Fires of Man Page 14

  Tomorrow he would tell Colonel Bringham about Trask, and that would be the end of it.

  “You coming?” Crasz asked.

  Nyne looked up. Trask and a trail of women were headed toward a private booth, with a dark table encircled by a red sofa. Crasz lingered, waiting for him. Nyne’s head swam. “I need some air,” he said.

  He rose, his latest beer unfinished, and left the club.

  He did not look back.

  Outside, the cool night breeze returned him to his senses—at least a little. From here it would take the better part of an hour to walk back to base. He figured he could use the time to clear his head.

  Nearby, a group of young men and women stood smoking cigarettes, the cherries glowing a merry red as they puffed. Nyne thought about bumming one, but restrained himself. He’d dabbled in smoking in college. That he even considered indulging in the habit now spoke volumes to his state of mind.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and took off at a brisk pace. The bright lights of Grisham shone all around him. High above, the city’s curved walls blocked out much of the night sky. What parts were visible looked almost empty; the stars were drowned behind a veil of man-made light.

  What was he going to do?

  He had to forget about Kay somehow, shut her out of his mind and life. Yet to forget her while knowing she might walk past at any time, knowing they might share an inadvertent glance that would make his pulse race, seemed impossible. He’d said he was done with her, too, but he knew it wasn’t like flipping a switch. His feelings didn’t just shut off. Maybe he should bear with them, hope they would dissipate. But that felt like leaving a wound to fester.

  Were there any other options?

  I could run away, he thought.

  The farther he walked, the more he realized he needed water, and a bathroom. With all the beer, his bladder felt near to bursting. Each step became labored. He stopped at a corner market, with rows of snack-filled racks. He grabbed a large bottle of water from the wall of fridges in the back.

  He paid, then asked the proprietor—a withered Isaian man—if he could use the restroom. Though the Isaian man’s voice was heavily accented, his refusal would have been clear in any language. Nyne left, jiggering from one foot to the other.

  When he stepped outside he considered hailing a cab. Then he spotted the answer to his prayers: an alleyway a few storefronts down. Moments later he was up against the alley wall, sighing as he relieved himself. His shoulders sagged from the sheer easement. After, he tucked himself away and made sure to zip.

  As Nyne headed to the entrance of the alley, his foot bumped against something large. He peered down into the gloom.

  It was a person.

  Nyne knelt. “Hey,” he said. No response. “Hey there, you okay?” Still nothing. He groped in the dark, feeling for the person’s neck. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, a young man came into focus, with disheveled hair dyed different colors. There was a needle cradled in his limp hand. Nyne’s fingers finally found the pulse, but it was weak, thready. The kid was barely alive. If this was an overdose, the young man would not last much longer.

  Nyne dug out his cell phone and called emergency services. He was reluctant to leave the dying boy for even a moment, but he had to dash to the mouth of the alleyway to check the street signs for a location. Darry Street. He gave the building numbers nearby, then returned to the young man’s side. Already the junkie’s pulse had dropped further. The drugs had depressed his nervous system; he was in a downward spiral. Nyne knew no more than the required first aid training, but it was enough to tell him the ambulance would probably be too late. It felt like the adrenaline had scoured his brain of alcohol. He hefted the young man over his shoulder and sped to the street. Every second counted.

  He settled the kid on the pavement and waited. He could hear sirens in the distance but they were moving farther away. Dammit, he thought.

  The kid stopped breathing.

  Panic seized at Nyne. He fought it back. He’d seen combat before; he could deal. He inhaled deeply and gave the kid two steady rescue breaths. He checked for a pulse again, but . . . nothing.

  ”Shit,” he said. He began CPR, careful not to overdo the chest compressions. The kid was emaciated. If Nyne worked too hard he could crack a rib.

  Despite his best efforts, the kid would not breathe. Help was nowhere in sight. It was too late. There was nothing more he

  could do.

  Or was there? It was late. The street was deserted. There was no one around to see him.

  Nyne reached for his power. Psionics had no known medical application, but he had to try. Energy thrummed through his body. He focused it into his hands. They tingled and shook with the current. All he could do was trust his intuition. He concentrated on the kid’s body and let the power flow out through his fingertips, urging the young man’s heart to beat.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Nyne summoned up more and more energy. The boy’s heart fluttered—Nyne felt it!—but then went still again.

  “Come on, come on,” Nyne said. Despite the cool air, sweat beaded on his face. He took deep, even breaths and filled himself with as much psionic energy as he could. His whole body vibrated with the force of it. He thought his very cells would collapse if he took in any more. He flushed it out through his hands again, into the boy.

  The kid’s chest heaved as he gasped in air. Nyne rocked back on his heels in relief.

  A red-and-white ambulance, lights flashing, came barreling down the street. Within minutes, paramedics were loading the kid onto a stretcher.

  “He gonna be okay?” Nyne asked.

  One of the paramedics, a skinny woman with short black hair, shrugged. “Too early to tell.” She and her partner lifted the junkie into the back of the vehicle. The young man mumbled incoherently. Then, without warning, his back arched. He began to seize.

  Everything happened so quickly. One second the EMTs were trying to keep the kid from hurting himself in the midst of the seizure. Moments later the boy was limp and the paramedics had paddles out to resuscitate him. When all was done, the young man lay dead in the back of the ambulance. Even so, the paramedics continued to work on him. They began to shut the doors to the vehicle, but Nyne said, “Wait.” He had to try again. He had to. “Let me ride with him. Please.”

  The EMTs shared a look. The second paramedic, a stocky man with a buzz cut, shook his head. “Go home, buddy. Get some sleep. You did all you could. Not your fault.” With that he swung the doors closed. The ambulance drove away.

  Nyne was left alone in the night.

  He felt sick, and not from the alcohol. Had he truly done all he could? It did not feel that way. Or was he really that useless?

  He looked down at his hands, and then noticed something small and white on the ground. A card. It must have fallen from the kid’s pocket. He reached down and picked it up.

  A business card. Katherine M. Barrett, MSG, Orion Armed Forces.

  Nyne’s hands shook. The card drifted from numb fingers. He looked up at the night sky.

  And he screamed. He howled into the darkness, cursing God—or whoever was up there—for playing such horrible tricks on him. Tears spilled from his eyes. It was all just too much. He couldn’t be here anymore.

  He had to go.

  He had to go somewhere far, far away.

  He made a decision.

  The next day, before his assignment briefing with the unit lieutenants under his command, he rode the elevator up to Colonel Bringham’s office. He waited outside until the man was ready to see him.

  Bringham’s personal office was nicely furnished, with oak cabinetry lining the walls and a wide desk of antique mahogany. Plaques and medals were displayed neatly throughout the room, along with several framed photos of the colonel pressing flesh with generals and politicians.

  Bringham himself sat in a leather swivel chair. He motioned for Nyne to take the seat opposite him—a worn leather-upholstered armchair. “What can I
do for you, Captain?” His brown eyes sparkled with interest.

  Hoping to break the ice, Nyne began with the Marcus Trask encounter, leaving out the alcohol and what had brought him and Crasz to the club in the first place. He didn’t lie exactly; he only skirted around some of the specifics. By Bringham’s expression, the colonel could fill in the blanks on his own. It was only after that Nyne got to what had really brought him here.

  “I want to be reassigned,” he said. He met Bringham’s eyes.

  “Reassigned?” the colonel asked. “Something to do with you and Sergeant Barrett, I imagine?” Bringham waved his hand before Nyne could reply. “Look, truth is I don’t care to know anything more about that. So what kind of assignment you looking for, Captain?”

  “Something as far away from Grisham as possible, sir,” Nyne said. He was running away, he knew, but that was the only way out that he could see. “It isn’t just about Sergeant Barrett. I’ve been stationed here more than ten years. I need a change of pace. Sir.”

  Bringham began to fiddle with one of his uniform buttons. “That’s understandable,” he said. “But you do real fine work here, Captain. There’s opportunity for advancement. Between you and me, your name came up in front of the military board last month. What would you think of being Major Allen, son?”

  Major? It was tempting.

  Unbidden, an image of Kay storming out of Hearth came to mind. It was followed by one of the kid convulsing on the stretcher. Nyne shook his head to rid himself of the thoughts, then realized what he was doing, and let that become his answer. “I need to leave Grisham, sir.”

  Colonel Bringham nodded, then opened up a drawer and took out some papers. He shuffled through them, selected a single document, put the rest back. He scanned the paper, confirming the details, then slid it across the desk to Nyne. “This came in a week ago. Had a couple people in mind, but it’s yours if you want it. I’d like nothing more than to keep you here, so this is a one-time offer.”

  Nyne read through the details. It was a request for an officer to be stationed at Orion’s base in Kaito. Nyne knew little about Kaito except that it was a small, powerful nation situated on the southeastern peninsula of Isai, surrounded by the Ephyric Ocean. He also knew that Kaito was on the other side of the world, as far from Grisham as he could go. “What’s this here about OI?” he asked. He wanted the job, but it was best to get all the details.

  “You would liaise with Orion Intelligence,” Bringham said. “We think Kaito may have psions of their own. If so, we need to know about it. It’s too much to expect that Orion and Calchis are still the only countries with full-blown psionic programs. In addition to your regular duties, you’ll assist with OI’s investigation. Kaito’s always been friendly to us, and if they know about psionics, then it’s high time we open the lines of communication. Understand?”

  “I do, sir,” Nyne said.

  “Good. In that case, we’ll put through the paperwork. Major.”

  “Major? Sir, I thought—”

  Bringham grinned. “Didn’t mean to mislead you. But I figured if you thought your promotion was contingent on staying here, I might get to keep you. The board’s already made its decision. You’re an exemplary officer, and you’ve put in more than enough time in grade to qualify. Congratulations. We’ll be counting on you to run this operation out there. Don’t disappoint me.”

  “I won’t, sir.” Nyne’s mind spun. A new assignment and a promotion. And an escape. From Kay, and from this stagnant, helpless life he’d been living.

  It was more than he ever could have hoped for. And this work with OI might actually make a difference. Lives could be saved.

  “Get your things in order,” Bringham said. “You ship out tomorrow night.”

  16

  AARON

  When Aaron arrived for morning training, he was met by the largest, scariest looking man he had ever seen. Six-foot-four, or more; his arms were the size of most men’s legs. His red hair was rough and matted, in long strands hung halfway down his torso. His ears were dotted with stud piercings of some white material, possibly ivory or bone, and his arms were lined with faint pale brown tattoos with strange shapes and spiraling designs.

  Aaron expected the worst. He was taken aback by the soft tone of the man’s voice.

  “I’m Commander Barrett,” the man said. “You can call me Tiberian.”

  It took Aaron a moment to stop staring. “I . . . I’m Aaron Waverly.”

  “Yes. I know.” Tiberian sounded amused. “Do you prefer Aaron, or Waverly?”

  Aaron gulped. “Aaron’s fine.”

  “I don’t bite, Aaron. Come. Sit. Let’s talk.” Tiberian settled to the floor and folded his legs. He gestured at the space in front of him.

  Reluctantly, Aaron took a seat. Despite Tiberian’s outlandish appearance, the man seemed, well . . . nice. That made Aaron even more wary.

  Tiberian and John Black were on the same side, so this was probably some psychological play, like in one of his other favorite Clyde Coburn flicks, The Last Score. The bad guys captured Clyde, then put him off guard by treating him kindly, hoping Clyde would reveal the location of a hidden cache of diamonds. Aaron didn’t know what these people wanted from him, but it had to be something.

  For a while, Tiberian talked of himself. He spoke about how he’d come from Orion, how he’d spent some time traveling up north in Zenith, and then, eventually, ended up in Calchis, joined the military, and risen through the ranks.

  Aaron wanted to maintain his suspicion, but the man was so amiable. It made Aaron realize he desperately wanted a friend.

  Somehow, he kept his mouth shut.

  “Are you religious, Aaron?” Tiberian suddenly asked.

  “Um, I guess,” Aaron said. His eyes narrowed. “What’s it matter?”

  “You’re from the South. People are more religious in Southern Calchis. To be honest, I think the rest of the country could use a bit more of it.”

  “Are you religious?” Aaron shot back.

  “Yes,” Tiberian said. “In my own way. Most people forget what it’s really about.”

  “Like my dad, sometimes,” Aaron said. His eyes widened. He hadn’t meant to share; it had just slipped out.

  “Tell me.” Tiberian smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkled. It was a real smile.

  “He always says ‘So-and-so is going to hell!’ and ‘One day the prophet’s gonna come and wipe out all the sinners and take the righteous to paradise.’” He didn’t know why he was saying this, but it felt good to say it out loud. He’d never said these things out loud to anyone.

  “You don’t agree,” Tiberian said.

  “I . . .” Aaron shook his head. “Why do you want me to talk about this? You’re not gonna trick me into thinking you’re friendly or something. If you’re gonna train me, then train me. If you’re gonna hurt me, hurt me. Just get it over with.”

  “I’m glad to see he didn’t break you,” Tiberian mused.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Black,” Tiberian said. “He can be a bit . . . harsh.”

  “He’s horrible,” Aaron blurted. Then he realized what he’d said, and he clamped his mouth shut. His heart became a painful hammering in his chest. Was John Black going to jump out of a corner and punish him? He looked around, terrified that at any moment he would see his kidnapper bearing down on him, ready to strike.

  “Calm down,” Tiberian said. “He isn’t here. You can speak freely. I swear. Anything you want to say about John Black, or anyone, or anything else, you can. I promise.”

  “I . . . I . . .” It took Aaron a moment to find his voice. “I think he’s evil.”

  Tiberian nodded. “I can see why you’d think that. But let me tell you something. Terrible things happened to him when he was a kid—far worse things than what he’s done to you. He experienced more violence as a boy than most men see in their entire lives, even in wartime. He can’t help what he’s become. He just is.” Tiberian fingered one of his lo
ng strands of hair. “Suffice it to say, he thinks his methods are best. But I don’t agree. So things are going to be different from now on. Okay?”

  “Really?” Aaron asked. He was still afraid this was all some trick, some game orchestrated by John Black to test him somehow. He wouldn’t put it past the man.

  “Yes,” Tiberian said. “Really.”

  “Do you swear to God?” Aaron asked.

  Tiberian smiled—the expression was warm, and genuine. He put a hand over his heart. “I swear to God that I won’t hurt you, abuse you, or do anything you don’t want me to.”

  “I don’t wanna be here,” Aaron said. “I want to go home.”

  “Unfortunately, that part’s out of my hands.”

  Aaron nodded silently. Of course. He shouldn’t have expected anything different.

  “But anything else I can do, you let me know,” Tiberian said. “Now, you were about to say something about your dad. Go on.”

  “No,” Aaron said. “It’s stupid. I don’t wanna talk about it.” The truth was the memory was painful, and he’d had enough pain recently. More than enough.

  “You’re talking about how you feel about your father,” Tiberian said. “That’s not stupid. It’s important. And it’ll help me get to know you better. So, please. Go on.”

  Aaron sighed. He closed his eyes, remembering all his relatives seated around the big dinner table, with two extensions put in so it was big enough for all of them.“A couple years ago, um . . . my cousin Gabe—we call him Gabey, rhymes with crybaby because when he was little, well . . .” He took a deep breath. “Anyway, this one time the whole family was at the farm, my gram and granddads, my mom’s sisters, their kids, and Gabey and his parents. Gabey said he had an announcement. He waited till dinner was done and everyone had a few drinks in them. Then he told everyone he . . . liked men. You know, uh . . . that he was gay.

  “And it got real quiet. It was cool for like a second. But then my dad started screaming ‘Gabey’s an abomination!’ and ‘God is gonna punish him’ and all this . . . shit! He told my cousin to get out of the house. So Gabey goes out and tries to hang himself in the barn. We got him down in time, but now he’s got a big old scar around his neck. It’s horrible.” He exhaled. “I still think about it sometimes. I mean, when I saw him hanging there, I thought he was dead. Freaked me out. And my dad, I was real mad at him. He just went on the next day acting like nothing happened. I . . . I don’t know what’s right or wrong, but Gabey’s still family. He shouldn’t have treated him like that. It wasn’t okay.” He took a deep breath. “I never told my father that, though. If I did, he probably would’ve gone at me with the belt.”