life came with the territory. She had always been prepared for that, and for the dangers encountered on any dig. But for someone else to be hurt in her stead, someone she cared about . . . She rubbed away tears and hoped no one would notice her red-rimmed eyes.

  The Galuak tribesmen followed the EMTs, interest in the pyramid evaporating next to the plight of their chieftain. The bowman allowed himself to be dragged along, his face a mask of despair. There was no one on site prepared to deal with an attempted murderer, but the Galuak had their own brand of justice.

  As if he had read her thoughts, Durban murmured, “What’ll they do to that man?”

  Faith took a breath and made sure her voice was steady. “They’ll strip him,” she said, “and bind his arms and legs. Then they’ll bury him to the neck in snow.”

  “Until when?” Durban asked.

  Faith turned to face her team. “Until he freezes to death.” It was not just Durban, Vassey, Assande, and Dabakian watching her, but also George the grad student, the other arch
aeologists, the laborers, and the assistants. All eyes were on her.

  Durban grew pale. “Aren’t you going to do something about it?” he spluttered.

  “No,” Faith said.

  “But . . . we’re not barbarians!” He glared at her. “We need to radio for help, have the man extradited.”

  “No,” she repeated. “This was an incident between two foreign nationals, on foreign soil. Calchis has no jurisdiction.”

  “This is outrageous!” Durban’s head swiveled from side to side, searching for support. None came. “You’re asking us to be complicit to murder. I won’t allow it!”

  “You won’t allow it?” Faith snapped back. She could take no more. She rounded on Durban and grabbed him by the shirt. “I’m in charge here! I say that how the tribesmen choose to exact justice is none of our goddamn business! If you have a problem with that, pack your things and leave!” All she could think of was Cha’a’ni. She would bury the shooter in snow herself if she could, but it was Durban who was in front of her. Oh, how she yearned to throttle him! And then find somewhere to cry.

  Durban gulped, perspiration beading on his forehead. “I’ll report you,” he said.

  “To whom?” she countered. She would keep it together. “You’re more than welcome to try, but I’ll have you off this dig so fast your head will spin! Would you like that?”

  Durban shook his head, glasses slipping down his nose.

  Faith released him, disgusted. “Get back to work, people,” she yelled. Determination flared in her. She had a task to complete. The old chieftain was strong. He would hold out, and she would come back and tell him about what she found. That was the only option. She squared her shoulders and met the eyes of each of her team in turn. “We’re going inside,” she said. “Objections?”

  Durban balked. Vassey shrugged. Dabakian stood impassively. Assande flashed a toothy grin and said, “We follow your lead, Dr. Santia.”

  “Good,” she said.

  She hefted her pack and entered the pyramid.

  14

  FINN

  The night of his fight in the mess hall, Finn barely slept. When he did, he was plagued by nightmares of Merry’s face crunching beneath his fist; Merry lying on the floor; Merry beaten to a bloody pulp. Finn hardly noticed the bars around him; the shame that imprisoned him was worse by far.

  Finn had no sense of time. When Captain Allen visited, Finn assumed it was already the next morning. He was afraid to ask what had become of Merry, but the wondering was too difficult to bear.

  When the captain told Finn that Merry might lose an eye, a crushing weight bore down on him—a thousand pounds of guilt. He’d never hurt anyone before. He tried to tell himself he hadn’t meant it, but that was a lie. In that moment, Finn had wanted nothing more than to pulverize Merry’s mocking face.

  And he had.

  Was there something wrong with him?

  Finn’s next visitor was a lawyer, Counselor Eileen Crowley. She told him that, according to military protocol, he wouldn’t receive legal counsel until charges were filed against him. It was her job to determine if those charges were necessary.

  Finn tried to answer her questions directly, succinctly, and honestly. Yes, he understood he had used psionics against a fellow soldier. No, he hadn’t intended to use his powers. No, he didn’t understand what it was he’d even done. Yes, he’d initiated the altercation, and yes, Merry had hit him back. No, he hadn’t wanted to injure Private Hosteen; he had only been trying to stop the harassment of Private DeGaulle.

  The questioning went on for more than an hour, by Finn’s estimate. Counselor Crowley probed his responses with choice words, her raptor’s gaze fixed on him, then jotted down notes on her pad. She recorded the whole thing as well, on a camera her assistant set up on a tripod. By the time she was finished, Finn felt like a wrung sponge, with nothing left to give.

  Crowley repeated what the captain had said, that Finn would be taken into the custody of Special Operations, then departed. He pressed himself against the bars and watched her go. When she was out of sight, he could still hear the clacking of her heels, receding into the distance. He had wanted to ask her about SO, but he was scared. Clearly the topic made both the counselor and the captain uncomfortable, and anything that could bother them left Finn terrified.

  He tried to sleep, but couldn’t. His mind conjured nightmare scenarios in which he was locked in lightless solitary confinement for years, tortured with electrodes and psionic powers, brainwashed and turned into a mindless killing machine . . .

  Someone cleared her throat. Had they come for him already? He bounded to his feet.

  It was Sonja.

  He stepped up to the bars, amazed. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Why did you do it?” Wisps of red escaped the bun of her hair, swaying as she spoke.

  Finn looked at the floor. “I just wanted to help.”

  “I was okay,” she said. “You didn’t have to.”

  “I wanted to,” he said. “But I never meant for any of this to happen. I’m really, really sorry.”

  “No, don’t apologize,” she said. “It’s just that . . . no one’s ever stood up for me before. So . . .” She looked down at the floor, shuffling her feet. “Thanks. It was . . . brave.”

  “I . . . I was just doing what any decent person would do,” Finn said.

  “Then you’re the first decent person I’ve ever met,” she said.

  Finn was silent. She couldn’t really mean that, could she? He knew he should say something, but didn’t know what. Instead, he laughed nervously. “Well, um, thanks . . . I—”

  “Promise you’ll come back,” Sonja said. Her voice was soft; her eyes glistened.

  “They’re . . . they’re sending me to Special Operations,” he said. “A lawyer said the military might press charges. I don’t know if—”

  “Come back.” She reached through the bars. She gripped his chin, pulled him forward, mashing his cheeks against the metal. And . . .

  She kissed him.

  “Enough of that,” a guard yelled from down the hall.

  Both Finn and Sonja pulled away. Her face turned red, and he could feel a flush color his own. Yet he never took his eyes off of her. He was past embarrassment now. He knew this could be the last time he saw her. Suddenly, he clenched the bars. “I’ll come back,” he said. “I swear.”

  She smiled—a happy, open smile that made her cheek dimple. She nodded at him, and took a hesitant step back toward his cell.

  “Move it along, time’s up!” shouted the guard.

  Sonja glanced down the hall. Then, before Finn could blink, she kissed him again.

  “Hey!” said the guard.

  She flashed another grin, and then she was gone.

  Finn sighed and dropped down on his cot. His concerns over Merry and Special Operations receded. He could think only of Sonja.

  She wanted to see him again. So he would keep his promise. He had to.

  He spent the next few hours daydreaming. It was a habit that got him in trouble—projecting fantasies, forging unrealistic expectations. Still, it was better than thinking of Merry’s cruel laughter, and the way his cheek had crunched . . .

  Finn froze. Someone was watching him.

  A man stood on the other side of the bars, observing Finn with jet-black eyes, like drills boring into Finn’s head. The man wore the white leathers of the Orion Psi Corps. Unfamiliar insignias denoted his rank. He appeared to be in his forties, though his tanned skin hid the lines of his face, making it hard to put an exact age on him. His head was shaved. His eyebrows and trimmed beard were a ruddy auburn so dark they were almost brown. A stark detachment radiated from the man.

  Though Finn couldn’t say why, he suddenly knew this stranger was dangerous. Very dangerous. Finn met the man’s gaze for a moment, then looked away.

  “I am Major Joachim Ahara,” the man said, “from Special Operations.” His voice was a throaty bass, with the hint of a melodic M
iddle Eastern accent. “You are to be released into my custody, Private Stockton Finn.”

  Only then did Finn notice the guard standing nearby; he was meek compared to Ahara. In fact, the guard seemed to cringe away from the major as he stepped up to the keypad next to Finn’s cell and entered the door code. A section of the bars swung open.

  Ahara escorted Finn to the elevators. They rode several floors up, and then Ahara brought him out into one of the staging areas. He guided Finn along to an ATV, where a driver waited for them: a short, wiry, vulpine woman with ash-brown hair, a bold nose, and a grim expression. She seated Finn in the back, then piled in front while the major got in the passenger seat. The driver was in uniform also, though Finn couldn’t make out her rank.

  As the woman edged the vehicle out and toward one of the large bay doors, Finn asked, “Sir? Or . . . ma’am? What about the lawyer? Is it okay for me to leave?”

  “Mouth shut, kid,” the woman said.

  A frown crossed Ahara’s face, and a glance passed between him and the woman. Then he turned and leaned over the seatback. “Your legal status is not our concern,” he said. “We will determine if you are dangerous, and if there is a use for you yet.” The way he said it, the two did not sound mutually exclusive. “I think you should sleep now.”

  Finn gulped. “I’m not tired, sir.”

  “Sleep now,” Ahara repeated. He reached out a bronzed hand and touched Finn’s forehead.

  A pressure descended on Finn. His eyelids drooped.

  Sleep sounded quite appealing.

  Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Finn blinked.

  He was in a square room with white-tiled walls, seated on a matted floor, and he was wearing a white linen shirt and pants. Someone had dressed him.

  Someone had undressed him!

  To the side was the dour driver, her arms folded across her small chest. Ahead was Ahara, still and tall, arms at his sides. He managed to look both relaxed and ready to pounce.