Fires of Man

by Dan Levinson

  She set off again, ignoring the queasy feeling, the fingers of fear that clawed at her stomach and threatened to paralyze her. As she ascended, the heat lessened slightly, but not enough for any real respite. She tried to keep her breathing steady and even, inhaling and exhaling through her nose. She drew out the exhalations for as long as possible, which calmed the body and mind, she had learned. Who knew yoga classes would be useful in a place like this? Still, maintaining composure was a constant battle. Fear wasn’t productive, she told herself; it would weaken her, cloud her perception, influence her judgment. She needed to remain detached and, above all, rational.

  Logic would see her through.

  The internal struggle went on as she continued upward. She used positive self-talk to beat back the choking tide of anxiety. Her dread became a low, omnipresent buzz at the corner of her psyche, held at bay but not truly gone—only lurking, waiting for its moment to break free. She prided herself on her ability to remain cool and collected, to look at things analytically, but the current situation put that to the test more than ever before. She had made the right decision, she reassured herself. Her best odds lay in finding the exit herself.

  Or had her dedication to self-reliance inadvertently doomed her?

  She shuddered at the thought.

  The corridor ended in another round room, again with three branches. She wasted no time in marking the path she had come from, and then located the next passage that exhibited an incline.

  Doubt niggled at her. She still didn’t know whether the ancients had intended the way out to be clear, or whether there was some trick to the halls meant to ensnare trespassers. If the other two branches were as short as the ones that had led to the storage chamber on the floor below, it wouldn’t take her long to confirm it. Knowing that they were dead ends would go far to ease her state of mind.

  Luckily, she found that both passages ended in small square chambers. One was another small vault, and the other held squat stone benches and an altar. Clearly the room was ceremonial. Faith found another mural painted on the far wall, but didn’t take the time to examine it. She headed back to the branching chamber and again took the ascending path, fighting the urge to rush headlong up the slope.

  Once more she was greeted by a room with multiple doorways. This time she quickly marked the wall behind her, then sought the upward hallway. Again, it was the left-hand passage.

  Every time, a left.

  Suddenly, the layout of the place sprang full-formed into her mind.

  She was spiraling upward, going in an ever-widening loop, until finally she would have to reach the top.

  Elation filled her, and certainty. This place was not meant to trap anyone; it was a ritual structure. She wondered if the pit she had fallen through was a religious initiation, a leap of faith in which the chosen person would have to face their mortality. That had to be it. It was a death-and-rebirth ritual, its completion being to emerge anew from the subterranean depths. Faith’s radar surveys had left the passages fuzzy, impossible to discern, yet what had been clear was that construction beneath the pyramid descended into the plateau in the shape of an inverted triangle—a symbol of the sacred feminine. The pit represented death, the pool the waters of mother earth’s womb, perhaps, and the process of emerging from those waters, emerging from the heart of the underground itself, was rebirth!

  Faith was so mystified that, for a moment, she forgot all about whether she herself would live or die. What she had was only a theory, her conclusions extrapolated from what she knew of other such cults and mystical initiatory religions. But she felt absolutely certain.

  Again, she thought of the book she would write, how she would share her thoughts and discoveries with the world. She was in it for the work, always for the work, but after all she had been through, she felt a little adulation, a little reward was in order. There would be a book tour, and talk shows. Her publicist would want to capitalize on the tale of her near-death experience, she was sure, but that was an issue for another day.

  For now, she felt only a deep sense of joy.

  Faith passed through another branching room, and another. Each passage was longer than the last, in perfect accord with the map she had laid out in her head. She felt confident now that she would find a way out.

  At last she came to a room with no branches, no other pathways, only a set of steps flanked by columns with copper sconces set on top. On the floor in front of the stairs was a replica of the central panel of the mural from above—a man in profile who held the world in the palm of his hand. It appeared likely that when no initiation rite was in effect, this underground complex served as a temple and place of learning for the priestly caste, as indicated by the storerooms and prayer room she had encountered. She would not be surprised if, on further exploration, she found sleeping chambers as well.

  Faith approached the staircase, shining her flashlight up the steps. There was a kind of trapdoor up there—a huge slab of stone. She trudged up the steps, looking for a handle, but found nothing. She pushed at it, but it might as well have been part of the ceiling.

  Shit.

  In ancient times there would have been priests waiting above, ready to extricate the newly initiated from the bowels of the pyramid. The door probably had to be opened from the other side. There was no telling what part of the structure it led into, and therefore no way to know whether there would be anyone to set her free.

  Despair returned in full bloom. “Help!” she yelled. “Anyone up there? Can anyone hear me? Help!”

  No answer.

  She had come all this way, only to end up trapped on the verge of escape.

  It was all so horribly ironic that she laughed, bitterly.

  Then she sat down to think. Would she be able to make it back to where she had started? That was as likely to get her out of here as screaming.

  Maybe there was a trick to the trapdoor.

  She went over the slab with painstaking detail, looking for any odd seam or mark, anywhere along the surface that the stone looked different. She didn’t turn up a thing. She examined the columns too, the mural, the walls, to no result.

  Fear ate away at her resolve. She began to feel an odd sense of resignation. She was exhausted. Maybe the end would be peaceful. She didn’t believe in an afterlife or reincarnation. The only thing she believed in was long, dreamless sleep. Oblivion. A final extinguishing of consciousness.

  It was beginning to sound almost pleasant . . .

  She shook herself.

  It was dehydration talking, a subversive wooziness. Faith sat down on the steps and took a few more gulps of water. The bottle was almost empty now. Her vision had begun to tilt; her mouth was bone dry even after the drink; light nausea had set in. She knew she was still in the mild onset stages. Nothing a couple sports drinks packed with electrolytes couldn’t fix. But if she exerted herself for much longer in this damnable heat, it wouldn’t be long before things turned serious.

  Leaving this room was no longer an option.

  So she screamed.

  She walked to the top of the steps, pressed her mouth to the stone, and screamed for help as loud as she could. She screamed until her throat was raw and stars swam in front of her eyes. She screamed with every fiber of her being.

  Dammit, she thought, I want to live!

  26

  KAY

  God. She had done it. With Jackie. Shit.

  The truth was she felt unprepared for the implications, the ramifications of it. But dammit . . .

  It had been good.

  He had been a little long on the foreplay. He’d kissed her, stroked her neck, teased her breasts and belly and inner thighs with his fingers, his lips, his tongue. It had gotten to a point where she’d wanted to scream at him to get on with it already! But once he had started . . .

  Yes, it had been good. Actually. It had been fucking great.

  Twice. That was how many times she . . . At least, that was how many times, the first time they . . . Oh, Go
d. It was true, she’d found out, the common wisdom about black guys. Just thinking about his . . . It made her body tingle.

  Later, she lay there in the dark, content. Her head rested on Jackie’s chest, and she listened to his steady heartbeat. His fingers traced the line of her collarbone. She did not speak, nor did he; they were content to simply be. In that moment, she was grateful for the simple closeness of him. For the first time in as long as she could remember, everything felt in its right place.

  Tiberian and Nyne had made their choices, and she would make hers.

  She decided she wanted food.

  Kay pushed herself up and playfully slapped Jackie on the belly. He started in surprise. For some reason, this greatly amused her.

  “Where are you going?” he asked. Though the lights were out, the blinds on the large fixed window behind his bed were drawn back, allowing the multicolored illumination of Grisham’s skyline to drive away some of the darkness. His ebony skin faded into shadow, though she could see the outline of him; the light from the window gleamed along the contours of his form. He propped himself up on an elbow. She could see his eyes, and his smile.

  “To raid your fridge,” she said. She pulled on her panties, discarded in the space between Jackie’s bed and the nearby wall.

  “I’ve got a six-pack,” he said. “And ketchup.”

  “Sometimes, I wonder if guys can survive on beer and condiments alone.”

  “Got takeout menus,” he said. “I’m sure we can find some place that still delivers this late. Don’t go anywhere.” He vaulted out of bed.

  “Where would I go?” she asked.

  He flashed another grin and left the bedroom.

  Kay groped in the dark for the rest of her clothes, then decided not to bother. Instead she slid over to the opposite side of the bed so she could get at Jackie’s dresser. It was hardly fair how men got to wear all the loose, comfortable clothing. She wanted to be comfortable too. She had no compunctions about commandeering one of Jackie’s T-shirts.

  She rummaged around, going by feel. Her hand brushed against something hard—a box of some kind, small and rectangular. The wood grain was rough beneath her thumb.

  A gun box?

  The thought of Jackie owning a gun was, well, actually sort of hot. Members of the Psi Corps were still required to undergo firearms training, so she was no stranger to them.

  Her curiosity piqued, Kay tried to open the box. Quite unsurprisingly, it was locked.

  She was about to grab for her inner power when—

  “What are you in the mood for?” Jackie called. “Got some Isaian menus, fusion or Kaitanese if you want sushi. And there’s this place La Cocinita that makes a great spicy pulled pork sandwich. Also got a diner here . . .”

  “Pulled pork sounds amazing,” she yelled back. She flicked on the black stand lamp on Jackie’s dresser so she could see the box. She would just take a quick peek. No harm in that. She took hold of her power and used a sliver of energy to pop the lock.

  She inched the lid open.

  IDs stared back at her. Most were laminated driver’s licenses, all with Jackie’s face on them. They were from different places: some Orion; some Calchis; some elsewhere entirely. Many of the names were different too; she saw an ID for “Marcus Trask” and one for “Jamal Lewis” and another for “Cole Jackson.”

  At the bottom, she found passports.

  Kay’s stomach dropped.

  “What are you doing?” Jackie asked.

  She whirled to see him standing there with an orange takeout menu, staring at her.

  What should she do? He must have seen her poking around, though perhaps the sides of the drawer kept him from seeing the box. She could play it off, act like she had only intended to take one of his shirts. That had been all she was after in the first place.

  But . . . she couldn’t bring herself to do that.

  He’d been lying to her!

  She thought about the strange man in black she had seen with Jackie, the one who had given her such a chill. Was this who Jackie really was—a liar, a criminal? Worse?

  God, she felt so unclean all of a sudden! She wanted to bathe, to wash him off her!

  He had been too perfect! How had she not seen?

  Heart thudding, she lifted the box and placed it on the dresser. “What’s this?” she asked.

  Something crossed his features—some conflict—but it was gone as soon as it appeared.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “Work stuff.” He actually had the gall to smile. “We should order soon. They close in an hour and I don’t know how long they’ll deliver. Unless you wanna go out.”

  “I’m serious,” she said. “Why do you have all these?”

  “Come on,” he said, “don’t worry about it. It’s for my job, that’s all. Look, I’m not mad you went through my stuff. How could I be mad at you when you’re dressed like that?”

  Kay realized she was still in only her underwear. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling horribly vulnerable, and glared at him.

  Did he think she was stupid?

  I don’t need this shit, she thought. Just when things were looking up, this had to come along and blindside her. Time for damage control. This . . . thing with Jackie had been fun while it lasted, but now it was time to stop the inevitable train wreck before it left the station. That was clearly the best, no, the only option.

  So why did it have to hurt so badly?

  She stalked to the other side of the bed, pushing past Jackie. She dropped down onto the mattress and gathered up her clothes. She put on her bra, which at that moment felt overly tight and restricting, yet also somehow reassuring, like armor. She thanked God her fingers didn’t fumble with the clasp. Then she pulled on her socks and grabbed her jeans.

  “You’re leaving?” he asked.

  “What does it look like?” She wriggled into her jeans, buttoned and zippered them, then donned her blouse.

  “It’s not what you think it is,” he said. “Really.”

  He still wanted to dance around it? Fine. Two could play that game. “What is it I’m thinking, Jackie? Enlighten me.”

  She went for the bedroom door.

  He caught her arm.

  Power welled up in her. She looked into his eyes, ready to lay him flat, but . . . all she saw in him was sadness and disappointment. She let go of her power and shook her arm free.

  “Let me explain,” he said.

  “Why should I? I don’t even know who you are!”

  “A spy,” he said. “A corporate spy. My boss is negotiating a deal with your military and I’m supposed to get insider—”

  “Am I a mark?” she asked.

  He hesitated.

  Kay stormed out of the bedroom. She grabbed her bag from the red couch in the living room. She went to the door and stepped into her boots.

  Jackie followed her, dressed only in boxer shorts. His feet slapped against the wood floor. “You have to understand—”

  “Understand what?” she snapped. “Was that whole thing with the creep at the bar a setup? Did you think I would just give you what you wanted if you asked nicely enough? Or did you want to steal something from me? Well, I have news for you, I don’t know a single thing worth shit to you! So you’re a fucking idiot!”

  “It wasn’t a setup,” he said. “And what I’m after doesn’t matter anymore. Things have changed. Kay, I really—”

  “Are you seriously going to try that on me, you asshole?” she demanded. “Take your bullshit and shove it, Jackie! If that’s even your real name!” She unlatched his door.

  Jackie ran up beside her and put his palm on the door, keeping it closed. “I’m sorry,” he said, “and I’m telling you the truth. I won’t ask for anything. And you said it yourself, there’s nothing I could steal from you. So please . . .”

  “I’d like to leave now,” she said.

  He took his hand from the door.

  Then he kissed her.

  Caught up in the mom
ent, Kay let it linger a second. When he pulled away, he looked at her with wondering eyes.

  She slapped him. Then she yanked open the door.

  “Wait,” he said.

  “Fuck you.” She stepped into the hall and slammed the door in his face.

  One, two, three, four, five.

  The elevator ride to the lobby was a private hell. Shame and self-loathing were her only company. How could she have been such a fool?

  As much as she wanted to deny it, she had possessed real feelings for Jackie. There was a part of her that desperately wished she could believe he had been honest in those last few moments, that what they shared had been real, even if all she knew about him had been a lie.

  It was a vain hope.

  Jackie was a man who employed seduction as a tool. Every moment of their relationship had been designed not only to make her fall for him, but to make her trust him too. He had played her so artfully, and the fact that she had gone and jumped into bed with him . . . !

  She wanted to howl, scream, break something! She would have loved to break his teeth, most of all. If she had believed in God in any more than a vague agnostic way, she would have sworn she was being punished, but the worst part was she knew she had no one to blame but herself. She had told herself, over and over again, that getting involved with him was a terrible idea. Stupid, foolish, and impulsive. And, against her better judgment, she’d gone and done it anyway. She’d let her emotions get the best of her, make her decisions for her.

  What the hell was wrong with her?

  She knew the first thing she should do was notify her superiors, but that would carry with it serious consequences. Everyone would find out. She would probably lose her shot at becoming an officer.

  What do I do? What the fuck do I do?

  She strode into the lobby, not allowing herself to be sad, only angry. Make that furious. Sadness was paralyzing, but rage could be a driving force. She asked the doorman to call her a cab and the man nearly jumped out of his skin. She was scowling up a storm, she realized, but did not care. She had not brought a coat with her, but the thought of spending one more moment in this awful building was so abhorrent that she decided to wait for her taxi outside, in the cold desert night. She hugged herself for warmth.