Fires of Man Page 6

  After the meditation came drill and ceremony training, and the recruits practiced the proper marching step, and organizing into formation. They had to memorize instructions for certain commands and respond accordingly, with precision. Finn stumbled over his feet half the time, but at least he wasn’t the only one; he spotted Merry having every bit as much difficulty, and took some small pleasure from that.

  Lunch came next, and Finn sat with James and Val, forlornly watching Sonja the entire time. James told him to give it another shot, but with Merry lurking nearby, Finn couldn’t bring himself to try. If Sonja gave him a second chance, he didn’t want to waste it. He’d pick his moment carefully.

  After lunch, Douglass lined them up again in the early afternoon sun. The sun beat down on the asphalt so intensely that heat shimmers rose from the ground. Finn had reapplied his sunscreen after lunch, and as he stood, the heady aroma of coconut lingered in the air. His skin glistened, dew-like.

  At this point, everyone was down to tanktops or undershirts. Finn tried not to stare at Sonja, with only partial success. Her clothing hugged her body, and he could see the curve of her breasts, the slope of her back, and slim shape of her hips. The last thing he wanted was for her to catch him looking, but he just couldn’t help himself.

  “Today, you’re gonna learn to make a barrier,” Douglass announced. “It’s the most effective line of defense you got. You’re gonna picture a shield in your mind, focus on it, put your power into it. Believe that it can stop anything. Surround yourself with it.” There was a flicker in the air around the sergeant, and then a halo of energy manifested around him, colorless, nearly invisible, like the heat shimmers all around them. “You. Chuckles.” Douglass pointed at Merry.

  Finn suppressed a smile. Chuckles? He liked that. Maybe he’d have some choice retorts after all.

  Merry tried to stifle his constant grin and failed. “Drill Sergeant?” he asked.

  “Catch.” Douglass brought out a tennis ball from behind his back and tossed it at Merry.

  Merry fumbled with the ball, but managed to hold on to it.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  Douglass folded his arms and scowled. “Boy, the next time you fail to address me properly, I’ll have you running laps in the sand till your legs fall off. You get me, Chuckles?”

  Merry grimaced. “Yeah, Drill Sergeant.”

  “What was that?”

  Merry nearly choked. “Yes, Drill Sergeant!”

  “Good. Now throw that thing. We don’t got all day.”

  “Where, Drill Sergeant?”

  “At me.” The sergeant’s eyes were almost mirthful.

  Merry stared at the sergeant. Douglass motioned for Merry to proceed. At last Merry shrugged, took a breath, and threw.

  The moment the ball struck the indistinct wall around the sergeant, it bounced away harmlessly. Finn wished he’d known that trick in high school. Appreciative chatter arose from the recruits.

  “Now it’s your turn,” said the sergeant. “Line up!”

  An assistant drill instructor wheeled out an old tennis server machine, filled with a mountain of the bright green balls. Douglass took a place next to the machine and had the recruits step up one at a time. Sonja and a girl named Cass managed to deflect a ball on their first try, but the sergeant had them line up again. He said if they could do it three times in a row, they would be dismissed for the rest of the afternoon.

  Some of the privates ducked and dodged their first time up. Though they were only tennis balls, they still stung. Others stood stoically and let the balls strike them. Finn swore he would not flinch, but when it was his turn and he saw the fuzzy sphere speeding toward him, his hands shot up to shield his face. The ball struck him in the gut instead and drove the air from him, more from surprise than injury. No one dared laugh because of Sergeant Douglass, but Finn could feel their bemused stares as he made his way to the back of the line.

  Merry nudged Finn’s arm and whispered, “Way to go, Straggler.”

  “Bite me, Chuckles,” Finn replied.

  Cass was the first to finish, and Sonja soon after. They stepped to the sidelines and watched. James was the next one to deflect a ball, though three in a row was beyond him. On the ninth go-around, Merry sent one of the tennis balls skipping away, and on the seventeenth, Finn finally did the same.

  Finn tried his best to remember what the captain had taught him the night before, but it didn’t help. He felt lost. He didn’t know how he accessed his psionic power. He soon got over the anxiety of being struck, but every time a ball came speeding toward him, there was a moment of doubt, and it was enough to shatter his concentration.

  It reminded Finn of a camping trip he had taken along the Angol River with his father and brothers. His father was something of a wilderness buff and had insisted his boys join in—all of his boys. Their nature guide had taught them how to grab the eels that swam through the river with their bare hands, and only Finn had failed at the task. Each time he thought he had one of the creatures in his grasp, they had wriggled through his fingers.

  Every now and then he looked at Sonja. Once, she caught him, and he quickly shifted his gaze to the clouds instead.

  When Finn finally did succeed, it felt like a fluke. On his turn, as he stood up there, he heard Merry cracking more jokes about him. Angry, Finn envisioned the tennis ball bouncing off his barrier at just the right angle to smack Merry in the nose. He didn’t even notice when the ball actually came at him; it was only when it ricocheted off and hit Merry in the face that Finn realized he’d done it.

  “About time,” said Sergeant Douglass, and gestured for Finn to take his place at the back.

  “He did that on purpose, Drill Sergeant,” Merry complained.

  “Did he, now?” asked Douglass.

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant. I know it.”

  “Then maybe next time he’s up, you’ll keep your fat mouth shut, Chuckles,” said the sergeant. Everyone laughed—including Finn—at Merry’s expense. Merry said nothing. He shot Finn a malign stare that promised retribution.

  Soon dusk settled over the desert, a ruddy orange glow that suffused the horizon. Douglass told them they would continue tomorrow, and the next day, and every day after that, until all of them could block tennis balls consistently. Finn had no idea how long that would take, but he hoped it would get easier from here on.

  Their evening meal was a slab of dried-out beef, underdone green beans, and an oatmeal cookie. Again, Finn sat with James and Val.

  “Seriously, don’t worry about that asshole,” James said, as he attempted to saw off a piece of steak with his plastic knife. “Just go talk to her again.”

  “It’s not the right time,” said Finn.

  “There is no right time,” Val said.

  “I thought you were against this,” James said. He grinned.

  “Yeah, well, now I’m invested,” Val said.

  Finn chuckled. Somehow, he’d at least found a couple of friends.

  “Hey,” Val said to him, “did you really do that on purpose? Hit him with the ball?”

  “I don’t know,” Finn said. “Maybe.”

  “What was going through your head?”

  “I imagined it, what happened, before it actually did.”

  “Exactly as I predicted,” Val said.

  “Oh, sure,” James said.

  “Don’t believe me?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” James hedged.

  Their conversation ended abruptly at the sound of a ruckus across the mess hall.

  Merry had gone over to Sonja’s table, and there was a growing gaggle of boys behind him. He was saying something to her, and she appeared intensely uncomfortable.

  She looked at Finn. He rocketed to his feet.

  “Man, don’t do anything crazy,” James said.

  But Finn didn’t hear his friend’s warning. He could focus only on Merry and Sonja. He strode across the room, toward them. He wouldn’t let Merry make her the target of his ridicul
e.

  As he neared, he heard Merry saying, “. . . You’re hot, and I got a thing for redheads. You wanna be my girlfriend?”

  Sonja gave Merry a blank stare, then returned to eating her dinner.

  “Too good to talk to me?” Merry planted his palms on the table, looming over her. “Don’t tell me you actually got a thing for Straggler. C’mon, you’re much better off with me.” When she didn’t reply, he said, “I know what your problem is.” He grinned and paused for effect, meeting the eyes of his laughing cohorts.

  Sonja forked a mouthful of green beans, continuing to ignore him.

  “You act like you’re all superior,” Merry said, “but you’re just a stuck-up bitch.”

  Finn couldn’t take anymore. He closed the remaining distance, spun Merry around by the shoulder, and punched him in the face.

  Merry staggered back, touching his hand to his mouth. His fingers came away with a hint of blood; it had only been a glancing blow. “What the fuck, Straggler?” he asked. “You like that slut, is that it?”

  Finn swung again, but it was sloppy, and he’d lost the element of surprise. Merry stepped into Finn, ducking the blow, then rabbit-punched Finn in the ribs.

  Finn doubled over, gasping.

  The hall erupted in cries of “Fight, fight, fight!”

  Merry elbowed Finn in the face and, spurred by shouts and adrenaline, did not let up.

  “Fucking Straggler,” he said. “You and the bitch deserve each other.” Finn raised his arms to ward off Merry’s attacks, but Merry slipped a jab through Finn’s guard. Finn went sprawling, his lip split, blood streaming down his chin.

  The room roared with hoots and laughter.

  When Finn looked up he saw that he was surrounded by jeering faces, Merry’s chief among them. To Finn’s right, Sonja sat at the table, her eyes on him.

  White-hot rage pulsed through Finn. His blood pounded in his ears; his vision tinged red; he felt like he was on fire. An enormous pressure built behind his eyes. He wiped blood from his mouth. Everything around him slowed to a crawl.

  That was when it hit him.

  He was special. He had power. He could be strong.

  Finn rose to his feet. Confusion registered in suspended motion on the faces around him. Merry’s eyelids flared perceptibly, and he tried to bring his arms up. To Finn, it looked like Merry was swimming through jelly. He would show them he was more than “Stump” or “Straggler.”

  Finn cocked his fist. It felt as if jet fuel was pumping through his arm. He sent the rocket-powered limb barreling forward.

  He felt his fist collide with Merry’s face, felt bone give way and shatter beneath the force of the blow. Merry was lifted into the air. All Finn wanted was to hit him again. He stepped forward, fist raised to hammer Merry out of his graceful flight and into the ground.

  A thick arm encircled Finn’s throat and he was yanked into a headlock. He struggled. Then Douglass’s voice growled, “Enough!”

  Time snapped back to its normal pace. The room sprang to life. People were screaming. Finn let himself sag back into the sergeant’s arms. Merry was on the ground, and when Finn looked at him, his stomach lurched. Merry’s cheek was caved in. Blood and fluid leaked from the mangled, half-collapsed eye socket. Abject horror twisted the unconscious boy’s visage.

  As Sergeant Douglass dragged Finn away, a horrible sinking feeling spread through him. He had done that. He looked to Sonja, hoping for anger, joy, appreciation, disapproval . . . Anything at all.

  He saw shock, and nothing more.

  8

  FAITH

  When Faith awoke, her tent was freezing.

  Despite her many blankets, she shivered in the frigid air. Her eyes tracked to the space heater several feet away. The telltale green light was off.

  She gathered a blanket around herself, and ambled over to the heater.

  No power.

  Faith scanned her meager living quarters, which had become her home over the past three years. A paraffin stove stood in one corner. Thick rugs lined the floor, along with a musky tundra buffalo fur. Her memory foam mattress occupied another corner, piled with blankets. There was a folding desk, two chairs, a pair of wire frame drawer sets, and three narrow collapsible bookshelves filled with volumes and notebooks.

  She could never have too many notebooks.

  Her framed PhD diplomas—in archaeology and anthropology—lay on the shelves as well, issued by the prestigious Albrecht University in Chiron, Calchis. She paused, and ran her fingers over the glass, tracing her own name. Faith Santia.

  Pride swelled in her chest, a delicious warmth.

  She’d come so far.

  No one could have predicted that the brown-skinned daughter of brown-skinned Cotino immigrants would be a prodigy. No one could have known that she would enter college at fifteen, and hold dual doctorates by twenty-eight. No one except Faith herself. She had always believed she would do great things. Now, at thirty-two, she was heading up the dig on the most momentous archaeological find in centuries.

  But first, she had to deal with the broken space heater.

  She bent down, hoping to find the power cable had come loose somehow. It hadn’t. She went to her desk, jumping up and down to raise her temperature. A little blue icon on her laptop glowed in the dark, indicating it was still receiving power.

  So it wasn’t the generators, then. It was the heater itself.

  She returned to the heater, regarding it like some alien thing. She had many talents, but electrical engineering was not among them. She’d have to hope there was a spare at the outpost. If not, she might actually have to take the room they’d been offering her for the past three years. She had turned them down because she liked feeling closer to the dig—just minutes away. And she wanted to appreciate at least a little of the way this land’s natives lived, when they’d so graciously allowed her team to excavate.

  Frustrated, she gave the heater a swift kick with the ball of her foot.

  It made a soft whirring sound, and came to life.

  “Oh, thank God,” she said, out of habit. She’d been an atheist since ten.

  She dropped back onto her bed, and considered going back to sleep. But she felt awake now. Alert. And Faith was not one for idleness.

  She sat down in front of her computer, switched it on. She pulled up her notes from the previous day’s work. Her fingers danced across the keyboard as she made small additions and corrections. Then, unable to restrain herself . . .

  She brought up the pictures.

  Even after all this time, she couldn’t help but gasp in appreciation at the image of the enormous Zenithian temple complex. It was set upon a vast plateau, carved out of the land in an equilateral triangle. How the ancients had managed to construct it with such precision was beyond the scope of her knowledge. So far.

  Carbon dating put the massive edifice in unheard of ten-to-eleven-thousand-year-old territory. That staggering number defied all accepted knowledge of human advancement; it turned anthropological conventions of cultural development on the Etrean continent completely on their collective heads. A great, as-yet undiscovered civilization had once existed here, in Zenith; she was sure of it. And it had been destroyed, buried by glaciers.

  Now, all she had to do was prove it.

  Faith flipped down the top on her computer and went to her drawers. She shrugged out of her heavy cotton pajamas, teeth chattering, and donned fresh underwear and yesterday’s sports bra. The smell of her body odor was faint; she could go another day without a shower. It was a pain trekking out to the outpost. Besides, the Zenithian tribesmen bathed no more than once a week; if she smelled, at least she was in good company.

  She dressed in two layers of leggings; insulated work pants; a pair of flannel-lined coveralls; an undershirt; two thick wool long-sleeved shirts; a sweater; and her huge, calf-length down jacket with the faux-fur-lined hood. She donned two scarves, one for her neck and one to wrap around the lower half of her face; thick gloves; a wool
cap; and heavy snowboots a size too big, to accommodate her two pairs of insulated socks.

  She exited her tent, bracing herself against the freezing cold. Outside, a forest of tents stood amid a plain of snow. Heavy-duty electrical cables snaked through the encampment, providing power; in the darkness before sunrise, they looked like winding black serpents atop the pristine white.

  Faith trekked to the nearest outhouse first. Then she returned to her tent, brought out a chair, and watched the sky.

  There was something about predawn on the tundra that felt magical to her. It was as if she was in a place out of time, out of space. She was in her own world, and cold though it was, there was nothing quite like it.

  She gazed at the horizon, where night’s inky blackness was soon pushed back by a rising tide of violet. This, in turn, became radiant shades of crimson, then gold as the sun peeked above the rim of mountains in the distance. Light began its slow march across the icy expanse, yet the stars stood fast against it, stubbornly twinkling until the sun’s full glory finally smothered them. Faith watched and waited, listening as icy winds blew across the distant emptiness. The cold gusts made the exposed skin around her eyes burn, but the sensation exhilarated her.

  Her attention turned eastward, to the titanic tent looming like a mountain—five minutes walk from where she sat. Inside lay everything she’d been working toward these past few years.

  The temple.

  When Faith had first arrived in the arctic climes of northern Zenith, the entire area had been a mountain of ice and snow. The Calchan government committee that funded the project had wanted to melt it all, but Faith had refused, insisting it would irrevocably damage the buildings. Thankfully, two important figures had backed her up. One was the chieftain of the Zenithian Galuak tribe that presided over the territory—a wizened man named Cha’a’ni.

  The other . . . was Commander Tiberian Barrett.

  Faith smiled faintly, thinking of him, wondering where he was.

  The excavation was his brainchild as much as hers. He’d spent years with the Galuak tribesmen, though to this day his reasons were a mystery to her. He had learned their customs, their language, had hunted, fought, eaten, and slept among them. He’d been initiated as a full-fledged member of their tribe, blessed with their sacred tattoos and piercings.