Fires of Man

Table of Contents

Cover Image

Front Matter

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

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48

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Book 1 of the Psionic Earth Series

Copyright © 2014 by Dan Levinson

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For information, write us at Jolly Fish Press, PO Box 1773, Provo, UT 84603-1773.

ISBN 978-1-939967-48-0

For my parents, who made everything possible.

Book 1 of the Psionic Earth Series

Dan Levinson

Provo, Utah

1

AGENT

He ran toward the edge of the cliff.

The sun beat down upon him as his limbs pumped. Earth crunched beneath his feet, and a breeze blew across his black-stubbled scalp. His breathing was calm, meticulously measured.

When the ground slipped away, he felt only anticipation.

Plummeting, the man inhaled. Power flooded into him, thrilling, delicious. He reached out with that power, warping reality with an energy born from the depths of his being. Suddenly . . .

He winked out of existence . . .

And then reappeared at the base of the cliff.

Ahead lay a farmstead, awash in noontime light. Past its assorted buildings—barns and silos, stables and chicken coops—a field of wheat swayed like the hair of some sleeping giant.

It would burn soon.

Through his years of service, he’d been called many things: raven; hellhound; black-hearted bastard. There was but one epithet that mattered—the one he’d earned with blood and devotion.

He was Agent.

A man with no name. A man who owed his nation everything.

Just then, he spotted his quarry—a teenage farmhand named Aaron Waverly. The boy had power—strong power, according to the readings.

Agent dashed toward the farm; dry winds kicked dirt and debris over his steel-toed boots. The expanse of greenery blurred past. He moved swift as a shooting star, his power saturating him with speed and strength.

When Waverly turned and saw, it was too late.

Agent teleported behind Waverly, and struck once, at the base of the farmhand’s skull. The young man collapsed, and Agent caught him, and slung him over his shoulder.

Stop!

A frown split the crags of Agent’s face.

Before him stood a girl, no more than sixteen, a pitchfork clutched in her fingers. She was a pretty thing, her blond tresses tied back in a ponytail, her face darkened by hours in the field. She was an innocent. Agent did not relish the thought of ending her.

Run, he said.

I’ll scream, she said, her eyes flitting to the silenced pistol at his side. She hesitated.

He laid a hand on the gun. Run, he repeated.

She ran.

He drew his weapon and shot her in the back of the head.

She pitched forward, hit the ground, dead. Blood spread in a widening pool around her. Waverly groaned, eyelids flickering. Agent holstered the gun and looked at the girl. Killing civilians was distasteful, but she had seen him. He’d had no choice.

Now, time to go.

Agent stepped toward the nearby barn, and pressed his palm against the red-painted planks. He sent his power into it, and a ripple spread through the wood, like a pebble striking the surface of a pond. Furrows of heat fanned out from his fingertips, crackling furiously.

He turned away and teleported to safety.

Back atop the cliff, he paused to watch his handiwork.

The barn exploded. Eruptive force flattened surrounding buildings and rocked the landscape. Screams broke out below, the sound carried on the wind. Again, Waverly stirred on Agent’s shoulder.

Agent smiled, and was gone.

2

FINN

Sand blew past Stockton Finn in flurries. For the hundredth time he shielded his eyes. It was damn hot, but he kept his uniform jacket on and tried to ignore the sweat coating his body. It was a matter of pride. When the Orion Special Forces had come knocking, it had been for him, and him alone; not for his stronger older brothers, who’d always teased him, and called him Stump because of his small stature. So he was going to keep his jacket on, even if it killed him.

The convoy had been going a half-hour now—ten open-air, all-terrain vehicles jammed with fresh recruits. Behind him lay the titanic walls of Grisham City, soaking up sunlight with countless solar panels. Ahead, Grisham Desert was also a wonder. Miles of shimmering sand stretched to infinity. Dunes rose and fell, reflecting light with crystalline iridescence.

Finn had been enraptured at first, but the heat had quickly left him wishing for a drink, shade, and a shower. His body sweltered beneath his uniform. He could feel fine grains of sand that had managed to get inside the crevices of his clothing. His throat was dry; his eyes watered; his skin burned. He hadn’t brought sunscreen, and now he regretted it.

There were four other riders on Finn’s ATV—three boys and a girl. They looked relaxed, having stripped off their leathers and uniform shirts, down to their standard-issue gray undershirts.

It was the girl that caught Finn’s attention. Her copper hair was tucked in a bun, and he could not help but watch as the wind teased out strands that tickled her delicate features. There was a pensiveness about her as she gazed out at the desert. She kept her arms tightly folded around her slim waist, still and solemn as stone.

She’s beautiful, Finn thought. He did not mean to stare, but could not help himself.

As if sensing his attention, the girl turned to him. What? she asked.

He flushed.

N-nothing, he stuttered back. He averted his eyes and studied the creases of his palms instead.

At eighteen years old, Finn had never been with a woman. Whenever his brothers questioned him, he’d lied and told them tales of girlfriends he’d never had. But the truth was he was as much a virgin as the day he was born.

When it came to women, Finn always thought he’d do the wrong thing, or bury his eyes where they shouldn’t be. He thought his words would come out in a jumble of nonsense. Training in the Special Forces would make him braver. Or else nothing would.

With a lurch, the armored car crested a final dune.

In the cradle of a massive valley lay an outpost. Finn saw trucks in droves, carrying supplies. On the left, barracks, a mess hall, and supply shacks stood like slabs of granite against the backdrop of white-gold sand. Squat command buildings lay on the right. At the center of the compound was a vast parade ground with rows of reinforced metal targets. Finn could see the targets were blackened, the nearby ground pitted from some explosive.

The vehicles stopped at the base of the dune. Finn’s stomach was a knot of tension. He and the others unloaded from the cars, forming into a tight line.

A stern man in a white uniform appeared, his face lined and brown like old leather, his hair a gray buzz, his eyes the color of glacier ice. Attention! he hollered. Welcome to Desert Outpost Four. This is where you’ll eat, shit, and sleep for the next three months. I’m Sergeant Douglass. ‘Drill Sergeant’ to you little pukes. Clear?

Finn nodded. A few of the recruits mumbled words of acquiescence.

Douglass was not pleased. That clear? he echoed.

Yes, Drill Sergeant!

Douglass nodded. Follow me.

He led the group out to the farthest limit of the field, where the battered targets lay.

Some of y’all might know what we’re about, he said. The rest are in for a surprise. How’s about a demonstration? Volunteers? He surveyed the line. No one stepped forward.

Finn tensed. He didn’t know what the sergeant was talking about. He didn’t even understand why he’d been selected for the Special Forces in the first place. He could envision Douglass telling him there had been a mistake, that the uniform had been meant for one of his brothers: Garrett Finn, or Judd Finn. Not Stockton the Stump.

Douglass’s gaze passed over Finn, and instead settled on the red-haired girl from Finn’s car. What’s your name? he asked.

Private Sonja DeGaulle, she said.

Know what we do here?

Yes, Drill Sergeant, Sonja said.

Show us. Douglass moved aside and gestured down the length of the field.

Yes, Drill Sergeant, Sonja repeated. She stepped forward from the line. Beads of perspiration popped on her nose and forehead. She inhaled deeply.

Finn stared. He was mesmerized by the expansion and contraction of Sonja’s back with each breath. He watched a rivulet of sweat trace a line down the side of her face, trail down her slender neck. His mouth was chalk. He swallowed, but it caught in his gullet and it was all he could do to stifle the cough.

We don’t got all day, girlie, Douglass said.

Sonja’s eyebrows drew together in concentration, and Finn thought she looked nervous. She thrust out her hand, splaying her fingers.

Something began to happen.

Shimmering waves rose from Sonja’s outstretched hand, distorting the air like heat waves. At first Finn thought it was a trick of the light. What else could it be?

Suddenly that heat condensed into a ball of fire, roiling with intensity.

It’s not a trick! Finn realized. It’s real!

It reminded him of magic, right out of childhood stories. But this was no fantasy. There were no spells, no wizard’s staves. This was something completely different.

Sonja made a throwing motion. The fiery orb arced into the distance, cutting across the red-gold evening sky. For a moment, the ball of fire appeared to merge with the setting sun. Then it fell, a single molten teardrop.

It exploded.

Flame lanced out from the point of impact, erupting in brilliant colors: scarlet and burnt orange, yellow, and shining amber. Finn stood transfixed. It was the most wondrous thing he had ever seen—more beautiful than the sapphire waters of the beaches in Vyse; more still than his mother’s smile; or the garden in Dawn’s Reach; or Jeni Darby when he kissed her under the cherry tree in seventh grade.

When the light died down, Finn peeked at the other trainees. A few gave knowing smiles; most were as awed as Finn himself.

Serviceable, Douglass said, but sloppy.

Someone started clapping. Finn joined in.

The clamor grew. People began whooping and cheering. Sonja offered Douglass a bow, then resumed her place in the line. Several of the privates pounced on her; they lifted her in their arms, tossed her hair, patted her on the back. Some others observed from farther away, regarding her with apprehension. As for Douglass, Finn thought he spied the hint of a smile on the sergeant’s weathered face.

When the din subsided, Douglass bellowed, Had your fill? Back to attention, and I mean now! He glared at them until they arranged themselves in the semblance of a line. I don’t wanna see that kind of unruly conduct ever again.

The response was a resounding, Yes, Drill Sergeant!

Good.

For the next few hours, Finn and the other recruits attempted to use their power. It’s like a spark, Douglass told them, deep down in your core. You grab hold, you pull on that like you’re suckin’ down a soda. That ain’t too hard for you pissants, is it?

For Finn, it was like trying to catch smoke with his fingers. He tried to follow the sergeant’s instructions, but every time he felt a glow deep inside, it retreated as soon as he reached for it. And the effort of grasping for it left him strangely exhausted. As night fell, the desert became cool, then cold. Coated in slick sweat, Finn shivered every time a breeze blew through the valley.

There were those who succeeded immediately. One recruit sent gobs of flame skipping across the ground like a pebble on a pond, while another threw twinkling viridian sparks that bowed outward before homing on the targets at the end of the field. Each successful soldier was allowed to stand aside and watch. The people around Finn dwindled. Memories of the schoolyard rose up in him—being picked last for kickball and softball and everything else.

Douglass walked up, and Finn felt despair settle in his stomach like a lump of lead. He couldn’t let himself be shipped home, a failure. He didn’t think he could take his brothers’ laughter.

Somehow, he had to do this!

No rush, Douglass said to him. We’ll stand here all night if we have to.

Yes, Drill—

The sound of an approaching vehicle cut him off. An open-air ATV barreled down the slope and into the outpost, kicking up sand. A tall, broad-shouldered blond man sat in the passenger seat.

The car came to a halt near the line of recruits. The blond man hopped out, moving with a fluid, well-trained grace. He wore the white jacket of the Special Forces, a gray shirt, and desert camo pants. A kaleidoscope assortment of campaign ribbons and insignias of rank was pinned along his chest and shoulders. He marched toward the group, expression calm, his face all hard, rough-hewn angles; his eyes, two chips of green jade, were set in deep sockets. This was not a man to be trifled with, Finn knew at once.

Everyone fell silent, Douglass included. The blond man’s presence commanded attention. The drill sergeant stepped forward to greet the unknown officer. They shook hands, and shared a brief exchange. The blond man smiled once, but it did not reach his eyes.

Douglass turned to address the group. Our guest has a few words. Listen up and listen good! Then he stepped back and let the other man take his place at the fore.

The blond man was quiet for a time, his pupils scanning back and forth, taking everyone in. Finn held his breath when the man’s eyes passed over him.

My name is Captain Nyne Allen, the man said at last. His voice was soft, yet clear. I belong to a secret branch of the Orion Special Forces: the Psi Corps. Now, you’re probably confused, afraid. That’s okay. In the weeks ahead, you’ll come to understand what it means to be one of us. For now, know this: you are special. You’re important. Only you can master your psionic abilities, and help defend our nation from those who’d use these same powers against it. He paused. Despite what you might’ve been taught, the war with Calchis never ended. It changed. So, welcome to the new battlefront. Welcome to the Psi Corps. Finn felt a chill. No one spoke. The wind howled across the dunes.The captain looked over the group again. His eyes rested on Finn.

Finn gulped .

What’s your name, soldier? the captain asked.

F-Finn, sir. Private Stockton Finn.

Show me what you can do, Private Finn.

I . . . I can’t, sir. Finn’s heart hammered in his chest, a rapid thud-thud thud-thud. I can’t do anything. The other recruits were murmuring now. If his brothers were here, they’d be laughing and calling him Stump. Finn searched the faces of his comrades, ready to face their judgment, their ridicule.

Then he saw Sonja.

She watched him, not with judgment or mirth or even pity, but with conviction. She did not know him, yet he could feel her silent encouragement. She made him want to be strong.

The captain laid a hand on Finn’s shoulder. Finn summoned the strength to meet the man’s gaze.

Do me a favor, Private, Captain Allen said.

Yes, sir.

Look up.

Finn did.

The stars were everywhere—shining pinpricks dotting the vast blanket of space. Finn’s life had been spent a stone’s throw from the metropolis of New Axom, where the city’s glow smothered all but the brightest stars. He realized he had never seen the night sky with such clarity, unhindered by the streetlights, neon signs, and bright windows that punctuated the landscape of civilization.

I want you to focus on a star, said the captain. Any one you like.

Finn knew which star he wanted. Called Tiger’s Eye, it sat at the head of the constellation Tigris, burning with such ferocity that the nearby stars were dampened in its presence. Finn let the star fill his vision. It was as if he could feel its warmth spilling down from space.

Concentrate on that star, until it’s the only thing in your mind, the captain said. Now, close your eyes. But imagine your star is there, behind your eyelids. Right there with you.

Finn pictured Tiger’s Eye. He felt the captain unfurl his fingers so he held out his palm.

Imagine you can move your star any way you like, the captain said. Up, down, side to side. Then, picture it drifting into your hand. Good. Open your eyes.

Finn did, and gasped. A perfect copy of Tiger’s Eye hovered above his hand, shedding silvery light. He grinned, exultant. He tossed the star over his head.

It burst into a thousand twinkling particles.

The captain let slip his first truly genuine smile of the evening—one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. The other recruits burst into applause, cheering for Finn as they had earlier for Sonja. Finn looked for her, but she remained off to the side, awarding him with only a single glance that bespoke her approval.

It was enough. The heaviness lifted itself from his shoulders.

This was where he belonged.

3

NYNE

The sky stretched above Nyne, a canopy punctuated by tiny lights too distant for man to touch.

He sat in the back of a truck bed, thinking. Thinking about the recruits, about the war. Thinking that there was so little he could do about any of it.

Across from him, Sergeant Douglass pulled from a bottle of whiskey. Eighteen-year oak barrel aged Lefrei. Confiscated from some well-off, as the sergeant had so eloquently put it.

Douglass passed Nyne the bottle, and Nyne took a swig. The peaty, smoky flavor burned his tongue. When the liquor hit his belly, a warmth spread through him, saturating his limbs, girding him against the cool desert night. It eased his fatigue, too, though not nearly enough. He’d spent all day going from outpost to outpost, visiting the new recruits. He had promised himself that he would do no more than give the speech and be done.

But there was one problem.

He cared.

Nyne knew his compassion had little practical value. No amount of it could shield these kids from harm. Often, he felt crippled by the knowledge that neither his influence nor his empathy could save even one life on the battlefield. So, he gave as much of himself to these kids as he could, knowing it would never be enough.

What’s on your mind, son? Douglass asked.

Nyne passed back the whiskey. His eyes scanned the barracks, where the recruits were settling in for their first night at the outpost. Where does it all stop? he asked.

That’s a loaded question, Douglass said. And not one either of us can answer.

I know, Nyne said. Dammit, I do. Absently, he rubbed a hand across the short buzz of hair on the back of his head. The friction against his fingertips felt good, somehow soothing. Ever think what it’d be like to put our powers in the open? Stop living a lie, and pull back the curtain?

Geez, Douglass said. He took another swig from the bottle. Think I’d hole up with a handle of the hard stuff and wait the whole shitstorm out. He grinned. You’re a thinker, kid. I give you that. I ain’t cut out for that sorta thing. That’s why you’re an O-3, and I’m still screamin’ at a bunch of punks till I pop a blood vessel.

Keep up the reluctant drill sergeant act, Nyne said. Maybe someone’ll believe it.

Douglass chuckled and passed him back the bottle.

Nyne held up his hand. I’m good. He had to keep his mind sharp. Couldn’t get complacent.

Suit yourself, Douglass said. He cast a glance at Nyne. Come on, out with it already.

I’m worried about Calchis, Nyne said.

Douglass snorted. Aren’t we all?

They’ve been quiet for months, Nyne said. They’re planning something.

So what? Douglass asked. We’ll manage. We always do.

Yeah, Nyne said. He didn’t quite believe it.

You’re a damn sad drunk, Allen, Douglass said. You know that?

You’re a mean sonuvabitch when you’re sober.

Douglass laughed. I’ll drink to that. He took another pull off the bottle.

Afterward, Douglass winked and tucked the whiskey back in his jacket, then strode off. Before long, Nyne could hear the old sergeant bellowing into the barracks that it was time for lights out. That made Nyne chuckle.

He located his driver, Corporal Dallet, in the mess hall, having a snack. Nyne let the man finish up, and then they climbed into the ATV. They sped off, back to the city.

During daylight hours, the bright desert sun was oppressive; yet beneath the vast drapery of night, it was a different land. Several times, Nyne glimpsed short columns of lisk lizards waddling across the sands, their mottled bodies pebbled with spiny ridges. Some confused their languor with an inherent lack of speed, but it wasn’t so.

As the ATV crossed over a rise, Nyne spotted a sand hare, hopping dangerously close to the lizards. The lead lisk broke into a vigorous shimmy, and though the hare was more agile, the lisk snapped out with its teeth and grazed its prey’s hindquarters. The hare slowed, then became still, its muscles weak from the lisk’s venom. Nyne’s ATV sped off before he could witness the end.

War was like the desert, he thought: an unceasing succession of dangers. Blazing hot one hour, and deathly cold the next. The end could come from any direction. There was no respite, no relief. War, like this desert, swallowed you whole if you weren’t careful. The best you could ever hope to do was escape.

Because victory was a lie.

And, sometimes, death was inevitable.

Nyne turned into the onrushing wind. It blew across his scalp and penetrated the layers of his clothing; the sting made his eyes tear. Aside from the sound of the vehicle’s passage, the silence was everywhere, as endless as the fine grains that carpeted the desert. The air was clean, without a trace of human industry. He found himself smiling.

He remembered home.

Hey, I ever tell you how they recruited me? he asked Dallet.

The driver shook his head. Lay it on me, sir, he said.

You wouldn’t just be humoring me, would you?

Wouldn’t dream of it.

Nyne smiled. I ask because this place always reminds me . . . I came from Dorning. No deserts, but home to our country’s great savannahs. Or so they say.

I’m sure they’re real great, sir.

You know how to make a guy feel appreciated, Nyne said.

I try, sir.

Nyne laughed at that. It felt good; it started in his belly, then spun up through his chest, his throat, until it erupted. He laughed so little these days—too much on his mind.

His eyes scanned the dunes. I made a bet with my friends, he said, that I could hit the Aelion state border in under an hour on my bike.

Did ya make it, sir?

Took a header twenty minutes in, Nyne said. Would’ve broken my neck, but . . . my power showed itself. Cushioned my fall. Didn’t have a clue what I’d done, of course. Just thought I got lucky, managed to land in the right way at the last second.

And then, a few days later, someone showed up at your doorstep, Dallet said.

You bet they did. The Psi Corps had come for him fifteen years ago, in autumn. The vibrant hues of the leaves were still marked indelibly in his mind: red and orange and yellow; crimson and burgundy; copper and burnished bronze. I remember sitting in the backyard, drinking a beer, reading a good book—nursing a whole bunch of bruises from my little spill.

What book, sir? Dallet asked. If you don’t mind my asking.

"Spy Me a River, by Norett Jones," Nyne said.

I like that one, Dallet said. You got good taste, sir.

Thanks, Corporal.

‘The best part’s when he’s driving that speedboat."

Chasing the plane, Nyne said.

And the plane blows up, and the girl falls outta the sky, and damn if he don’t catch her, Dallet said. Man, talk about excitement. Don’t get much of that ’round here.

You can blow things up with your mind, Corporal, Nyne said. Maybe you should reevaluate your definition of ‘excitement.’

Dallet looked sheepish. Sorry, sir. Guess that was a fool thing to say.

Better to say a fool thing than do a fool thing, Nyne replied.

You sound just like my pops, sir, Dallet said.

A compliment, I hope?

Mostly, sir.

Nyne grinned.

So about you getting recruited . . . ? Dallet asked.

Right, Nyne said. I’m sitting out there in the yard, when my mom comes down the back steps with this uptight SOB in a uniform. And I’m thinking, crap, I must have wandered into military territory while I was taking my ride out across the plain. So this guy struts up to me like he’s in his own living room, and tells me I’ve got a week to get my shit together before I ship out.

What did you do, sir?

I shipped out, Nyne said.

What about the guy who recruited you? You ever see him again?

Oh, yeah, Nyne said. Except now instead of ‘S.O.B.’ I call him ‘Colonel Bringham, sir.’ He gave a conspiratorial look. Don’t repeat that.

Mum’s the word, sir, Dallet said with a smile.

I’ll just pray that’s not sarcasm, this time, Nyne said.

Dallet guffawed.

Nyne settled back in his seat and looked again at the sky. Even now, the satellites were watching, while a roomful of people pored over data, parsing real alerts from the false alarms. I wonder, sometimes, he said, what people would think if they knew we were watching. Waiting for that . . . telltale electromagnetic signature. Soon as someone shows a hint of power, the lives they know are over. Kind of depressing.

Actually, sir, Dallet said, uh, if you don’t mind my speakin’ freely . . .

Go on.

I think it’s a good thing, Dallet said.

How do you mean?

Puts my mind at ease. I know there ain’t no psions out there, runnin’ amok, not knowin’ what to do with their powers, not knowin’ how to control ’em, maybe hurtin’ people—by accident, on purpose, I don’t know. But either way . . . Dallet glanced briefly in Nyne’s direction. I got a wife and kid back home in South Brampton. I ain’t around to protect ’em, so . . . I sure feel a whole lot better that we scoop people up just as soon as we find ’em.

Nyne nodded, appraising Dallet silently.

The corporal was smarter than he’d given him credit for.

Did I say a fool thing again, sir? Dallet asked.

Just the opposite, Corporal.

Soon, the mammoth walls of Grisham broke the horizon line. The city gleamed dully in the starlight, its plated surface like the chitinous carapace of some behemoth insect. Nyne had read that Grisham had once been no more than a military base and trading outpost, but it had flourished into a true metropolis; its people were blissfully unaware of the labyrinthine Psi Corps complex beneath the northern end of Grisham’s titanic walls.

As they neared, Nyne radioed in their arrival. Massive bay doors yawned open, admitting the ATV to Staging Area Two.

The chamber was immense, with high vaulted ceilings that harbored row upon row of fluorescent lights. The floor was cold concrete, and sent off echoes with each slap of boots on its surface. There were more ATVs, offroad motorcycles, armored personnel transports, and gargantuan artillery tanks painted with the blazing sun of the Orion Protectorate. Gun and ammunition cages lay off to the far left, filled with an assortment of pistols, rifles, hand grenades, anti-tank weapons, and more. The Grisham Desert, bounded to the west by the Ephyric Ocean and to the east by the Atregard Mountains, separated Orion from Calchis. With outposts stretching the full width of the wasteland, the soldiers at Grisham were always prepared to safeguard their lands from incursion.

Corporal Dallet parked the ATV with the other vehicles. Have a good night, sir, he said.

You too, Corporal.

Nyne remained in the seat a few moments, adjusting to the sudden brightness and clamor. Every time he returned from the desert, he felt an odd sense of loss, leaving behind the open spaces for the confined trappings of modernity.

He vaulted down to the floor and made his way toward the elevator bank at the rear of the staging area. He offered perfunctory greetings to the familiar faces along the way, and moved on before he could get caught in conversation. He needed sleep. Early briefing tomorrow. Something Orion Intelligence had caught on surveillance had them all in a tizzy.

When he arrived at the elevators, he jammed the call button. He could hear the machinery winding up below.

Hey, said a voice behind him.

He turned, already knowing who it would be.

Kay—Staff Sergeant Katherine Barrett. She stood before him, chestnut hair tied up, tan skin caked with sweat and sand. Her leathers were dirtied. And she was still beautiful.

She tilted her head, gave him her signature half-smile, one corner of her mouth quirking upward. Nyne looked away. If he didn’t, he knew he would just keep on looking. Hey, he said. Where’d you come from?

Surprise drills with the squad. She boxed him in the arm—playful, but hard enough to hurt. Nyne had once compared her to a cactus, and she’d slugged him so hard that he’d had a bruise for a week.

How’d it go? he asked.

Oh, real good. She smiled again. Jensen took a header off his bike. Maddick skidded out so hard, his pants shredded and he got sand up his ass. So, yeah, those are wins in my book. If only I’d taken pictures.

He laughed. She could pull that out of him with ease. Why did she still affect him so deeply, when nothing he did ever broke through her exterior?

So . . . ? Her dark eyes shone in her finely angled face.

What?

How was your day?

It was fine, he said.

And?

Nyne sighed. What do you want me to say here, Kay?

She pulled the tie out of her hair, then ran a slim hand through it. I thought we were going to stay friends, she said.

We are.

This is what friends do, N. They talk.

He didn’t know what to tell her, but an apology was always a good bet. I’m sorry, he said. It’s been a long day. I’m tired.

Aren’t we all? For a moment, she rubbed a hand along his back. Then she realized her mistake and quickly withdrew it.

I didn’t mean to snap at you, he said.

You were just a little pissy, she replied.

He chuckled. You saying I’m acting like a baby?

Those are your words, not mine, she replied.

He drew a breath, ready to retort, but the elevator’s arrival cut him off, creaking as it lumbered up to greet them. Its metal rail squealed as it opened.

Nyne exhaled and entered. Kay followed. Their conversation suddenly felt dead in the water.

The elevator shuddered and began its descent.

As they went farther into the bowels of the Psi Corps base, past layers of construction embedded deep in the earth, Nyne could feel Kay watching him. Too often he felt like a science project being dissected by her laser focus. She said nothing for the entirety of the minute-long trip to the officer’s quarters.

Nyne didn’t dare look at her. In some childish way, he thought it would mean she’d won the . . . what? Chat? Argument? They hadn’t really been fighting. Or had they? He never quite knew.

At last the elevator came to a stop; the metal cage screamed open. Nyne stepped out and she remained. He did look at her then, questioning.

Gonna hit the treadmill, she said. I’m dirty already. She smiled.

That you are, he said. He looked her up and down, grinning.

Shut up, she said. Don’t make me kick your ass.

Like to see you try, he said.

I’d wipe the floor with you, she joked.

The hell you would, he shot back.

They met each other’s eyes, both of them smiling. Nyne’s heart fluttered, ba-bum, ba-bum. The attraction in the air was palpable, electric. He’d missed this so much. Bantering, laughing . . . Just being able to look at her like this, drink in the sight of her, was all that he wanted.

Abruptly, she looked away, and the moment died. Well . . . I’ll see you, she said. She jabbed the elevator button with her thumb.

Yeah, he said. See you.

The elevator ascended, and she was gone.

On the way to his room, Nyne tried not to think of her. He focused on his surroundings: the smooth-tiled floors; the white walls and ceiling; the overhead lights, shining down bright and sterile. Here and there lay the emblem of Orion—a golden sun—emblazoned somewhere in each hallway.

Nyne arrived at his quarters and placed his thumb on the mounted security grid. There was a beep, a click, and the steel door slid open. He stepped inside; it whirred shut. He flipped on the lights.

The room was small, sparse, lightly furnished. In the several years he’d lived there, Nyne hadn’t put much effort into personalizing it. He still used the standard-issue white bedding, the standard-issue gray woolen blanket. The walls were unadorned. His furniture was limited to the bed, dresser, and writing desk the room came with. He had procured a laptop computer, and a thirty-two-inch flatscreen television. He also had some framed photographs: his family; his old squad; Kay.

Everything else was exactly as it had been on the day he moved in.

He kicked off his boots, feeling the threadbare carpet through sweat-soaked socks. He decided a shower was in order, to wash away his troubles as much as the grime of the day. He hung up his jacket, undressed, and stepped into his room’s adjoining bathroom.

This late, the hot water was plentiful. He turned it up high enough that his skin turned pink. It felt good, cleansing. He washed his hair and body twice, then wrapped himself in a towel and collapsed onto the bed.

He switched on the TV, more out of habit than interest.

The New Axom Aviators had won the first round of the baseball playoffs. Bruce Berengar had defended his heavyweight title for the eleventh time, and the channel showed the instant replay of the KO punch in endless loops. Nyne flipped the channel again. He went through nature programs, sitcoms, science specials on the beginning of the universe. When he could take no more, he switched off the set, pulled off his towel, and rolled onto his side, curling up in the sheets.

He looked at his photo of Kay, her eyes twinkling, mirthful. What would she think if she saw he still had the picture? Was that something a friend would have? A memento of how close they’d once been?

Or, was it no more than a reminder of the woman who had broken his heart?

Nyne turned over, forcing himself to look away. No matter how often he told himself they were through, he still wanted Kay. Needed her. As he drifted off to sleep, he remembered the first time they had made love in this bed.

He had told her he loved her.

She had smiled, and called him a fool.

4

KAY

It was one of those mornings.

After running into Nyne the night before, Kay hadn’t slept well. Amid thoughts of him, she’d been haunted by the same familiar nightmares that had tormented her since childhood: gunshots in the snow; mom guzzling vodka; parental screaming matches; her brother, Tiberian Barrett, disappearing forever.

No, not forever.

There was no such thing as forever.

Sleep had come late for Kay, and she’d slumbered past her morning alarm by nearly an hour. It was 0600 by the time she stumbled out of her quarters. No time to hit the gym again, not if she was going to make the briefing in an hour. Instead, she went to the mess hall for her morning coffee.

But the industrial coffeemaker had blown. Surprise.

Kay had no choice but to head topside. Even then, she retained some small semblance of good cheer . . . until she saw the line snaking out the door of Bon Café.

Aw, fuck!

She waited at first, determined to get the best damn vanilla no-foam latte in town. But time was fleeting, and she was running out of it. She finally gave up and bought a cup of watered-down coffee from a nearby street vendor—a chubby Cotino guy with a sunny disposition. Handing over her coffee, he said, Un café para la hermosa señorita. He smiled. For the beautiful miss.

She smiled back. Maybe the day wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Then some punk lifted her handbag while she was reaching for her drink.

Kay chased the little shit for five minutes. She shouldered aside pedestrians, dodged strollers, skirted past traffic. She finally caught up with him in a grimy alley off Darry Street.

The thief couldn’t have been more than eighteen. He had the emaciated, dead-eyed look of a junkie; his hair was filthy, dyed bright red and violet. When he realized he was trapped, he brought out a butterfly knife.

She charged