Fires of Man Read online

  It was long past time for her to take charge of her own life. She had to think about her future, about advancement, and ultimately about life beyond the Psi Corps. The military had provisions for psions phasing out of active duty, but it wasn’t like she was going to settle down and pop out a couple brats. She would never make a good mother, not after her own upbringing. But there were other things out there.

  Hobbies. Travel. Maybe it was time to think about a career in Orion Intelligence; at least then she could jet around the globe on the government’s dime.

  As the cab pulled up outside the military base, Kay’s head was filled with possibilities.

  For the first time in a long time, she felt hope.

  18

  NYNE

  The plane rumbled as it sped down the runway—hundreds of tons of metal about to lift off into the sky. Nyne had been on planes before. He had no fear of flying. It was only takeoff that made his stomach churn.

  He stared out the window, watching the juddering of the wing, the pavement rushing by. The setting sun shone from behind, glinting off the plane’s chrome exterior. Then, with a sudden lurch . . .

  They were airborne.

  Nyne let out a sigh of relief.

  He hoped he could get some sleep. He had tossed and turned the night before, and sleepwalked through the day. At 1300 he had taken the forty-minute express train from Grisham Central to New Axom’s Updike Station, then hopped a shuttle bus to Charles R. Booth International Airport. He was booked on a commercial jet, Flight 171, and had nearly missed his boarding time. Security had detained him over an anomaly with the equipment at the checkpoint.

  It had been a foolish mistake on Nyne’s part. He’d been thinking about the dead junkie from the other night, and his power had welled up from the strength of that memory. A look at Nyne’s credentials had circumvented the cavity search, thankfully, and another pass through the body scanner had gone more smoothly.

  Though Nyne was tired, he kept his eyes open and drank in the shrinking metropolis of New Axom City. There, on the horizon, he could just make out the edge of Grisham Desert—the last vestige of all he was leaving behind. Unfortunately, sleep simply would not come. It had little to do with the narrow seat, the large snoring gentleman to his left, or the rattle of serving carts as flight attendants wheeled them down the aisles.

  For what felt like the thousandth time, Nyne wondered if he’d taken the coward’s way out.

  Eventually he did sleep, in shallow spurts. The fourteen-hour flight felt endless. Nyne wished he’d taken Crasz up on his offer of a couple diazepam ferreted from the medical offices. Instead, he settled for beer of the bland brand-name variety, at severely overpriced airline rates. Between naps, he flipped channels on the tiny screen built into the back of the seat in front of him. The only movies offered were either for children, or big-budget action flicks, and he found neither particularly appealing.

  For a time, Nyne reviewed the paperwork detailing his new assignment. He was to be stationed at Camp Jouka, a base in Kyodai, the capital of Kaito. He would help oversee daily operations for the Second Battalion under a Lieutenant Colonel Sanada. More importantly, he would investigate any psionic-related activities. Rumors had reached the ears of Orion Intelligence, and Nyne would lend them his ability to detect psionics.

  He went over the names of some of the districts from which these stories had emerged, but they might as well have been gibberish: Raijuku and Hakurai; Rokudai; Genkihabara. The names meant nothing to him, only made his head hurt.

  What had he gotten himself into?

  It occurred to Nyne that perhaps when he landed he should call his parents. That might cheer him up. His mother had never approved of his military career; she thought it a waste of his creative potential. Nyne hadn’t been able to explain to her that the job wasn’t exactly optional. When Bringham had come to him all those years ago, he’d brought with him a letter explaining the situation, and warning him to tell no one.

  Nonetheless, his mother loved him unconditionally, as only a mother could. Nyne’s father, alternately, was as pleased as could be at his son’s profession. Before retirement, his dad had been a college history professor with a particular focus on military history. That his own child, now an officer, might someday appear in a textbook made him beyond excited. Nyne hadn’t told his parents about moving to Kaito. He’d been too afraid they would convince him to renege on his decision. Now that all was done, however, it would behoove him to give them a call. He resolved to do it as soon as he was set up in his quarters at Camp Jouka.

  The hours crept by in snail-like procession, a neverending march of minutes. This was the first time Nyne had ever taken so long a flight. He wondered if this was what purgatory might feel like: doomed for eternity to cramped quarters, drooling neighbors, and exorbitantly priced, tasteless food. He spent a while listening to his music player, his mind drifting to the classical strains of Versa’s “Tiomenes” suite and the haunting melodies of singer-songwriter Caroline Marquis.

  The tunes lulled him into a half-sleeping state filled with strange dreams: Kay with a hypodermic needle in her arm; the junkie kid wielding psionic powers, ready to level Grisham; Finn lying in that alleyway off Darry Street, bleeding out from an abdominal wound, his torso a mess of blood and mangled flesh. It was not until the pilot’s voice over the speakers roused him that he realized he had well and truly slumbered.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’re going to be making our final descent into Kyodai Shizuka Airport. Please fasten your seat belts. Thank you for riding Ephyric Gold Airways. We hope you enjoyed your flight.”

  The pilot then repeated his message in thickly accented Kaitanese.

  Nyne groaned. His back creaked in protest as he shifted in his seat. He glanced out the window. Night lay thick over the city. It would be morning back home, but here the countless flecks of light from the city of Kyodai pierced the dark like a million fireflies. Nyne buckled himself in and waited as the plane glided down through the air. He chewed a piece of sugarless gum to combat the pressure in his ears from the change in altitude.

  Kyodai loomed closer and closer. Soon Nyne could make out billboards and bright neon signs with huge foreign letters. Cars ballooned in size. The plane began to wheel, turning in over the airport. There was a whirring of machinery as the landing gear unfolded. A minute later, they hit the pavement of the runway with a jolt.

  As he waited to disembark, Nyne felt suddenly claustrophobic. All he wanted was to be outside. The moment he exited into the cool night, he gulped in breaths so quickly that he began to feel lightheaded.

  Shizuka Airport was massive. Its enormous causeways were filled with duty-free shops selling everything from cigarettes to liquor, perfume, and more. Nyne saw all sorts of restaurants, from Western fast-food chains to sushi and noodle bars. Bright advertisements beamed at him from every side; pretty, dark-haired Kaitanese women with radiant eyes and wide, perfect smiles held up bar soap and electronics and bizarre seafood chips. Despite the trappings of wealth, Nyne was surprised to see the uniformity of the people around him. Most of the men were dressed in plain suits and ties; many of the children and teenagers carried the exact same backpacks, while clicking away on the same model cell phone, with only the color and personalized phone straps to differentiate them. There were exceptions—such as young men in chains and leather, their brightly dyed hair sticking up in incredible, gravity-defying fashions—but they were rare. There were also a number of foreigners like Nyne, some walking along with cool detachment, others looking about in wonder.

  To Nyne’s relief, many of the airport signs had Etrean print. First Nyne found his way to a currency exchange desk and switched over his Orionan marks to Kaitanese sen. Afterward, he headed to the baggage claim. He had packed fairly light; it was not as if he had a great deal to his name back in Grisham. He had one large duffel bag for most of his things: casual clothing; photographs; small electronics and their chargers; a pair of sne
akers; toiletries; and so on. His other bag contained his uniforms, in multiple sets. Those, plus his carry-on bag, made for a rather light load for someone moving everything he owned to the opposite side of the world.

  With his luggage in tow, he headed to the arrivals exit. There he spotted a young Kaitanese man bearing a white sign that read “Mayjer Nine” in block letters. Nyne suppressed a smile at the error and introduced himself. The young man bowed his head and murmured, “Please excuse,” in a heavy accent. He took Nyne’s luggage and led the way outside.

  “What’s your name?” Nyne asked when they arrived at the car, a sharp black Katsuda sedan with a leather interior.

  “Ah, apologize, Major-san,” the man said, inclining his head again. With his accent, he pronounced every l as an r. “Please forgive. Oshikawa. Understand Etrean, but speak not very good.” He proceeded to load Nyne’s things into the trunk, then ushered Nyne into the backseat and took his own place behind the wheel on the right side of the car.

  “Thank you, Oshikawa,” Nyne said. He tried his best not to stumble over the name and failed. He knew he must sound like a bumbling Westerner.

  “No, no,” Oshikawa said. “My job.”

  “Well, thanks all the same,” Nyne said.

  “My job,” Oshikawa repeated. He smiled, almost embarrassed, and nodded his head.

  Strange people, Nyne thought.

  It took Nyne some time to grow used to cars driving on the left side of the road. Turns were jarring, each one bringing him near panic until he realized the car was where it was supposed to be. Oshikawa pulled onto the elevated freeway, and Nyne took in the sights.

  The only other truly great metropolis Nyne had visited was New Axom City, with its huge skyscrapers and high-rise apartment buildings. Kyodai was the same, yet different. Like New Axom, color bloomed all through the skyline. He saw billboards and marquees and remarkable architectural lighting he couldn’t help but admire. Yet whereas New Axom was centralized—a tightly packed metropolitan center surrounded by outlying boroughs—Kyodai appeared to follow no discernable pattern. Clusters of urban areas were scattered about, with suburbs filling in the gaps between.

  Oshikawa spoke very little, and then only when spoken to, keeping his eyes glued to the road. When Nyne asked if it was all right to open his window, Oshikawa seemed startled by the thought that he would deny Nyne, his passenger, anything. The driver promptly lowered his own window as if to reassure Nyne it was okay to do so.

  Somewhere along the way, Nyne’s stomach began to rumble. No doubt he would spend most of his time eating the food on base, so he asked Oshikawa if there was anywhere good to stop along the way. Besides, Nyne was feeling a mite adventurous. He wanted to sample the local cuisine. Oshikawa was shocked at the notion of delivering Nyne late to Camp Jouka, but Nyne made it clear he wasn’t on a set schedule. At first, Oshikawa suggested Western-style restaurants, but Nyne was adamant that he wanted to try real Kaitanese food. After a great deal of protestation, Oshikawa acquiesced. “Seafood? You like?” he asked.

  “Some,” Nyne said.

  “In Kaito, lots seafood.”

  “I’ll give it a try,” Nyne said.

  A few minutes later, Oshikawa pulled off the highway. He wove through the cramped streets of a residential neighborhood with small tile-roofed houses and tiny storefronts. A number of the buildings looked quite old, built perhaps more than a century earlier. Oshikawa parked on a narrow cobblestoned side street. He led Nyne out onto a paved avenue, past elderly men and women out for a walk and teenagers lounging under a starry sky. The sharp scents of sauces and fish and spices pervaded the area.

  “It’s beautiful,” Nyne said.

  “I grow here from little,” Oshikawa said. “Most Kyodai big city. Few place peaceful.”

  “Very peaceful,” Nyne agreed. He had never been somewhere like this before. Brightly colored red and yellow paper lanterns bathed everything in ethereal light. There was something mystical about it.

  Nyne had studied a great deal of foreign architecture in college. He was somewhat familiar with the Kaitanese sort, though to see it in person was another thing entirely. It was the slanted roofs that most caught his attention, the high slope of them, the fluting of the tiles, the rounded eaves and how their edges jutted over the walls.

  Oshikawa guided them to a tiny establishment on a corner, with octopi on hooks displayed prominently in the window. Nyne suppressed a grimace. He wasn’t sure he had the stomach for that, but he didn’t wish to offend his driver, not after being so insistent.

  Inside, there were eight small wooden tables with pairs of chairs, as well as a wooden bar and stools. Behind the bar stood a man in white, working over steaming vats of some sort of broth. At the moment the place was about half-full. A diminutive, wizened woman greeted them at the door, her eyes almost vanishing amid wrinkles. She greeted Oshikawa with warm familiarity, and her eyebrows lifted in surprise when she saw Nyne. She said something to Oshikawa.

  “This Shimoyama-san,” Oshikawa said to Nyne. “Restaurant open forty year. Little boy, I come.” He motioned with his hand, as if to demonstrate his size when he was a child.

  “Nice to meet you,” Nyne said. Unsure of what to do, his offered her his hand.

  She tittered at the gesture and shook her head. “Come, come,” she said. She plucked at Nyne’s sleeve, then guided him to an empty table.

  When they were seated, Shimoyama brought them two cups of hot tea. Oshikawa took a sip of his and Nyne followed suit. It was similar enough to the green tea Nyne had tried at Kaitanese restaurants in Orion, but with a fuller, earthier flavor. A moment later Shimoyama returned with a pair of laminated menus, not that Nyne could read a word of the complex symbols on the page. He took one look at it and then asked Oshikawa, “What’s good here?”

  “Prawns, you like?” asked Oshikawa.

  “They’re like shrimp, right?”

  “Shrimp,” Oshikawa affirmed.

  “Then yes,” Nyne said.

  “Obaa-san,” Oshikawa said to Shimoyama, followed by a string of Kaitanese. The old woman nodded and scurried away.

  “What does that mean, obaa-san?”

  “Ah . . . hard explain. Grandmother?”

  “Should I call her that?” Nyne asked.

  Oshikawa nearly choked on his tea. “No. No.” He offered a flustered smile.

  Nyne shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

  The food arrived not long afterward. Shimoyama set down two large bowls filled with steaming broth, noodles, green onions, mushrooms, some type of sprout, egg, and three fat prawns.

  After nearly a day of nonstop travel, it was exactly what Nyne needed.

  At first he never would have thought he could finish it all, but it went down fast and easy. He noticed Oshikawa used chopsticks to eat the noodles and other food, then lifted the bowl and drank down the broth. Nyne was less than dexterous with the wooden utensils, and eventually Shimoyama brought him a fork and a thick, wide white spoon. Before long, Nyne’s bowl was empty, his belly was warm and full, and he was ready to sleep again, this time hopefully without the bad dreams. He wasn’t looking forward to meeting with his superiors at Camp Jouka.

  Oshikawa said something Nyne could only assume was a request for the check, because a minute later Shimoyama brought them the bill. Oshikawa tried to pay his portion of it, but Nyne wouldn’t let him, which sent Oshikawa into a brief panic. Even so, Nyne covered it in its entirety, though when he tried to leave a tip, he thought his guide might actually have a seizure.

  In broken Etrean, Oshikawa hastily explained that in Kaito everyone was expected to perform their duties to the best of their ability without need for gratuity. When Nyne protested that surely no one would object if he left a little extra, Oshikawa looked so mortified that Nyne finally dropped it.

  As they were about to leave, a young server emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray loaded with plates. He was proceeding to a table in the corner when an oblivious patron pushed his chair ou
t, directly into the young man’s path. Nyne was certain he was about to witness a major spill. Then he felt a familiar charge in the air, a crackle of power around the young man. The server neatly dodged the chair while keeping his tray perfectly balanced.

  Nyne stared. By sheer, dumb luck, he had found his first psion.

  He prodded Oshikawa out the door and did not say another word until they were outside, away from listeners. He realized after that it was unlikely anyone would understand him, but it didn’t hurt to be careful. “Who was that man, with the tray?”

  Oshikawa looked dubious. “No understand.”

  Nyne nearly shook him. “Who was that waiter? You know who I’m talking about.”

  “Shimoyama Shunsuke,” Oshikawa said. “Ah, grandson, Shimoyama-san.”

  “When does the restaurant close?”

  “No understand,” Oshikawa repeated.

  “What time, dammit?”

  “Ten, ten,” Oshikawa stammered, holding up his hands to demonstrate. “I no please? Apologize. I fix. No problem.”

  “You please me just fine,” Nyne said. When the words escaped his mouth, he was suddenly glad for the language barrier. If Kay had heard that one, she would never have let him live it down.

  Kay . . . With everything going on, he’d actually managed to avoid thinking about her, for the most part. He pushed away the thoughts. “I have to extend our trip again. I’ll pay whatever fare.”

  Oshikawa nodded, at this point more concerned with Nyne’s approval than anything else. “Where?” he asked.

  “Nowhere just yet,” Nyne said. “We need to wait until the restaurant closes.”

  “Why?” Oshikawa asked. Then, as if surprised by his own forwardness, he hunched his shoulders. “Apologize.”

  “I wish I could explain, but I can’t.” Nyne struggled for an explanation. “It’s . . . top secret.”

  “Top secret?” A conspiratorial smile played across Oshikawa’s lips. “You, spy? I like spy movie—”