Fires of Man

by Dan Levinson

  With a growl, Merry switched the game system off and set it down on the bed. He repositioned himself to face Finn, wincing all the while.

  “You’re sorry? They put bolts in my face. I don’t know if I’ll ever see out of my left eye again. I have a goddamn headache every second of every day. You’re sorry? Fuck you!”

  Finn stood his ground.

  All Merry had were words, he reminded himself. And he owed it to Merry to weather whatever vitriol the injured boy wished to dole out.

  “I know there’s nothing I can do to make up for it. I just wanted you to know—”

  “Go away, you fucking asshole!” Merry shrieked. Then he clutched at his face in agony and began to rock back and forth. “I hate you, I hate you! I wish you were dead.”

  Finn felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Lieutenant Gilbert.

  “You need to leave,” the doctor said.

  Finn left the infirmary. Merry’s wet, pain-soaked whimpers dogged his every step.

  When Finn emerged, he had to support himself against the side of the building. He was glad he hadn’t eaten, because he felt the urge to empty his stomach. The world lurched and twirled. He bent over double to keep himself from toppling over. His heart was a hammer smashing against his ribcage, and the echoing pulse in his temples made his head feel swollen, as if his brain would split his skull. He swallowed air in huge gulps.

  Slowly but surely, the panic attack began to fade. It was not his first. That had come during a biology test in the ninth grade, when he had studied the wrong material. The teacher had spotted him, pale and sweating, sent him to the nurse, and let him take a make-up test.

  But there were no do-overs here.

  What was done was done, and the consequences were his to bear.

  29

  NYNE

  During his first few weeks in Kaito, Nyne’s life became a balancing act—his duties as a major against his work with Ishimoto, and that work against what he was supposed to be doing for Orion Intelligence. Nyne’s instincts about Major Leon Kolver had proved to be correct; the man had a staggering superiority complex. Even had Nyne not been keeping Ishimoto’s dojo a secret for his own reasons, he would not have helped Kolver simply on principle.

  He spent most of his hours dealing with military bureaucracy, helping to organize war games to keep the troops in shape, and aiding his new direct superior, Lieutenant Colonel Sanada, with whatever the man needed. Their first meeting came the day after Nyne’s arrival. He entered Sanada’s office at promptly 0600 to report for duty.

  “Major Allen,” Sanada said. He was in his forties, a pleasant, wiry-looking man of Kaitanese descent. “I’ve heard excellent things about you from Colonel Bringham over in Grisham. It’s a pleasure.” He extended a hand.

  “Likewise, sir,” Nyne said. He accepted the handshake. The lieutenant colonel’s grip was firm. “I look forward to working with you.”

  Sanada motioned for Nyne to take a seat; Nyne did, and in the process he glanced around Sanada’s office. In addition to the usual plaques and awards, there were several commendations written entirely in Kaitanese, as well as framed newspaper clippings featuring Sanada front and center.

  “I see those caught your attention,” Sanada said.

  “What are they, sir?” Nyne asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “A couple years back, a few of our privates were accused of sexually assaulting a high school girl while off-base,” Sanada said.

  Nyne nodded. He remembered hearing about that on the news.

  “Suffice it to say, the Kaitanese were not happy. The incident gave rise to the strongest anti-Orion sentiment since our countries fought over the Lanoan islands in 1904. The government wanted to kick us out completely,” Sanada said.

  “I heard they came pretty close to doing it, sir,” Nyne said.

  “Well, that was the story, anyway. Between you and me, I don’t think it would’ve happened. With the Jiangmese breathing down their necks, and allying with Calchis, they needed our presence here.”

  “I can imagine, sir,” Nyne agreed. The People’s Socialist Republic of Jiangma was the fastest growing nation in the world, with a population of nearly one-and-a-half billion. They were aggressive, powerful, and wealthy. They loomed like a constant threat over the region, and, with Calchis at their side, over the world.

  “Of course, the Kaitanese government made a big old stink,” Sanada said. “And rightfully so. That kind of behavior’s disgusting and inexcusable. I’m a first-generation Orionan; my parents came straight from Kaito. So I know the language, the customs. I volunteered to defuse the situation. I was able to talk them down, negotiate for our continued presence here. And I found the jackwads who hurt that girl, discharged them, and handed them over. They’re rotting in a Kaitanese jail as we speak.”

  “That’s very admirable, sir,” Nyne said.

  “You don’t have to suck up to me, Major.”

  “I’m not, sir,” Nyne said. “I mean it.”

  “Well,” Sanada said, “since then, I’ve been heading up pro-Orion PR. The Kaitanese are more comfortable with me, because I’m almost one of their own. At least, that’s how they see it. I won’t lie and say I don’t enjoy the spotlight. But it means my time to oversee day-to-day tasks is limited. That’s where you come in, Major. I hope you’re used to being busy, because you’re going to have a lot on your plate.”

  Sanada was true to his word. He was gone more days than not, negotiating with Kaitanese officials, or attending meetings along with the Orionan ambassador, or visiting Orionan assemblymen. Nyne made sure to give his new responsibilities his best effort. He wouldn’t shortchange the men and women now under his command because of other matters on his plate. He exemplified diligence and discipline, without being harsh. He made sure his subordinates knew that they could come to him with their problems, if need be.

  All of this resulted in Nyne having very little time of his own, especially with Kolver imposing his own demands on Nyne’s schedule. The man had Nyne scout various districts and establishments several nights a week, following “unconfirmed reports of electromagnetic disturbances” picked up by unauthorized satellite surveillance.

  Sometimes Nyne thought Kolver was intentionally making life difficult. Other times he wondered if it was some sort of recruitment test for Orion Intelligence, to discover if Nyne would blindly follow orders or take the initiative. Regardless, it was exceedingly difficult for Nyne to visit Ishimoto. It hadn’t helped that the old man had initially insisted on always setting the date and time.

  At least Nyne had been able to talk him down on that.

  Nyne’s education regarding the Kaitanese philosophy on psionics was by turns enlightening, interesting, and frustrating. According to Ishimoto, great masters throughout history had trained all their lives to unlock the power of ki, though none had possessed the inborn ability that had begun to spread through the population. Nyne didn’t quite believe, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

  The most challenging part of study under Ishimoto was that he wanted Nyne to relearn everything he’d been taught. According to Ishimoto, one key to mastery was understanding how energy could be broken down and categorized. To treat all energy as uniform, despite the variegated effects that could be produced through psionics, was what Ishimoto called a “brute force approach.”

  Nyne didn’t learn anything particularly useful—he felt—for the first two weeks. Ishimoto was determined to make Nyne buy into this ki idea. When Nyne was not forced to observe Ishimoto teach his regular students, the old man took Nyne on walks to local gardens, and even to an ancient temple ruin on the outskirts of the suburbs. He was adamant that Nyne learn to sense the ki in nature, the flows of energy that naturally existed in the world.

  On one such day, Ishimoto informed Nyne that they would be heading somewhere special for training. Ishimoto drove his old silver sedan to a parking lot near a forest path, and they spent the next hour pushing through thick folia
ge and undergrowth.

  It was 1200 hours when they reached the waterfall.

  Pouring out from a cleft in the cliff above, the fall descended in a rush of frothing white and blue, feeding a wide, stoney stream at the bottom. On both sides, the mountain face was covered in thick trees and other greenery, and scattered throughout the area were small groupings of white flowers. As Nyne and Ishimoto approached on the woodland trail, beaten into the ground by thousands of feet before their own, Nyne had to stop for a moment to take it in. He was so awestruck that it took sharp prodding from Ishimoto’s bony fingers to get him moving again.

  They settled on the bank near the waterfall. Ishimoto sat amid the grass, folding his thin legs beneath him. Nyne followed suit.

  “Have you ever heard of a waterfall meditation?” Ishimoto asked.

  Nyne shook his head.

  Ishimoto smiled and rested his hands on his knees, palms upward. “The Kanto monks often practice this meditation. They sit beneath the waterfall and attempt to maintain serenity while all of this pours down upon them.”

  “What about hypothermia?” Nyne asked.

  “These monks train for years to regulate their temperature and other vital functions.”

  “I can’t do any of that,” Nyne said.

  “Do not worry,” Ishimoto said. “We are here for a different purpose.”

  “How different?”

  “You will still need to go beneath the waterfall,” Ishimoto said, “if that’s what you are wondering.”

  Nyne suppressed a grimace.

  Ishimoto slapped his knees, then jumped to his feet with the vigor of a much younger man. “I will give a demonstration,” he said. “Watch carefully.” The old man shook off his shoes, removed his socks, folded them, and placed them inside the shoes. Then he headed toward the waterfall.

  As Ishimoto neared the cascading water, Nyne felt psionic power spring up around him. With slow, sure steps, Nyne’s sensei stepped into the fall and sat.

  Nyne had been expecting Ishimoto to divert the flow somehow to keep himself from getting wet. Instead, rushes of water crashed down on top of Ishimoto’s head. Nyne knew the old man had to be using psionics for something, but he couldn’t tell what. It appeared Ishimoto was just sitting there and allowing the downpour to soak him head to toe.

  Ishimoto remained there several minutes longer, holding perfectly still, exhibiting no movement beyond the expansion and contraction of his ribcage as he breathed. He was like a statue erected in defiance of natural forces that threatened to tear it down, as impassive and immovable as stone.

  Nyne was suitably impressed. However Ishimoto was using his power, it was too subtle for Nyne to detect.

  Without fanfare, the old man stood and stepped across the rocks in the stream, back to the bank where Nyne waited.

  “What did you see?” he asked.

  Nyne knew there was some answer Ishimoto wanted to hear, but didn’t know what. “I . . . saw you sit under the water.”

  Ishimoto grunted, a sound of clear disappointment. “What do you see now?” he asked.

  “I don’t understand,” Nyne said.

  “What do you see now?” Ishimoto repeated, more insistent.

  “I see . . .” Suddenly it hit him. “You’re dry!”

  “Indeed,” Ishimoto said.

  “But how?” Nyne asked. “I didn’t see a barrier or anything. I didn’t—”

  “Hush,” Ishimoto said. “You think too much. Always thinking, thinking. Your mind whirls like a child’s top, spinning in circles. One day you will collapse under the weight of your own aimlessness.”

  “If I don’t think, how am I supposed to figure out what you did?” Nyne asked.

  “You observe with your eyes, when you should look with your heart,” Ishimoto said. “You think with your mind, when your inner self already has the answers.”

  Nyne looked hopelessly at Ishimoto.

  When it came to this sort of esoteric rambling, pseudo-spiritual meanderings, he was utterly lost. He liked to think he was open-minded, vaguely spiritual, after a fashion, but all of this was completely beyond him.

  “You do not believe in the elements,” Ishimoto said, “in ki. How can I teach you the true seeing if you are unwilling to accept the most basic principles?”

  “I—”

  “Ah, ah,” Ishimoto said. “That was, what do you call it? Rhetorical. Yes. A rhetorical question, for which I will provide the answer. A riddle. The answer is I must give you a riddle.”

  “A riddle?”

  “Not a riddle of the mind.” Ishimoto touched his index finger to his forehead. “But of the heart.” He touched his finger to his chest. “Now come,” he said. “It is your turn under the waterfall.”

  “But you haven’t even . . .”

  “Haven’t what?” Ishimoto asked.

  “You haven’t told me the riddle!”

  “Haven’t I?” Ishimoto rubbed his gnarled hands together and laughed, a mischievous glee in his eyes. “No more waiting. Go. Go now.”

  Reluctantly, Nyne pushed himself to his feet, feeling completely bewildered. He followed Ishimoto’s lead and removed his shoes and socks. He seized his power.

  “Again,” Ishimoto snapped.

  “What?”

  “You Westerners, always thinking you must take what you need, grab it. So violent. Why?” He paused, meeting Nyne’s gaze. “Release your ki. Your . . . psionic energy.”

  Nyne did as he was told, allowing the electric charge to dissipate.

  “This time, I want you to open yourself to your ki,” Ishimoto said. “Do not attempt to grab it. Allow it to flow into you. You are an empty vessel. Let it fill you.”

  Nyne suppressed a sigh. He tried to do as he was told, but nothing happened. He shot a glance at Ishimoto, but the old man only folded his arms and continued to watch.

  Having no other recourse, Nyne closed his eyes. He visualized himself as an empty pitcher. He imagined his power as a golden liquid—like honey, but less viscous—with a glowing effervescence. He pictured this liquid flowing from the font of his . . . what? Ishimoto would call it his being, and that was as good a term as any. Nyne pictured that liquid flowing from the font of his being, into the glass pitcher that was his body, and . . .

  Power coursed through him, raging like a typhoon. His eyes flickered open and he gasped. For a moment his head swam and he thought he might pass out. He reached out a hand, trying to steady himself, and Ishimoto was there, lending Nyne his arm.

  Nyne leaned on the old man for a minute, breathing heavily. What was this feeling? He felt infused with more power than he had ever thought possible.

  Suddenly it came to him.

  Grabbing his power as he had done before would allow him only to hold as much as he could contain in his metaphorical “hand.” But by letting his power fill his entire body from its source, he could hold so much more. It was incredible! How had he never understood this? How had no one else in Orion? This secret alone could do wonders for the war effort.

  As if reading Nyne’s mind, Ishimoto said, “Not everyone will be able to grasp this as you have. Try to teach them if you wish, but know your efforts may be futile. Not many possess your intuition. You should know this, Nyne Allen. Trust your intuition. It will guide you.”

  “Yes, Sensei,” Nyne said.

  “And now . . .” Ishimoto smiled and gestured to the waterfall.

  Buoyed by new resolve, Nyne walked toward the thundering curtain of water. His bare feet slapped the smooth rocks of the stream. When he came face-to-face with the waterfall, he hesitated and looked back at Ishimoto.

  The old man nodded.

  Nyne gritted his teeth and stepped forward.

  The frigid water pressed down on him with tremendous force, soaking him instantly. He nearly lost his footing.

  What had he expected? Ishimoto had made it appear so simple, but Nyne should have known better. Working to maintain his balance, he gingerly lowered himself onto the large rock o
n which Ishimoto had sat, pounded flat over countless years.

  He tried to clear his mind as his sensei said the monks had done, but the waterfall was too much. His teeth began to chatter. All he could think about was how freezing he was. Not knowing what else to do, he formed a barrier—not the usual kind that made a sphere around him but rather one that fit over his skin like a sheath. The water began to bounce off, spattering this way and that.

  “No,” Ishimoto yelled. He waved his arms over his head. “Come out from there!”

  Nyne sighed and did as he was bidden. He rose from beneath the cascade and ambled over to Ishimoto. As he went, he saw the familiar ring of power spring up around the old man. A moment later a wave of heat washed over him, drying him. His muscles relaxed from their clenching against the cold.

  “Are you all right?” Ishimoto asked.

  “Yes,” Nyne said.

  “Then try again.”

  It went on like that for hours, a trial of pure will on Nyne’s part. Each time he went under the waterfall, he anticipated the cold, anticipated his own helplessness, and his sensei’s inevitable disapproval.

  “You do not see because you are not looking,” Ishimoto told him during one of their too-brief breaks.

  “Looking for what?” Nyne snapped. He didn’t wish to offend Ishimoto, but his impatience was too much to stifle.

  “The truth,” Ishimoto said.

  “What truth?” Nyne asked.

  “Of all that is, was, and ever will be,” Ishimoto said, with such flippancy that Nyne wanted to scream.

  Back beneath the water, Nyne tried everything he could think of to keep from getting wet. He tried barriers again; he tried to beat away the water by slapping it back with raw force; he tried to imagine a border of dryness around his body that would keep the water at bay.

  Nothing worked.

  All the while he kept pondering what Ishimoto had said, turning those cryptic phrases in his mind like puzzle pieces.

  Soon, evening cast its pall over the land. The shade under the trees lengthened and deepened. The shadows of branches crawled across the forest floor like growing, grasping fingers. Fireflies drifted through the air, a marvel for April. Their tiny bodies lit up intermittently, then faded again into the night, like will-o’-the-wisps.