Fires of Man

by Dan Levinson

  A fine red mist.

  Aaron knew with a sickening clarity that it was not the end.

  The man in the robe would be back.

  What lesson had that man, that phantasm, wanted to teach? What was Aaron being prepared for? It was all too much. He stumbled to the bathroom and vomited up the grainy remnants of his popcorn, then rinsed his mouth and collapsed into bed.

  He never wanted to go back to the city. Not ever again.

  A fine red mist.

  24

  NYNE

  Nyne stood outside the gate of the large building in the Kyodai suburbs for several minutes. He could feel psionic power being wielded within.

  What was he to do?

  The place didn’t have the look of a military installation, but looks could be deceiving. Yet if the boy he had followed, Shimoyama, was a soldier, what was he doing here? Could it be some sort of cover?

  Hardening his resolve, Nyne inched open the gate.

  Inside, he found a large courtyard in a serious state of disrepair. Arrangements of stones cordoned off patches of dirt that might have once contained flowerbeds. Tufts of grass sprouted sporadically, often accompanied by weeds. A stone post with an open space for a lantern sat dark and empty.

  An uneven path led up to a huge building—one story tall and very wide—with an expansive rectangular roof of fluted ceramic tile that curved at the corners, hanging a few feet out from the exterior wall. The building was dilapidated, in desperate need of a paint job, but warm light spilled from the windows. It didn’t appear anyone was trying to hide his presence here. Nyne might have used his power to conceal himself if he had not been dealing with other psions; the people inside would surely detect his power as easily as he had detected theirs.

  Whatever had been happening in the building had begun to die down, because Nyne could sense only two psions actively using their powers. Most of the windows were occupied by sheets of paper-like material, but one was damaged. Flaps of cloth had been set over it, fluttering with the breeze, allowing brief glimpses inside.

  Nyne crept up for a better look.

  Through the curtain, Nyne could make out two white-garbed figures moving back and forth across a matted floor. The sounds of their shuffling feet, the grunts of their exertion, reached his ears.

  They were sparring.

  Suddenly the figures sprang into accelerated motion. Nyne didn’t dare heighten his own perception, so he watched the two psions exchange blows at speeds faster than his eyes could follow. He could make out several others around the room, but there was nothing to indicate this was a secret Kaitanese psionics program.

  If anything, it resembled a normal martial arts studio.

  The match went back and forth, the combatants evenly matched. At last, one of the fighters managed a leg sweep that sent the other sprawling.

  There was a loud snap, and a shriek of pain.

  The room burst into activity. An older-sounding man barked commands in Kaitanese. Nyne decided it was a good time to leave, in case anyone decided to go out for help.

  As he was about to go, someone yanked open the curtain.

  An older gentleman stared down at Nyne. He looked to be in his seventies, with wispy white hair, bushy eyebrows, and a close-cropped snowy beard. He began to speak in Kaitanese, then stopped. “Westerner,” he said in accented Etrean. “Now not good time for join dojo. Please, another time.” He began to close the curtain.

  Nyne stopped him. “You knew I was here?”

  “Yes,” the old man said. “Now, please, you go. Yes?” He strode away without another word. Some of the students, barefoot and in belted white uniforms, glanced in Nyne’s direction, including Shimoyama. Most of the twenty or so young men and four women didn’t even acknowledge Nyne’s presence. There were focused on the student on the floor, writhing, clutching his leg which was already turning red and swelling.

  The old man walked over and knelt next to the injured student, speaking in Kaitanese. The student grimaced and nodded. The old man gripped the younger man’s leg with powerful hands, gnarled like old bark, and tucked the younger man’s ankle under his armpit. He jerked the leg sharply—setting the break, no doubt. The student stifled a cry and collapsed back, panting, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

  However, the old man was not done.

  Nyne felt a familiar crackle of psionic energy. The old man felt at the site of the break, palpating the tissue. There was a surge of power in the man, and then the bright red of a fresh injury turned deep purple, and then brown, and then mottled yellow right before Nyne’s eyes. The student gasped in relief. The old man pushed himself back to his feet and said something to the other students.

  Nyne couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed. The old man had just used psionics to mend a broken leg! Nyne watched the other students take their injured friend off to the side. One brought out a first aid kit and began to tightly wrap the hurt student’s shin in a bandage.

  At that moment, the old man met Nyne’s gaze and motioned for Nyne to come inside. Barely able to contain himself, Nyne stepped away from the window and pushed open the door.

  He found himself in a huge sparring chamber, the wooden walls adorned with white hangings of beautiful Kaitanese calligraphy in black and red ink. Weapon racks held large staves and bamboo practice swords. The old man frowned and stopped Nyne with an upraised hand, then pointed to a set of cubbyholes filled with shoes. Nyne nodded and removed his sneakers, then stored them in an empty slot. Without another word, the old man turned and proceeded to the back of the room, sliding open a paneled door.

  Nyne set off after him.

  Past the door was a dark hallway lit by a few hanging lamps. The walls were unvarnished wood, punctuated by more delicate sliding doors with their fine lattices. The old man opened another of the doors and gestured for Nyne to proceed inside.

  Nyne entered a small spare room. A low wooden table lay in the center, atop the matted floor, with four blue cushions arranged around it. The old man seated Nyne on one of the cushions, then left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Nyne waited for several minutes, admiring the surroundings. There was a clean austerity to the place he enjoyed. The sparseness of his own living quarters at Grisham had always made him self-conscious, as if the fullness of his life could be gauged by the fullness of his room. But here . . . well, he thought he could get used to this aesthetic.

  The old man returned, bearing a tray with an antique white porcelain tea set. Tendrils of steam snaked up from the teapot’s spout. The man poured two cups of amber liquid and set one cup in front of Nyne, the other in front of himself. Afterward, the old man sat watching Nyne for a time, drinking his tea. Nyne was not certain if speaking first would be considered disrespectful, so he focused on his own tea, blowing softly to cool it and then taking small sips. It had a refreshing flavor with subtle flowery notes.

  “You not here for lesson,” the old man said at last.

  “That depends,” Nyne said carefully. “Can you teach me how you healed that kid’s leg?”

  “Heal?” The old man shook his head. “No understand.”

  “He had a broken leg,” Nyne said. “You fixed it. How?”

  The old man laughed. “Crazy. Crazy Westerner. I think you go now.” He set down his tea and rose from the table.

  Nyne wouldn’t allow it to end like this, though he didn’t blame the old man for trying to conceal his ability. Had circumstances been reversed, he knew he would have done the same thing. Still, this technique, whatever it was, could mean the difference between life and death for countless soldiers. It could mean the difference between victory and defeat.

  There was only one thing to do.

  Nyne seized his own power and used it to open the sliding door before the old man could reach it. “You don’t have to hide from me,” Nyne said, “but if you want me to go, I will.”

  The old man’s eyes widened so scarcely that his surprise barely registered. He grunted and returned to h
is cushion after shutting the door. “Who are you?” he asked. Most of his accent melted away. Nyne was surprised to hear him speak in crisp, practiced Etrean. “Tell me the truth, or you will learn nothing from me.”

  “My name is Major Nyne Allen, with the Orion Protectorate Armed Forces.”

  “And what brings you to Kaito, Major Nyne Allen?”

  Nyne hesitated. If he told the truth, it would be a betrayal of his assignment. He was all but certain this place had nothing to do with any Kaitanese military program, yet he was still obligated to report any psionic activity.

  But what was more patriotic, really—following his orders to the letter, or bringing home a valuable skill that could save lives? Nyne could tell that full transparency was more likely to get him somewhere with this man. The importance of this gift, this ability to heal, would be immeasurable for Orion’s cause. He couldn’t help but think that, if he had known the trick a week ago, he might have helped Private Hosteen keep his eye, or saved the life of that junkie in the alleyway.

  The risk was worth the reward.

  “I’m here to assess whether your government has started a psionics program,” he said.

  The old man’s expression remained unchanged. “Psionics? What is this?”

  “These powers we use, in Etrean we call them psionics.”

  “New words for something so old.” The man barked a laugh. “Ki. All is ki.”

  “I don’t understand,” Nyne said.

  “A warm breeze,” the old man said, “is ki. A mountain stream, its downward flow, that is ki. The circulation of blood, the passion of the heart, is ki.”

  Nyne shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “If you wish to learn how to heal the sick, the injured, you must understand ki. It is energy. All things have energy, yes?” The old man leaned forward.

  “All things have energy,” Nyne repeated. “I understand, but that still doesn’t—”

  “You wish me to teach?” the old man interrupted. “You must be willing to be taught.”

  Nyne stared at the old man, battering down his aggravation. “I apologize,” he said. “Please continue.”

  The old man drained the last of his tea, then poured another cup. He sipped it lightly, saying nothing. It was as if he wanted to draw things out as long as possible to prove his point.

  “In our philosophy,” he said at last, “there are five elements, naturally occurring, and also within us all. Ji, earth; sui, water; ka, fire; fu, wind; and ku, the void.” He took another sip of his tea. “Tell me why you wish to learn, Major Nyne Allen.”

  Nyne blinked. He had not expected the question, but he had only one answer, prepared or not. “To save lives,” he said. “Especially my fellow soldiers’ lives.”

  “War,” the old man said distastefully. “I will not help your country make war.”

  “Please,” Nyne said. “We’re already at war. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. All I want is to keep men and women alive.”

  The old man looked at Nyne for a long time, his eyes as black and hard as obsidian. Nyne couldn’t help but feel his very soul was laid bare before the man’s gaze. Finally the old man stood and gathered the teacups, placing them back on the tray. “I am Ishimoto. You will call me sensei. Return here at eight o’clock tomorrow night, Nyne Allen.”

  “Wait,” Nyne said, “that’s it? I thought—”

  “Tomorrow night. Eight o’clock.” Ishimoto opened the sliding door and left Nyne sitting there alone. When Nyne exited the building, the place was empty. He didn’t see the students, or Ishimoto.

  Outside, his driver Oshikawa waited nervously by the car. “What happen?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Nyne reassured him. Nothing he could tell Oshikawa about, at least.

  At long last, Nyne had the driver take him to Camp Jouka.

  They arrived after a half-hour.

  The place was all Nyne might have expected, with high concrete walls fitted with barbed wire surrounding an enormous compound, composed of many large, drab-colored buildings. It was a far cry from Kyodai proper. Nyne could see an expansive lane that led down to a crossroads, with two-story buildings he presumed were central command visible farther down. Off to the left was a large residential section; little dots of light indicated distant windows. Inside those homes, servicemen would be enjoying quiet evenings with their loved ones. It occurred to Nyne that, for the first time in his life, he might have a house of his own.

  It began to dawn on him then what a change this would be. He’d lived in a vacuum at Grisham, serving in the Psi Corps. The population of psions was so small compared to the greater Orion Armed Forces that the number of soldiers under his command at Camp Jouka dwarfed the company he’d commanded at Grisham. He had to remind himself that, on paper, the Psi Corps did not officially exist; it was known only to the highest echelons of the government and military, so secret that Nyne had heard rumors the president of the Orion Protectorate States was only read in after his inauguration.

  On paper, Nyne was a major of the Orion Protectorate Army, not the Psi Corps. He knew that here, at Camp Jouka, he would be expected to perform the regular duties befitting his rank. As XO to the commanding officer of a full battalion, he would oversee the day-to-day management of more than a thousand soldiers. There

  would be no favoritism because of his abilities; more likely, no one would know of them. It was jarring to have been so immersed in that world, that microcosm, and then find himself in a place where he would have to keep his power secret from almost everyone.

  Nyne had Oshikawa drop him off at the main checkpoint outside Camp Jouka, then watched the man unload his luggage from the trunk.

  “How would you like to continue being my driver?” he asked.

  “At your service,” Oshikawa said, as if reciting the words from somewhere.

  “Pick me up tomorrow night,” Nyne said. “Seven-fifteen.” He almost offered the man a tip, then remembered he wasn’t supposed to.

  “Seven-fifteen,” Oshikawa affirmed. He gave Nyne a sharp nod, then hopped in the car and drove away.

  Nyne watched the receding taillights for a moment, then turned and walked up to the checkpoint that led into the compound. Things were so different here, yet somehow so familiar. He would still be living penned in by walls, though here there was no desert waiting on the other side. He still had his duty to his country, no matter how different the responsibilities were.

  He presented his credentials to the soldiers stationed at the checkpoint and was informed that he was supposed to report to Camp Jouka’s CO as soon as possible. One of the soldiers picked up a phone and called the main base, and within minutes a heavy rover with an open cab rolled up. The driver hopped down, and snapped a salute. “Major,” he said, “I’m Corporal Talbot. I’ll take you down to central command.” He loaded Nyne’s luggage into the car.

  They proceeded down the main avenue. Nyne took in the sights.

  In many ways, the base resembled a town, even a small city. He knew there were thousands of men and women here; some were soldiers, some those soldiers’ families, while others were civilians whose lot in life had led them here.

  Along the way, Talbot pointed out notable landmarks. “Over there we have Main Street,” he said, gesturing to rows of darkened shapes off on the right. Street lamps spread pools of yellow light over the nearby pavement. Farther off, Nyne could make out a marquee. “Not really the main street,” Talbot went on, “but we call it that because so many places call the street where all the shops are, you know, Main Street.” He laughed nervously.

  Nyne gave Talbot a reassuring smile.

  “The commissary’s over there,” Talbot continued, “and we also have a clothing store, some restaurants, an electronics depot where you can get yourself set up with a cell phone that works around here, if you like. There’s even a movie theater. It’s one of the only places ’round here that shows movies from back West, so it’s always packed.” Talbot di
dn’t mention that most of those movies probably came from Evergrove, the seat of the Calchan film industry. Orion’s film business simply did not compare. “We get the new releases a month or two after they come out back home, and there are only four screens, but it’s a real comfort out here.”

  Nyne nodded absently. His initial impression, that this place was similar to Grisham, was fading. If anything, the place reminded him more of his hometown in Dorning: a sleepy suburb called Robertston. Camp Jouka would be anything but sleepy come morning, with drills and exercises, arms training at the firing ranges, shops open for duty, but for now it was . . . peaceful.

  He glanced up at the sky, taking in the unfamiliar arrangement of the stars. Nyne had read in his brief packet that, although Camp Jouka was considered within the Kyodai city limits, the installation stood more than five miles from the outlying suburbs, and even farther from the urban center. In Grisham, one had to be out in the desert to see the stars hanging overhead, but here the light pollution was minimal. Looking up at the twinkling expanse, and the pale moon swollen in its heavenly cradle, Nyne was reminded of that day about a week ago when he’d visited the desert outposts to speak to new recruits.

  Though she was thousands of miles away, Kay was under the same sky.

  He smiled, and pushed away the thought. That was the past, now. A whole other life.

  Talbot pulled over at their destination: a large building of slate-gray brick. A flag emblazoned with the golden sun of Orion flapped lightly on its post. Nyne retrieved his bags from the car’s backseat, then headed inside.

  A soldier at the front desk told Nyne where he could find Major General Matheson, and also where he could find his own office if he wanted to stop in. Nyne decided to do exactly that.

  He traversed the hallways, flanked by green walls with a dark stripe along the middle, linoleum tile underfoot. Nyne had never thought he would be so glad to get away from the fluorescent lights and glaring, ubiquitous whitewash that pervaded the rooms and corridors of Grisham’s underground Psi Corps complex.