Fires of Man

by Dan Levinson

  “Enough for today,” Ishimoto told Nyne, the next time he emerged from the falls. “Time to go back.”

  “Let me try one more time,” Nyne said.

  “It is dangerous to make our return in the dark,” Ishimoto said.

  “Once more,” Nyne insisted. “I can do this. I know I can.”

  “You have too much pride,” Ishimoto said. “To accept your failure today would be good for you, I think.”

  “Please, Sensei.”

  Ishimoto smiled. “Once more, since you have asked so politely. But then we go. No complaints. Yes?”

  “Yes, Sensei,” Nyne said.

  “Good. Go, then.”

  Nyne turned away from Ishimoto, and took a breath.

  He began to walk back toward the waterfall. All his thinking and wondering and considering had gotten him nowhere. He permitted his mind to go blank, as it did in the depths of a good meditation. Perhaps it was his bone-deep exhaustion, or perhaps the natural consequence of doing a thing over and over, but Nyne was surprised how easy the clarity was to maintain. His thoughts felt like faraway things, dancing beyond the horizon of his conscious mind, unworthy of attention.

  When he stepped beneath the water he nearly lost focus. He was bombarded by the cacophony of inner complaint: so cold; so cold; I can’t wait to take a hot shower; just let this be over already! He inhaled and exhaled as slowly as he could manage under the torrent, allowing all distractions to evaporate. Eyes closed, he took in the full sensation of being pummeled by the falls, yet remained somehow detached from the experience.

  All that is, was, and ever will be, came the echo of Ishimoto’s words.

  Of course, that could mean only one thing: Ki. Energy. Energy could never be created or destroyed. It was infinitely mutable. And what differentiated one energy from another? At the heart of it was the simple frequency at which the energy vibrated, causing it to coalesce into different formations of particles, different manifestations of physical reality. With the ability to manipulate energy at his fingertips, could he not alter the very functions of aspects of reality?

  Could he not change how one energy interacted with another?

  The puzzle pieces snapped together in his mind.

  He forced his eyes open, and he saw.

  Around him, the particles that composed the water popped and fizzed, creating a sort of frantic, fractal choreography that was as organic and beautiful as it was complex. Though the water clouded his vision, he could see the energy that composed his hands, his body; he could sense the division between his flesh and the water, his clothing, and everything around him. He could intuitively understand the different energetic qualities between wet and dry.

  He willed himself to be dry. He was dry. He willed the water not to wet his skin. It was so.

  All was energy. All was ki.

  He was a psion. Energy was his to command.

  After several minutes, which felt to Nyne like blissful hours, he stepped out from the waterfall. His body shook from both elation and exertion. As the meditative calm faded, so too did that deep and profound wisdom, that sense of . . . mastery. For a moment, he had felt like he could shape the world, shake the foundations of the earth, and even the pillars of heaven, if he so chose. Now his ego, his sense of identity returned, imposing limitations, deciding what was and was not possible. Still, Nyne knew now that he was capable of far more than he had ever imagined.

  As he looked around, he was joyed to discover that magnificent, extrasensory sight was still at his disposal, transforming everything around him into a kaleidoscope of varied and subtle energies. It was as if his brain had undergone a fundamental shift; the switch had been flipped.

  Ishimoto approached Nyne, his expression solemn. “Now you understand,” he said.

  “Yes,” Nyne said. “Now, I do.”

  30

  AARON

  When the order came that Aaron was to ship out, he was grateful.

  Since that day in Chiron, he had been barely able to sleep. When he did, he experienced nightmares of red-robed men disintegrating him with a snap of the fingers, or of being lost in ancient, timeworn passageways. He heard no more of the voice in his mind, though he tried to speak with it. He had seen no sign of the robed figure in his waking hours; only at night, in dreams.

  Tiberian delivered the news of Aaron’s departure with a frown.

  “It’s too soon,” he said.

  The commander had picked up on Aaron’s recent shift in mood, though when he asked Aaron what was wrong, Aaron’s reply had been “homesickness.” If he told the truth, Tiberian would think him insane.

  And Aaron was not entirely certain that he wasn’t.

  By the time Aaron found out he would be flying south with Tiberian, he had worked himself into a frenzy. The relief he felt when Tiberian broke the news was palpable. These visions had begun only after arriving in Chiron. Maybe it was something in the air.

  The South was home. The clean, fresh atmosphere and wide open spaces would do him good. He knew he wouldn’t be able to see his family, yet the knowledge that he would be closer to them was a comfort.

  They would fly to Kodol, six hours west of the little town of Elmer—at least, six hours west in his family’s old pickup truck that did no more than fifty-five on a good day. Tiberian wouldn’t tell Aaron what the trip was about, only that Aaron would find out when they got there.

  Feeling better by the minute, Aaron packed his clothes in a duffel bag, including a set of combat fatigues. A dress uniform was delivered—his very first—all in dark blue wool, including a plain undershirt, pressed uniform pants, and a thick coat with a high collar and a row of gold buttons running down the center. He also received a pair of polished black boots and a navy-colored beret with the gold pin of the Calchan hawk surrounded by a ring of laurel leaves.

  Seeing the uniform, Aaron felt uneasy. He kept thinking about what Tiberian had said about being turned into a weapon.

  A private car arrived not long after, ready to take Aaron and Tiberian to the air base on the outskirts of the city. Aaron had never ridden in a plane before. Well, most likely he had been on one when he was transported from his home to Chiron by John Black, but he’d been unconscious the entire trip.

  This would be his first real airborne experience.

  For the entire car ride, Tiberian was pensive. Despite the man’s usual warmth, Aaron had come to find the commander was occasionally taken by dark moods. Tiberian was never unkind; he simply grew distant. Aaron considered broaching a conversation, then decided it was better to let whatever troubled the man run its course. Aaron had enough on his mind anyway. He was plagued by a fear that whatever was haunting him would try to keep him from leaving.

  Aaron closed his eyes and regulated his breathing, searching for peace. Since that day in the city, every time he meditated he felt that alien presence observing him. The deeper he went, the more the sense of being watched grew. At the end of the tunnel would be the robed man, inscrutable gaze burning beneath the cowl.

  He shook his head. Meditation wouldn’t help now. He opened his eyes and looked out the window instead.

  It wasn’t long before they arrived.

  The air base was a large compound of massive gray hangars, peaked roofs standing out against the sky like the immovable crags of mountains. A row of military helicopters sat to one side, fighter planes on the other. Their car pulled up to the base’s gate and a soldier in a camouflage uniform ambled up to the car, rifle in hand.

  Tiberian flashed his credentials.

  The soldier saluted, then hurried off to open the gate.

  The car drove alongside a broad airstrip, while soldiers milled about on all sides. Aaron began to realize how sheltered he had been under the personal tutelage of John Black and Tiberian, free from the restrictions and formalities of daily life in the military. He hadn’t been given the opportunity to meet any fellow soldiers, either. He wondered if they would accept him, or if they would balk at the newcomer wh
o had been given such preferential treatment.

  At the far end of the strip, a huge military transport plane came into view, rising up into sight like some enormous bird of prey. Its chassis was dark green, sleekly curved, with angled, razor-sharp wings. Aaron could make out lines of troops standing nearby, waiting to board. The car pulled over near the huge transport.

  Tiberian looked at Aaron and said, “We’ve arrived.”

  The moment Tiberian emerged from the car, the soldiers snapped to attention. Their ranks were immaculate, not a foot or finger out of place. Tiberian proceeded down toward the cavernous rear bay of the plane, which yawned wide like the maw of some fantastic beast. Aaron followed at Tiberian’s heels, peering out at the soldiers, trying not to stare.

  Tiberian halted at the head of the line, in front of a soldier in his mid-thirties, with dark skin, a blunt nose, and a heavy brow and jaw. A number of stripes adorned the man’s uniform, though Aaron did not know what grade they denoted. “Sergeant Cheda, at ease,”

  Tiberian said.

  “Sir,” responded Cheda. His hand fell to his side.

  “This is Second Lieutenant Waverly,” Tiberian said. “He’s here in an observational capacity only.”

  Aaron almost stumbled. Him, a lieutenant? There had to be some mistake.

  “Pleasure,” Cheda said.

  “Um, likewise,” Aaron said.

  Tiberian gave another nod to Cheda, then proceeded up the gangway. Aaron scurried after him, mind abuzz. “A lieutenant?” he asked.

  “Magister General Virard and I both agree you’re better suited to command than covert ops,” Tiberian said. “You’re too honest to be a professional liar, and too honorable for the sort of work required. You also have charisma, and . . . an everyman quality the general thinks will go over well with the men.” Tiberian continued walking as he spoke, deep into the belly of the plane, past rows of bench seats set along the walls. There was net rigging for holding gear and harnessing equipment crates, fire extinguisher emplacements, and countless niches and handles.

  “You make it sound like I’m being used,” Aaron said.

  “Virard uses everyone,” Tiberian said. “But that’s a discussion for another time.”

  Tiberian took a seat on one of the farthest benches, near the sealed cockpit door. Aaron sat down next to him. “I want you to understand,” Tiberian continued, “that, even though the general signed off on your commission as a second lieutenant, for this operation you’re only to observe. Virard has decided he wants you to see what real psionic warfare is like. He’s grooming you for bigger and better things. As soon as we return to Calchis, you’ll be enrolled in North End Academy where you’ll receive the education and training you need.”

  “What if someone recognizes me?” Aaron asked. “I’m supposed to be . . . dead.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. You won’t be in the public eye for a long time to come, if ever. They certainly don’t allow me to talk to the press. I think it has something to do with my fashion sense.” He chuckled.

  “This is happening really fast,” Aaron said.

  “You’ll manage,” said Tiberian.

  “I still don’t know where we’re going.”

  Tiberian breathed in, his large barrel chest expanding. “Into Orion territory. Grisham desert. To stage an assault.”

  Aaron went cold.

  “Won’t this escalate the war?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” Tiberian said. “There’s a chance it could cause a resumption of open hostilities, and also a chance we’ll end this thing in one fell swoop. Only time will tell.”

  “I don’t understand,” Aaron said.

  “You don’t have to,” Tiberian said. “You’re not a real officer yet.” He gave Aaron a pat on the shoulder. “I have to see to the others. Stay put. We’ll be leaving soon.” The commander stood and went back toward the entrance, framed by daylight so bright that Aaron had to squint.

  It almost looked as if Tiberian was surrounded by a halo.

  Aaron leaned back against the wall. The smells of metal and gasoline were thick in the air.

  How had things come to this?

  He had always thought he would live a quiet, uncomplicated existence: he would take over the farm, settle down, probably with Lissy Pickens, have children and grandchildren, and die of old age warm in his bed. Except Lissy Pickens was dead, and he was about to witness the spark that could reignite the biggest international conflict of the last century. He would have a front-row seat, and worse, it was his own nation striking the match.

  Aaron had always considered himself a patriot. He believed Calchis had to do what was necessary to protect its freedoms. But now he’d become privy to the inner workings of a land that he realized was far from the the country he’d thought he was living in. Knowing what they were about to do ate at him. And these psionic abilities only made things more complicated.

  For the first time, Aaron began to consider his visions, or hallucinations, in a different light. Calchis wanted him for life. Perhaps a diagnosis of mental illness could get him out of that. Aaron didn’t want to spend his days sending soldiers to die.

  Growing up on Clyde Coburn epics, he had always been fascinated by war, but being in the middle of one was completely different. In the movies, Clyde’s character died as many times as he survived.

  It was a harrowing thought. Aaron decided he would tell Tiberian the truth as soon as this combat operation was over.

  He shut his eyes and tried to relax. He dared not go too deeply into the void, for fear of encountering that presence. Instead, he focused on all the sounds around him: the thumping of booted feet; the scraping of crates being moved; the rattle of gear being adjusted; the drone of casual chatter. When these sounds at last began to quiet, he heard the whir of machinery. He opened his eyes in time to see the plane’s massive rear bay close. The other soldiers fastened seat belts attached to the wall behind them, so Aaron followed suit.

  Thoughts of old Coburn films fresh in his mind, Aaron was reminded of another one called Air Over Dosun, in which Clyde was shipped out to fight the Jiangmese in Isai. The movie had opened in the hold of a plane, with Clyde’s character joking with his fellows, talking about how he would kill the “Changs” and take a Jiangmese woman for a mistress, to serve him hand and foot.

  The film was more than fifty years old, horribly racist by today’s standards, to say nothing of the fact that Calchis and Jiangma were allies now. Aaron only wished for the sense of camaraderie he remembered from the film. Clyde had almost always played a soldier, or a cop. There had always been a sense that Clyde belonged to something greater than himself. Aaron longed for that same sense of purpose and belonging. If he left the military due to mental illness, he would never fulfill that desire.

  He just didn’t know what to do.

  The plane’s powerful engines rumbled, sending a vibration through the bay. Aaron grasped the edge of his seat with both hands, awaiting the moment of takeoff with both anxiety and anticipation. He could feel the plane shifting, turning itself. If only there were windows, so he could actually see the vehicle lift off.

  There was a moment of pause, and then the plane jerked into motion. It went faster and faster, shaking disconcertingly. Was this normal?

  Aaron looked at the faces around him. All appeared calm; some looked straight ahead; others had their eyes closed; several chatted among themselves. Aaron saw Tiberian talking to Cheda on a bench twenty feet away.

  No one was panicking. Everything would be fine.

  He still didn’t relinquish his grip on the seat.

  With a lurch, the plane lifted, and Aaron felt as if his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. All of the sounds and sensations were completely foreign to him. He wished he could see outside. He imagined they were high above the clouds—a canopy of billowy white. The land would be so far below now, everything in miniature.

  He wanted to see it. Some day he would have the chance.

  After
a while, Aaron yawned. The low drone of the aircraft was making him sleepy. Despite his recent nightmares, he found the sudden drowsiness too difficult to resist.

  When Aaron opened his eyes, the vast ziggurat loomed before him. His vantage point was different this time; he stood on grassy earth, below the plateau where the structure stood. The air was warm, bordering on balmy. The scent of summer filled the air, grasses and pollen drifting on the breeze. It was peaceful, but Aaron had a difficult time appreciating it.

  He knew who he would find here.

  The robed man stood at the head of a crowd of thousands, assembled on the ground. Instinctively Aaron jerked away from the robed figure. The man’s cowl was raised. In a way Aaron would have been relieved to see the man’s harsh, serious countenance, because at least it would have humanized the figure, made him seem less like some horrible bogeyman.

  The robed man clasped his hands together. A murmur arose from the throng. They began to babble in countless tongues. Some of them knelt, while others rocked back and forth, or closed their eyes and whispered to themselves.

  Praying, Aaron thought.

  Without warning, the man in red threw his hands into the air.

  The prayers grew louder, rising to a crescendo.

  The skies crackled with energy. Power flared around the robed man, a corona of pure light. The glow expanded until it filled Aaron’s vision, like the sun itself come to earth.

  He felt a shift in the air. The energy in the atmosphere responded, reacting to the psionic stimulus from the robed man. It was a communion, a concordance of powers, the energy of the world itself moving in accordance with the man’s will.

  Aaron could feel psionic power everywhere. His skin tingled. His skull buzzed.

  Then, as abruptly as it had started, it was done. The glow around the man winked out. The charge in the air began to dissipate.

  A cold wind gusted. Aaron shivered. Where had the warmth gone? The men and women in the crowd shared worried glances amid their prayers. From their expressions, Aaron gathered things had not proceeded as expected.