Fires of Man Page 7

  Picturing him in her mind, she couldn’t help but feel faint stirrings of desire. She found his primal visage . . . exciting—from an anthropological perspective, of course.

  That first day on the dig, she’d found him wandering around the site, all by himself in the cold. Irritable from her flight and the long, bumpy drive out to Zenith’s northern wastes, she’d barked at him to clear out, thinking him one of the natives. Who else could this hulking, dreadlocked man have been?

  And then he’d responded in perfect Etrean, greeting her by name. At that, she’d been suitably abashed, and he hadn’t held it against her.

  She thought of their first night together on the dig. A blush colored her cheeks, turning her brown skin a ruddy shade. They had met to discuss the coming work, but the evening had ended in his tent, with the two of them naked beneath shaggy tundra buffalo skins, their limbs entwined.

  Tiberian was . . . a brilliant man, a philosopher, but at times pensive, brooding. Yet he was always kind, to her most of all.

  And, more than anything, he was a mystery. Perhaps that was what she found most attractive about him. Several times over the past few years, he had disappeared into the snowy Zenithian wilderness for days, only to return with scavenged artifacts, or a train of wild elk or buffalo. Once, Faith had caught him staring at an old photo of a brown-haired girl. When she had asked him who it was, he’d replied, “Someone from another life,” then slid the photo into his pocket.

  Faith did not begrudge him his secrets. Their relationship was professional, intellectual, and sexual; nothing more. Though now . . .

  Now it wasn’t even that. Tiberian had flown back to Calchis.

  And, loath as she was to admit it, she missed him. She told herself it was nothing more than the solitude that made her feel that way—the loneliness of the cold nights. But even she, with all her keen rhetoric, couldn’t quite convince herself.

  Faith inhaled through her nose, drawing air first into her lower belly, then her middle, then her upper chest and throat. She exhaled in equal time, also through her nose, allowing thoughts of Tiberian to drift away with her breath.

  The scent of the Galuak tribe’s morning cook fires flowed in on the breeze. Out past the excavation team’s tents, she could see those fires flaring up amid animal hide shelters and igloos. The tangy, gamey smell of roasting caribou made her mouth water. It was an hour before the day’s work began, so she decided to call on the chieftain; it had been too long since she had last paid Cha’a’ni a visit. She grabbed the large walking stick she’d left leaning against the wall of her tent, then set off.

  The Galuak camp was bustling by the time she arrived. Fur-swaddled children ran hooting through the snow, tossing stuffed leather balls. Tribesmen enjoyed piping hot breakfasts of meat and fish, or stews filled with the roasted tubers and vegetables that grew beneath the frost. She saw a number of laborers she’d become acquainted with, among them Ka’tau, a young man who often ran errands for her; Su’ali, a pug-nosed woman who was the finest cook in the tribe; and a man who had dubbed himself “Rock” in the Etrean language because of his hulk-like musculature. All of them waved to her. She waved back.

  Chief Cha’a’ni’s hut was the only dwelling that employed more than a modicum of wood in its construction. Lumber was rare this far north; it could only be imported or harvested from patches of boreal forest that dotted the landscape. The hut was large by Galuak standards, its walls a circle of vertical planks fitted together, the roof a tarp of animal skins stretched over cross beams. Ay’ko, the young man standing guard outside, motioned for Faith to enter. Within, she found Cha’a’ni seated in the center of the hut, near a blazing fire pit. The smoke drifted out of a hole above.

  “La ti a’ku,” she said. Literally “Thanks be to a gracious host.” It was the customary form of greeting among the Zenithian tribes when on another’s land or in their home.

  The moment the chief saw her, he smiled and beckoned her over. “La ti e’to,” he said. Though the first two words were the same, they bore a different meaning in this context. The Zenithian tribal language had many words that changed significance depending on the situation, as well as a slew of unique words and phrases individual to each tribe.

  Faith found it all fascinating.

  She took a seat on the fur-covered floor, and removed her scarves and gloves. After, she reclined on a stuffed leather pillow. The aged chieftain turned his attention back to the fire, where a cast-iron cauldron bubbled merrily; the cauldron and an old radio in the corner were the only trappings of modernity to be seen. Cha’a’ni had told her that many of the other tribes had adopted some amount of technology, but not the Galuak. He said his people were the caretakers of the old ways; to embrace modern society would mean the death of their legacy.

  The old man produced a wooden ladle and spooned a portion of stew into an ornately carved bowl of animal bone, then handed it to Faith. “What brings you today, doctor?” he asked in Etrean. Though well into his seventies, he was sharp as ever; in the years she had been there, he had become as fluent in her tongue as she had in his.

  She accepted the bowl with gratitude and sipped. It was filled with chunks of tender white-pink fish meat, green onion-like vegetables, and hunks of a thick soft tuber the Galuak called halu, which tasted like potato, but with a yellow cast and a hint of sweetness. “I just wanted the pleasure of your company,” she said.

  Cha’a’ni chuckled. He piloted a bit of fish around his own bowl with bony fingers, sopping up dregs of broth, then popped it into his mouth. “I am too old for a beautiful woman to visit just for that.”

  “Flatterer,” Faith said, smiling. Aged or no, the man was a charmer. She blew on her stew to cool it, then took another gulp. Her belly gurgled approvingly.

  The chieftain eyed her stomach. “Work too much, eat too little.”

  She shrugged and picked out a steaming hot piece of halu. As she chewed, the heat escaping from the vegetable made her juggle the morsel around her mouth before swallowing. “I’m thinking of taking a team inside the pyramid today. Join me?”

  The old man considered. “I think not.”

  “Are you sure?” Carefully, she took another sip of stew. She couldn’t imagine anyone so easily relinquishing the chance to see something of such import. “This is your history. Don’t you want to see what’s in there?”

  “You will tell me all about it, yes, doctor?”

  “Faith,” she told him as she had a hundred times before. “Just Faith. And of course I’ll tell you all about it. It’s just . . .”

  “Faith,” the old man repeated. “This word, your name, in our language we say ga’ala’lu. To believe without condition. Unwavering. This is faith, yes? I have faith, in God, and in you.” He pressed a bony fingertip to her chest, just above her heart.

  A question formed on her lips, one she had wanted to ask for a great while now. She wanted to know why she was being allowed to dig up his tribe’s land.

  She had kept silent because of an irrational fear. She was afraid that Cha’a’ni, in thinking about her question, might decide he’d made some grave mistake and revoke her permission to excavate. Faith had dealt with tribal societies and nations alike; when it came to their land, or their ancestral heritage, both could be notoriously fickle. What was a valid archaeological dig one day could become a “violation of national and cultural interests” overnight.

  She had learned never to question permission.

  The chieftain seemed to sense her reluctance. “Ask, child,” he said. “Ask anything.”

  “Why?” she blurted. She couldn’t help herself. And she knew Cha’a’ni would never hurt her like that.

  “Why?” Cha’a’ni repeated.

  “Why did you let us dig here? Why let us to explore your holy places? Why trust me?” She was so used to dealing with suspicious bureaucrats who saw her as some despicable treasure hunter or glorymonger, someone looking to make a name for herself by exploiting their priceless past. But the Galu
ak had been different; they had accepted her and her work.

  The elder fingered his gray dreadlocks. “Many legends passed down by our people,” he said. “One speaks of man from another land who come to walk among us.” He paused, a twinkle in his eyes. “Other things I think you will not believe. But know that it tells us to trust this man . . . with our legacy.”

  “You’re talking about Tiberian.”

  He nodded. “He chose you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Cha’a’ni grinned, revealing yellowed teeth, several of them missing. “You didn’t know,” he said.

  Faith shook her head. Tiberian had chosen her? What did that mean? He hadn’t even met her until that first day. She’d always assumed he’d had some kind of say on who was to lead this dig, but she hadn’t ever thought . . . “Why?” she asked.

  “He had his reasons,” Cha’a’ni said. “That is all I know.”

  Faith sat in silence for a moment, mulling this over. Could it have been because he found her attractive, and had wanted to . . . ?

  She dismissed the notion. Logic—the one thing she counted on above all else—simply did not support such a conclusion. Tiberian cared deeply about this excavation. As much as she did, she was sure. He would have chosen the candidate he thought was best for the job.

  Furthermore, she just didn’t think he was that kind of man.

  She looked at Cha’a’ni and smiled. “He probably chose me because I was the most qualified,” she said. She was only half joking. She really did think she was the best.

  “There you have it,” the chieftain said. “Now finish your food before it is cold.”

  Faith drained the remainder of the broth, then ate the rest of the fish and onions and halu with her fingers, as was customary. All the while, she mulled over Cha’a’ni’s earlier words. “What did you mean by other things I wouldn’t believe?”

  The old man let slip an enigmatic smile, then pushed himself to his feet with a groan, his knees cracking. “Come. I will be your escort.”

  She wanted to press him for an answer, but there was time for that later. She grabbed her scarves and gloves, then stood and slipped her arm through his.

  The temple was waiting.

  9

  Nyne

  At 0900, on the day following the briefing on Kay’s brother, Nyne was in yet another meeting.

  This one regarded Private Stockton Finn.

  Sergeant Douglass was there, as well as Colonel Bringham and Eileen Crowley, from OAFAD—the Orion Armed Forces Attorney’s Department. While a handful of normal attorneys had been read in on the Psi Corps out of necessity, Crowley herself was also a psion. Nyne hoped that would make her more understanding.

  They went over the incident report first.

  Private Hosteen had been verbally harassing a Private DeGaulle, and Private Finn had intervened on her behalf. A fistfight had ensued. In the time it took for one of the privates to notify Douglass, Private Finn had used psionics to grievously injure Private Hosteen.

  Counselor Crowley spent the first half-hour interviewing Sergeant Douglass, ascertaining whether Finn’s actions were really inadvertent. Private Hosteen’s left cheekbone and eye socket had been shattered. The surgeons had said it was too early to know whether Hosteen would regain use of the eye. In any other branch of the military, Private Finn would have been subject to immediate discharge and housing in a military containment center until he could appear before a court-martial.

  But Finn was a psion, and that made things complicated.

  To start was the question of intent. Private Finn was an untrained psion. Douglass assured Crowley that, based on Finn’s training performance, the boy couldn’t have known what he was doing. Nyne seconded Douglass’s assessment.

  Even so, Crowley remained skeptical. She had never met Private Finn, and hearsay, even from the mouths of two officers of good repute, was not evidence.

  The whole thing made Nyne sick.

  The Psi Corps was a young institution, founded only decades earlier. The first psions had appeared within the past fifty years. The Psi Corps, the Armed Forces, and the government’s Psionic Development Oversight Committee had protocols that dealt with most situations. But these powers often precipitated unanticipated scenarios.

  Usually, when exceptional recruits appeared, they were culled out and trained privately, groomed to be officers. Private Finn had shown no indication of such potential. Never had they seen such a remarkably subpar soldier suddenly erupt. They should have been prepared for it; there should have been safeguards.

  Instead, they had one private in the hospital, and another in a holding cell.

  It was as much the Psi Corps’s fault as it was Finn’s, Nyne thought. He could still recall the awestruck look on the kid’s face when they’d met two nights ago. Nyne had failed Finn, and failed Hosteen. He’d failed Kay too; he hadn’t been able to help her; he’d only hurt her instead. He couldn’t imagine what it was like, seeing her brother that way after all these years.

  For all his power, Nyne felt helpless. Worthless.

  Eventually, Crowley was satisfied that Finn’s actions had been unintentional. She noted she would still have to interview the boy.

  The next order of business was to decide Finn’s fate, in the event that he was cleared of charges. Rather than reporting the incident to a superior, he’d tried to resolve it himself. And he’d engaged in fisticuffs. The incident would be noted in his record, and he would suffer appropriate punishment.

  However, the real question was whether Private Finn would be released at all.

  Colonel Bringham had remained quiet during the proceedings, but now he spoke. “Turn him over to Special Operations,” he said. “Let them sort it out.”

  “Sir,” Nyne said, “with all due respect . . .”

  All eyes turned to him.

  Bringham nodded curtly. “Go on.”

  “That’s insane,” Nyne said. Special Operations was an innocuous name for the darkest branch of Orion’s Armed Forces, a branch that included espionage, interrogation, and wetwork. They also ran specialized detainment compounds that did not appear in any official documentation.

  Bringham folded his arms. “They’ll assess Private Finn, determine if he’s a threat to himself or others. If not, they’ll send him back, or put him to good use. Otherwise . . .”

  “They’ll make him disappear,” Nyne said.

  “Got a better idea, Captain?”

  “No, sir. But he’s just a kid. We can’t commit him to an eight-by-ten in some off-the-map facility because he . . .”

  “Went off the reservation?” Bringham cut in. “Injured a fellow soldier? Acted with blatant disregard to life or limb? Resorted to physical violence in response to a verbal attack? That boy did wrong six ways to Sunday. Now, I’m in charge here unless the courts say different . . .” He shot a look at Crowley; she shrugged. “So he goes to SO. We clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Nyne said. “Sorry, sir.”

  Bringham rubbed his chin and sighed. “You’re wrong about one thing. He’s not just a kid. He’s a psion. If I could ship him back home, I would. But that’s not how we do things. Every psion has to be accounted for. And dammit, he’s dangerous. How do we stop him going off the deep end again? We’re not equipped to handle someone like him. SO is.”

  “We could equip him with a monitoring device,” Nyne suggested.

  “And in the time between when it goes off, and when someone shows up to do somethin’ about it, another recruit could be hurt. Or worse,” said Sergeant Douglass.

  Nyne looked at Douglass in shock. “You can’t actually be in favor of this.”

  “I ain’t.” The sergeant exhaled wearily. “But what other choice we got?”

  Nyne turned his attention to Crowley, who sat in tacit observation. “Is this even legal?” he asked her. Someone had to stop this madness.

  “My sole capacity here is to determine whether Private Finn should be brought up on charges,” she said.
“The rest . . . the law hasn’t caught up to.”

  Bringham grunted. “He goes to SO.”

  “But sir—” Nyne began.

  “My decision’s final,” Bringham said. “We’re done.”

  Nyne looked around hopelessly.

  He’d failed Private Finn again.

  Colonel Bringham began to rise when Sergeant Douglass cleared his throat.

  “Something to say, Miles?” asked the colonel.

  “Private DeGaulle asked to visit Private Finn in lockup,” Douglass said.

  “No,” Bringham said.

  “Sir,” Nyne broke in, “in light of the decision . . .” He left it hanging in the air, that this could be the very last opportunity for either of them to see each other.

  Bringham paused. Nyne could see the gears turning. Finally, the colonel’s shoulders slumped and he said, “Fine. Make sure it’s done soon. I want the boy shipped off ASAP.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Douglass.

  With that, the meeting was over. In the hallway, Nyne took Douglass aside. “Let me talk to Finn,” he said. “I’ll explain what’s going to happen.”

  “You sure?” the sergeant asked.

  “Yes,” said Nyne.

  Private Finn had been moved to the basement holding area in Grisham. Nyne rode the elevator into the depths of the military complex. It was dark and naturally cool, one of the few places where the ubiquitous white-washed walls gave way to cinderblock and concrete.

  A guard stopped Nyne in the antechamber.

  Nyne stated his name and business, and signed the logbook. Afterward, the guard led Nyne into a lengthy hall lined with barred rooms. Hanging lights buzzed overhead like flies, the acoustics amplifying the noise so it came from everywhere at once. Nyne’s footfalls echoed hollowly through the space. The smell of mildew was pervasive. Most of the cells were empty, but Finn had been placed in one of the rearmost rooms, probably to give security time to respond in case he tried to escape.