Fires of Man Page 13

  “Where am I?” Finn mumbled.

  The other two ignored him. “Any time you like,” Ahara said to the driver.

  What? Finn thought.

  Then the air was driven from his lungs.

  The driver was suddenly right in front of him. Her fist reared back from slugging him in the gut. Finn doubled over and fell, gasping. The woman kicked him, in the legs, in the sides. They weren’t hard kicks, but they stung. Finn raised his arms to shield his face. He tried to roll out of the way. She kept pace and rained down more blows.

  “Kid, I can keep this shit up all day,” she said. “You gonna fight back or what?”

  It dawned on him. This was some sort of test, to see if he would act out, do something stupid. He lowered his arms and tried to rise, allowing the hits to land. He imagined the woman was one of his brothers. No matter how many times his brothers had socked him in the arm, put him in a headlock, or knuckled his scalp, he’d never fought back against them.

  The woman slapped Finn across the jaw. His ears rang. His vision blurred. He wanted to strike her. He had the strength now. He could almost feel Merry’s bones breaking beneath his fist again . . .

  No!

  A hammer blow landed at the base of Finn’s skull. The room spun. He found himself on hands and knees, staring at the floor. His stomach churned; he was barely able to keep what little food he’d eaten from spilling out. He expected another attack, but nothing came.

  Was it over?

  He chanced a look at Ahara, who shook his head at the woman looming over Finn. She shrugged and then her foot caught Finn in the small of the back, sending him sprawling.

  What the hell do they want from me?

  He felt his ire rising. It wasn’t right for them to treat him this way! His brothers had been, well . . . his brothers. But these people were strangers. He wanted to scream, to hit back, to destroy her. Furious, he looked for the next blow, determined to stop it in its tracks. She launched another kick at him.

  Her foot stopped in mid-air.

  No, it was still moving, but sluggishly, as if moving through jelly. It was like watching an action movie in slow motion.

  Finn stared in consternation.

  He had been so ready to act out, but did he dare?

  Ahara continued to watch, and Finn could have sworn he saw the man blink once, in real time. Finn’s frustration grew. It took all of his restraint, and the sickening memory of Merry, to keep from retaliating. Instead he skirted back, knees scrabbling against the mat. Then he regained his feet and fled to the far side of the room.

  An eternity later, the woman’s foot swept through empty space. Her eyes widened in surprise. She scanned the room for Finn. When she saw him, she sprang into motion.

  Finn was certain he was moving faster now than during the fight in the mess hall, but the woman matched his speed. He gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t let her catch him. Energy suffused his limbs. He wouldn’t give her or Ahara the pleasure of seeing him fail at their game.

  He ran in circles. She gave chase, going faster and faster. At last her acceleration hit a plateau. As he danced away from her, the woman’s face twisted with vexation. Finn wanted to howl with glee.

  A resounding boom echoed through the chamber.

  The woman skidded to a halt. Finn stopped as well, whirling to face the source of the noise. It was Ahara. He had clapped his hands. “That is enough,” he said. “Captain. Dismissed.”

  The woman gave Finn an unreadable look, then sauntered out.

  Finn swallowed. She was an officer too!

  As if reading his mind, Ahara said, “You have done nothing wrong.”

  “Yes, sir,” was all Finn said.

  Major Ahara clasped his hands behind his back. “You will do nicely,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “You may have greater psionic potential than Lily. That is unexpected. And useful.”

  Lily? Finn had to hide his incredulity. That sour woman’s name is Lily?

  Again, somehow clairvoyant, Ahara chuckled and said, “Her name is Ilyena. We call her Lily. A joke at first, to whittle down her pride. But it stuck. And you may call me Joachim.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “There is no ‘sir’ here. You will accord everyone the respect they are due, of course. But we refer to one another by name. Our operatives often work under false identities. So we enjoy the privilege of using our own names when we can.”

  “Yes, Joachim,” he said.

  “I have made a judgment, Stockton Finn. Truly you are a dangerous young man.”

  “I’m not—” Finn began.

  “Quiet,” Joachim said. “Do not confuse calling me by name with leave to interrupt me.”

  “Sorry . . . Joachim.”

  “You have exhibited restraint,” the major went on, “and presence of mind, as well as ability. You have also proven that you are resilient. These are good things.”

  Finn felt himself blush. He wasn’t all of that, was he? It sounded like Joachim was talking about someone else entirely.

  The major stroked his beard and continued, though it sounded as though he were talking more to himself than Finn. “Your power emerges through anger; we can deal with such an obstacle as this. It is not uncommon. We will hone your ability. Temper it into a weapon you can use at will. Does this suit you, Stockton?”

  Finn hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know if I want a . . . weapon. And, um, Finn. Please . . . call me Finn.”

  “Finn. A fine answer, Finn,” Joachim said. “You will fit well among us.”

  “You want me to join Special Operations?” Finn asked.

  “Do you prefer your cell?” Joachim grew amused. “Yes, young man. You will join Special Operations. And you will be a tool. Have no illusions about that. We will train you better than other psions could hope for. But your work will be more dangerous. And you may be called upon to do things you will not wish to. Can you accept this?”

  Finn did not like the sound of that. “What sort of things?” he ventured.

  “Killing, foremost,” Joachim said, so matter-of-factly he might have been talking about the weather. “Calchan agents mostly. But there may come a day when you are asked to kill one of your own countrymen.” Finn’s eyes widened in shock. “When a regular soldier deserts, he is discharged. Possibly prosecuted for the offense. But what of a psion?”

  At first Finn thought it was a rhetorical question, but Joachim waited, clearly interested in Finn’s answer.

  “There have to be other options than . . . you know,” Finn managed. His voice was hoarse, weak.

  “Indeed. Retrieval chief among them,” Joachim said. “If we are lucky, such a person will realize his place and return to the fold. But what if he cannot, will not be taken? What if he engages in foolish behavior that puts all psions at risk? What then, Finn?”

  Indignation spread through Finn. “How can bad behavior be worth a death sentence?”

  “There was a young man, once,” Joachim said. “Like you. Strong. Always questioning. When he went AWOL, no one could locate him. After months of effort, we tracked him to a city in another country. He had covered his tracks well. But he made the mistake of thinking he had found safety.” Joachim’s eyes took on a distant look, absorbed in memory. “He began to masquerade as a magician. He hoped to use his abilities to grow wealthy. We found him quickly, but he had already begun to garner attention. Eventually, questions would have been asked about how he could perform such impossible feats.

  “I approached him and offered him the chance to return. He refused me. I tried to subdue him by force. He resisted. And he was strong. To subdue him would have meant collateral damage. Innocent deaths. So I destroyed him. I have killed other men for less, but . . . he was my nephew.”

  “Your . . . your nephew?” Finn couldn’t believe it.

  “I brought his ashes to my sister with my own two hands,” Joachim said. “I did not tell her they were the same hands that killed her
child. Nor could I have, had I wanted to.

  “But understand this, Finn: my nephew’s greatest crime was not threatening innocent lives in the moment of our confrontation. It was that he threatened the lives of thousands, millions, more, by nearly revealing our secret. Remember that, were the truth of our abilities known, people would rise up in fear and hate. We are powerful, but could we save ourselves without harming those we are sworn to protect?”

  Finn grasped for answers. “We could submit. We wouldn’t have to hurt anyone.”

  “And in so doing, give free rein to psions who would revel in the chance to seize power? I guarantee Calchis would be quick to subjugate their population. What will happen to our country, the world, if Calchis has these powers to themselves? We cannot let that happen. If we must kill the few to save the many, we will. Only we can hunt other psions. It is our duty.”

  Finn was quiet a long while, his mind reeling. Joachim was right about everything. But what if he was one day forced to use his powers against his friends?

  What if I have to kill Sonja?

  It was a ghastly thought that made his knees weak. No, she’s not like that, he reassured himself. She would never turn against her country. She was proud of what she was, proud to be a psion in the Orion Psi Corps.

  Anyway, he had no choice. In Joachim’s story lay a hidden warning. If Finn refused to cooperate, would he suffer the same fate as Joachim’s nephew? Finn wasn’t sure he could kill someone in cold blood. He wasn’t sure he could kill someone ever.

  Finn let out a breath. “I’ll join you,” he said at last.

  “Good,” Joachim said. “Very good.”

  15

  NYNE

  Nyne stared at himself in Hearth’s bathroom mirror.

  What the hell had just happened?

  After he’d paid the check, he’d gone into the bathroom, taken a piss, and thought about breaking a few things. Instead he just ended up looking at himself, unable to process the last fifteen minutes. Words like “proposal” and “done” kept running through his head. He splashed cold water on his face, but it did nothing to drive away the pain, and confusion.

  Kay had never acted like she wanted anything close to that. Not with him. When he’d asked her “why,” at the table, he hadn’t meant it the way she had taken it. Somehow he always ended saying things she took the wrong way.

  He just . . . didn’t understand.

  Why hadn’t she given him some indication that she wanted something like that?

  Because he’d wanted it. He absolutely had. The thought of someday getting down on one knee in front of her had danced through his mind from almost day one.

  But he’d never really thought it was possible. He’d never . . .

  He slammed his fist down on the countertop.

  How could she just leave things like that? How could she say they weren’t even friends, that they were just done? His chest rose and fell, his breath labored, heavy with pain and anger. Well, fine, then. Fine! He couldn’t take this anymore. If she wanted to be done, they were done. He’d had about all the heartache he could handle.

  Once again, he fought the urge to break a mirror.

  His power lurked inside him, ready to be unleashed in a fit of rage, ready to tear this whole damn bathroom down around him.

  But he didn’t. Instead he took out his cell phone, and called his best friend.

  “Yo, N,” Crasz answered. “What’s good?”

  Nyne heard some kind of loud, pulsing music in the background. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at C-Mark with some homies,” Crasz said. “Whatcha doing, man? You should come on down!”

  “Yeah,” Nyne said. “I think I will.”

  “What was that?” Crasz shouted back.

  “I’m coming, you jackass, so don’t go anywhere!”

  An hour later, Nyne found himself on the dance floor. Colored lights strobed in time with the pounding bass from towering speakers. Amid the throng, Nyne could see no more than five feet in front of his face. He wasn’t much of a dancer, but with three more beers in his system, he was feeling too good to care.

  Crasz danced nearby, sweat-slicked hair plastered to his scalp. He was grinding with a curly-haired beauty in a diaphanous dress that clung in all the right places. His moves were out of rhythm, almost spastic. For reasons beyond Nyne’s comprehension, women went for him. Crasz had confidence and pretty-boy good looks; he was also shallow, coarse, and far from a great human being. Nyne harbored no delusions about Crasz. Yet Crasz was also the only person who made Nyne forget himself and his troubles.

  A woman stepped up to Nyne. Her skin was caramel, her eyes dark and luminous. She said something, but he couldn’t hear over the din. His head swam. Did she want to dance? He went for her hand. She shook her head and pulled away. He shrugged at her. She sighed and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

  “Your fly is open,” she said.

  Dumbly, Nyne checked his pants. She was right.

  “Thanks,” he muttered, knowing she would not hear him over the music. He zipped himself and looked up. She was already gone.

  Feeling suddenly disgusted, Nyne pushed his way out of the crowd. He headed to the bar. He had half a mind to get more piss-drunk than he was already. What would Kay think of him? I don’t give a shit anymore, he told himself.

  It was a lie, but it comforted him, briefly.

  The bar was a long glass panel built over shelves, with glasses and liquor bottles visible through it. On the wall behind were more bottles, backlit with pale blue. Miraculously, one of the barstools was empty. Nyne sat. After a few minutes, a bartender got Nyne another beer. Was this his sixth of the evening, or seventh? He took a long pull, long enough for the carbonation to bite his throat. It felt good.

  A few minutes later, Crasz appeared with the curly-haired woman from the dance floor.

  “This is Candy,” he told Nyne with a wink.

  “Cindy,” she said.

  “Cindy,” he amended. “That’s what I said, isn’t it? Cindy, this is my boy Nyne. He’s sad ’cause his girl dumped him.”

  “She wasn’t my girl,” Nyne mumbled into his beer.

  “Poor thing,” Cindy simpered.

  “You wouldn’t have some friends who could cheer him up, would you?” Crasz asked.

  “Totally,” said Cindy.

  “I—” A rising murmur from the crowd silenced Nyne. The dance floor had grown still. Everyone was looking at something. Nyne felt a familiar crackle in the air. He stood, swayed, then toppled back onto his stool.

  “Easy,” Crasz said.

  “Did you feel that?” Nyne asked.

  “Feel what? I . . .” Crasz trailed off.

  There it was again. Crasz shared a look with Nyne, then helped him to his feet. They set off into the crowd, leaving a bewildered Cindy behind.

  In the center of the floor, a space had been cleared. A man was breakdancing. He was tall, black, powerfully built. His movements were unnaturally quick as he spun and whirled. People were cheering him now, clapping along to the beat. The man went faster and faster—not so fast as to seem inhuman, but toeing the line.

  Again, Nyne’s skin tingled. The man was a psion.

  “You recognize him?” Crasz had to speak directly into Nyne’s ear.

  “No,” Nyne said. “You?”

  Crasz shook his head.

  They waited a few minutes longer, watching the man. If he were stationed at Grisham, Nyne was certain he would know him. It was possible the man had a post elsewhere and was visiting Grisham, but then he should have known not to use his powers so frivolously.

  Briefly, Nyne considered the possibility that the man was Calchan, then dismissed it. If the man was with the enemy, he would’ve remained hidden. The only other option Nyne could think of was that the man was a psion who had somehow slipped through Orion’s screening program.

  Yes, that had to be it. If the man was from Grisham, then no one had found him because the other psionic activity in
the area had effectively camouflaged him from their satellite monitoring.

  The man ended his routine to great applause, and he was instantly rushed by admirers. Nyne, head buzzing with alcohol, shoved his way through with no regard for the angry words and indignant stares he received. “Hey,” he said. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. “I need to talk to—”

  Crasz cut in smoothly. “What my friend means to say is, let us buy you a drink.”

  “What?” the man yelled back.

  “Let us buy you a drink,” Crasz shouted.

  “You’re not my type,” the man replied.

  Nyne balled his fists. Part of him itched for a confrontation. He was still seething from everything that had gone down at Hearth, and he longed for some kind of outlet. He would take this guy in by force if need be. He couldn’t let a psion run free.

  The situation had to be handled.

  Before Nyne could move, Crasz gripped his shoulder. He gave Nyne a knowing look. “Bro, easy,” he said. “Easy.”

  Nyne grunted and unclenched his hands. The music was giving him a headache.

  The unknown psion broke into a grin. “Hey, relax, you guys. I’m kidding. I never turn down a free drink.”

  A minute later, they were back at the bar, talking over a fresh round. Nyne barely touched his. He’d nearly lost his temper, for what? To blow off a little steam? He’d been about to land himself a “conduct unbecoming” and a court-martial. What the hell was wrong with him?

  He tried to picture the river from his meditation exercise, but thought of Kay instead.

  Crasz, meanwhile, led the subtle interrogation—plying information, making pointed inquiries couched in small talk. It didn’t hurt that several women joined them, impressed by the man’s moves. Marcus Trask was his name, and he was indeed from Grisham. He was friendly and easy with a smile, though it made Nyne nervous that he asked nearly as many questions of them as they did of him. He claimed he’d considered joining the military, but decided a life of discipline didn’t suit him.

  Crasz dropped hints about their powers, but Trask was clueless. At least we have his name, Nyne thought. He realized how stupid it would’ve been for him to try apprehending the man for no discernable reason, in front of dozens of witnesses, and while inebriated to boot. He needed to get himself together.