Fires of Man

by Dan Levinson

One beer would not be enough.

  33

  NYNE

  In the days following Nyne’s success at the waterfall, he continued training his new sight.

  Perhaps it was that he was already versed in psionic powers, or perhaps it was his proficiency with meditation, but he took quickly to this new ability. It was a strange phenomenon; it existed in his mind’s eye, yet overlaid itself upon the real world as he experienced it.

  With practice, he could discern the mood of those who crossed his path. He could tell from far off when there was a mouse rummaging through garbage, or when a flock of birds was approaching before they wheeled into view.

  Ishimoto was sparing with praise, though he was hard-pressed to deny the rapidity of Nyne’s progress. The old man continued to broach the concept of the five elements, but conceded that these words were merely descriptors, subsets of the universal power that composed all existence.

  Nyne no longer balked at Ishimoto’s spirituality. In fact, after his breakthrough at the falls, Nyne felt more spiritual than ever. But this was science, plain and simple.

  During the third week of Nyne’s study, Ishimoto took him to Kanzaka Park, a twenty-minute walk from the dojo. They sat together under the boughs of a cherry tree, its spring buds in full bloom. The canopy of vibrant pink flowers spread above them, magnificent to behold. Today Ishimoto said nothing, only sat in contemplation.

  Nyne quieted his mind and allowed his eyes to wander.

  He could see the vast tiered apartments and skyscrapers of Kyodai city proper rising above the suburbs—gargantuan metal fingers straining to touch an azure sky. Little children played nearby, wearing identical gray school uniforms, their parents watching. One boy rode up on a toy bike and stopped to gape at Nyne with wide eyes. A moment later, the boy’s mother snatched him up. She smiled sheepishly, inclining her head and repeating something apologetic in Kaitanese.

  Nyne tried to tell her with gestures and an easy grin that it was fine. The woman only bowed her head to him again, then hurried off with her son under one arm and the toy bike under the other.

  “I played in this park when I was younger,” Ishimoto said.

  Nyne turned to look at the old man. “You never told me that before,” he said.

  “This is the fourth sakura that has been planted here in my lifetime,” Ishimoto said.

  Nyne knew that sakura was the Kaitanese word for the cherry tree. In their culture, the tree bordered on sacred, and was associated with many legends and superstitions. Nyne did not know how long these trees lived, but to have already outlived three of them, perhaps Ishimoto was older than Nyne had originally thought.

  Ishimoto rubbed at his chin as if mulling over something. Finally he said to Nyne, “It is time to discuss what you wish to know.”

  “How to heal someone,” Nyne said.

  “Yes,” Ishimoto said. “We can begin with me.”

  “I don’t understand, Sensei,” Nyne said.

  “You have learned how to see, truly see. Look at me and tell me what you observe.”

  Nyne took a deep breath.

  Instantly he could see the energy coursing through the older man’s body—blood flowing; lungs expanding and contracting; brain, solar plexus, and other nerves shining with firing neurons. Nyne willed himself to look deeper, to see the functioning of Ishimoto’s organs and . . .

  There.

  He saw a stain, a disruption in the proper vital flow; it spread outward, its tendrils reaching, trying to expand through the old man’s system.

  Nyne looked at Ishimoto. “You have cancer,” he said.

  “Yes,” the old man said. “Not for the first time.”

  “Chemotherapy?” Nyne asked.

  Ishimoto shook his head. “Prayer.”

  Nyne fought back his disbelief, but he could not quite come to terms with it. Prayer? How could prayer have beaten cancer?

  “You are skeptical,” Ishimoto said.

  Nyne didn’t respond. He did not wish to step on the man’s beliefs, but sometimes freak occurrences just . . . happened. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s cancer had gone into remission without medical treatment. Nyne had a hard time believing prayer had anything to do with it. However, he had far too much respect, and even admiration for Ishimoto to say so. Instead he asked, “How long do you have now?”

  Ishimoto shrugged.

  “You haven’t been to a doctor?” Nyne asked.

  “I am . . . ninety-six years old,” Ishimoto said. “My time will come when it comes.”

  Nyne looked incredulously at Ishimoto. “You don’t look a day over seventy-five.”

  Ishimoto laughed and rapped on his chest with his fist. “Good genes, perhaps.”

  “Why haven’t you been able to . . . heal yourself?” Nyne asked.

  “It does not work that way,” Ishimoto said. “We cannot manipulate our own bodies in that fashion.”

  “Why not?”

  Ishimoto shook his head. “It is simply the way of things. No one can be all-powerful.”

  “Maybe I can do something to help you,” Nyne said.

  “It is enough you have learned how to see what is hidden, how to find illness and injury. You have understood a great deal in a very short time,” Ishimoto said. “Maybe I am still here because I was meant to teach you.”

  Nyne surveyed Ishimoto’s wrinkled face and knobbed, gnarled hands. Even with a long life well-lived, how could the man be so calm? How could Ishimoto turn down the smallest chance at a cure?

  Nyne opened the floodgates to his power.

  Ishimoto laid a warning hand on Nyne’s arm.

  Nyne ignored it. He could sense the cancer in the old man, the defective cells multiplying, spreading systemically. Ishimoto had not spoken much about healing, but he had said it came from galvanizing the body to mend itself. Nyne could sense the flow of circulation, and the lymph nodes where the disease had begun its assault.

  “Stop,” Ishimoto croaked.

  Nyne was so focused that he didn’t hear it. He extended his own energy, inciting Ishimoto’s immune system first, then adding a calmer power to direct the flow of it. He marked the cancer with his ability, for elimination by Ishimoto’s own body. He sapped away at the disease’s cruel, inexorable strength. It still might not be enough. If he could only—

  “Stop,” Ishimoto repeated, his fingers digging into Nyne’s forearm.

  Nyne halted in surprise.

  “That was foolish,” Ishimoto said. He swayed on the bench, his voice weak.

  “I was only trying to—”

  “You could have killed me, here and now,” Ishimoto said.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Quiet,” Ishimoto said firmly. He let out a long exhalation. “Healing broken bones, a localized infection, that is one thing. But you must not ever try to do what you have just done, manipulate major organs and bodily systems, unless a person is in mortal danger. Otherwise you might end a person’s life instead of extend it.” He paused. “I fear I have taught too much, too fast. You learn swiftly, but it is good to take one’s time.”

  Nyne hung his head. He had only wanted to give Ishimoto a gift in return for all he had received. “I apologize, Sensei,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “That is your problem,” Ishimoto said. “You are impulsive. You act first, consider consequences second. Now . . .” Ishimoto rose from the bench, smoothing his shirt with aged hands. “I am feeling quite invigorated all of a sudden.” He gave Nyne a knowing look. “I will go for a long walk. You must return to your duties.”

  Nyne nodded and bid the old man farewell. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought he saw a renewed vitality in his sensei’s step.

  Perhaps he had succeeded, despite Ishimoto’s admonitions.

  Just then, movement caught his eye.

  The cherry blossoms were falling.

  The buds drifted downward, swirling as the breeze carried them, spirals of delicate flowers so pale they were almost white. Life w
as so short, so transitive, Nyne thought. Nowhere was that principle better embodied than in the short and glorious existence of these flowers, so bright, bursting with vivacity—an image of beauty all too fleeting.

  Parents and children began to gather around the tree, chattering excitedly. Moments of peace and wonder like this were so rare, so ephemeral.

  Nyne stood watching until the ground was carpeted with fine petals.

  Oshikawa had been unavailable that day, so Nyne took a taxi back to base. He had a paper card with the address listed, so he could circumvent the language barrier. He had begun to pick up a few simple words like “hello” and “goodbye” and “thank you” and a very complicated way of saying “you’re welcome.” Kaitanese had all sorts of layers to it, varying levels of respect depending on your relationship with whomever you were addressing. Nyne found the whole thing rather daunting; he was always glad to return to Camp Jouka.

  When he arrived, he had one of the young soldiers on duty drive him back to his quarters. He had moved into a quaint Western-style one-bedroom house, with a white-painted wood façade and slate roofing, amid rows of other such houses in the base’s residential section.

  To his dismay, Nyne found Leon Kolver waiting on his front steps. “I’m off today,” Nyne said. “What do you want?”

  “There’s something I need to show you, Major,” Kolver said.

  “Can it wait till tomorrow?” Nyne asked.

  “It’s quite urgent.” Kolver’s tone left no room for debate. “I have a car waiting.”

  Nyne stifled his aggravation. He followed Kolver to a dark sedan parked several houses down from Nyne’s own. It was late in the day now, the sun little more than a red rim above the horizon line. In the early twilight, the car’s blue exterior looked nearly black.

  A Kaitanese man in sunglasses stepped out of the driver’s seat and opened the rear door for Nyne and Kolver. Kolver slid in first, and Nyne went in after him.

  “Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Nyne asked, once the car was in motion.

  “You’ll see,” Kolver said.

  The car wound its way through the residential streets, reorienting itself toward Camp Jouka’s main gate. Soon enough, they were outside the compound. Nyne watched it recede and loosed a sigh. He had been ready for a hot shower and a warm meal.

  Kolver began to hum a light tune, something Nyne did not recognize. All the while the man stared ahead as if Nyne did not exist.

  Before long, Nyne realized they were traveling a familiar route. The car had headed east from Jouka, onto the freeway, toward the Kyodai suburbs.

  Nyne began to feel ill, a sinking feeling that started in the pit of his stomach and sank to his toes, dragging him down. Had he been found out? Could that be possible? He had been so careful.

  Trying to calm himself and conceal his agitation from Kolver, he gazed out the window. He watched the cityscape flickering past, lights aglow in the encroaching darkness.

  The driver pulled off at the Rokudai district, where Ishimoto’s dojo lay. Nyne’s sense of dread grew. He was not afraid for himself; he was responsible for his own actions and would accept the consequences. He was afraid for Ishimoto and the students, afraid his overconfidence had cost them their freedom.

  Raindrops, big and fat, pattered against the windshield. The sky had been crystal clear just hours earlier. Kolver continued humming as if he had not a care in the world.

  Nyne kept silent. He was certain Kolver was trying to provoke a response.

  They entered the Rokudai suburbs. Pedestrians hurried along the sidewalks of single-lane streets, umbrellas in hand. Hanging lanterns swayed in the storm winds. The rain had not deterred the dinner crowd. Nyne could see numerous eateries packed with patrons: tiny noodle bars with lines of stools set up in front of long counters, the cloth flaps that served as doors doing little to keep the damp out; seafood shops with unpainted wood-paneled exteriors, cheery orange light spilling from within, highlighting the bustle. All of these establishments were familiar to Nyne by now; he had passed them many times on his way to the dojo.

  “You haven’t asked me where we’re going,” Kolver said. “Is that because you don’t care, or because you already know?”

  “Would you tell me if I asked?” Nyne tried to smile, but he thought it must have looked like a grimace.

  As they neared the street where the dojo lay, Nyne saw flashing blue and white lights. He gripped the door with one hand, the other clenching into a fist.

  This was bad. Very bad.

  The car rounded the corner.

  Kaitanese police vans were parked outside the dojo, along with a handful of unmarked black sedans. The moment his own car slowed, Nyne pushed open the door and took off toward the building at a run, any pretense at ignorance abandoned. He found Ishimoto’s students being herded into the vans—young men and women Nyne had come to know, Shimoyama and Sato, Arakawa, and Kimura, and twenty more, psions all.

  When the police officers saw Nyne charging toward them, they stepped forward to block his path. Their hands settled beneath their raincoats, no doubt fingering stun guns, or clubs, or firearms.

  Nyne slowed his pace but did not halt completely. “You can’t do this,” he yelled.

  The officers shouted at Nyne in Kaitanese, shoving him back as he tried to get nearer to a wooden barricade. It was then that Nyne saw Ishimoto standing off to the side, another policeman looming over the old man’s shoulder. Nyne doubted that the combined effort of every officer present would have been able to stop Ishimoto, had the old man actually wanted to escape.

  When Ishimoto saw Nyne, he gave a small, sad smile, as if to say this was not Nyne’s fault, that he did not blame Nyne for any of it. Nyne continued to push against the officers’ hands, not violently, but so he could have a better look at the proceedings.

  He could think of only one thing to say.

  “Run!” he shouted.

  The rain poured down all around him, soaking his clothes, plastering his short hair to his head. The sound of it filled the air, beating against the pavement, against the hoods of cars. Most of the students didn’t appear to hear Nyne, or otherwise ignored him. “Run,” he bellowed again. A few glanced his way. “Get out of here!” If they used their ability, no one would be able to catch them.

  “And then what?” Kolver strode up to Nyne, umbrella in hand, looking like he was out for a casual stroll. “We know who they are. Most don’t have the means to flee the country. And besides, who would want to spend their lives on the run?”

  Nyne turned to Kolver, wanting nothing more than to thrash the man, to pummel him into submission. “Some of them are fifteen years old,” he said. “They’re children, for God’s sake! You can’t make them into soldiers!”

  “That’s in the Kaitanese government’s hands now,” Kolver said. “It’s funny, I’d heard you were a model officer. Guess the reports were wrong.”

  “Fuck you,” Nyne said.

  “Curse me all you like,” Kolver said. “Know what your problem is, Allen? You’re naïve. Do you think that, out of the billion-and-a-half people in Jiangma, they don’t have any psions? That their great communist regime hasn’t already started a program? We have information that children as young as twelve are being inducted into their Young Patriot’s Society. We need Kaito’s help to stem the tide. This whole world is going to shit, Major, and if you think you can shelter these kids, you’ve got another thing coming. They’re going to serve their country like you’re supposed to be serving yours.”

  “I’m trying to save their lives,” Nyne growled.

  “Sometimes, for the majority to live, a few good men have to die. That’s the way it works. You know that. Now come on. We’re going back to base so I can bring you up on charges of gross insubordination.”

  Nyne hunched his shoulders and allowed himself to be led back to the car. This was all his fault. Kolver was right; he was naïve! He glanced back at Ishimoto, but the old man was focused on his students, and
the flashing lights made his sorrowful countenance look sick and hollow. Nyne was so certain he had been careful to conceal his actions, but the belief he could outsmart Orion Intelligence was hubris. He had come to Kaito to escape his failures, but it seemed that failure, hurt, and disaster dogged his every step.

  As he was ushered inside the vehicle, he asked Kolver, “How did you know?”

  Kolver’s lips spread in an arrogant smirk. “Too easy. Your driver. Oshikawa, was it? He thought he was doing you a favor. You inspire a great deal of loyalty, it seems. A shame you don’t put that skill to better use.”

  A shame. Nyne gritted his teeth.

  It was all such a goddamned shame.

  34

  FINN

  Finn made his way back to the mess hall, though his appetite had vanished after his confrontation with Merry. He sat behind the food counters and forced himself to eat a cold, flavorless sloppy joe. He couldn’t face anyone right now—not James or Val, and definitely not Sonja.

  When the time came for afternoon drills, Finn joined the other recruits in the field. Douglass broke the group into pairs and handed each a tennis ball. The exercise was simple; they were to play a game of catch, only they had to catch the balls with psionics instead of their hands.

  Finn was paired up with another private named Nathan, one of Merry’s posse. Nathan was tall and lean, and tried to use his strength to pelt Finn with fastballs. For Finn, stopping those pitches was easy as breathing. His rigorous training at Special Operations had taken him beyond the rest. Nathan managed only to stop one ball in three, and that was being generous. Finn lobbed lazy throws. Though he was still not terribly coordinated, he used his power to ensure the tosses went to the correct place.

  Half an hour later, Finn saw Lieutenant Gilbert emerge from the infirmary building, Merry at Gilbert’s side. Finn’s concentration lapsed, though he didn’t realize it until Nathan’s throw hit him in the gut.

  His face heated. He knew he would have a bruise, but he took a deep breath and calmed himself down. It wasn’t worth it to get upset.

  He continued to throw the ball, while watching Merry out of the corner of his eye.