Firedance Read online

  “He first appeared on the scene in the middle nineties, as an Ibandi shaman. The history of the Ibandi is … colorful. They have never been conquered, partially because much of the terrain they inhabit is mountainous, and ideal for guerilla warfare. In the early eighteen-hundreds, the British tried to pacify them. A railroad was run into their territory, guarded by several hundred troops armed with cannon and mounted cavalry.”

  “What happened?” Aubry asked, quietly.

  “They disappeared. To this day, the Ibandi’s ceremonial knives are pounded from railroad spikes. Great embarrassment. The South Africans backed a commando operation against them in the fifties—again, a slaughter.” The image changed again. Now there was what seemed to be newsreel footage—of a mound of human heads. Most of them were Caucasian. “This was found on the outskirts of Messina, in southern Africa near the border of Zimbabwe.”

  He cleared his throat. “Then when uranium deposits were found in the Ibandi province, in the late 1980s, the government of Zaire tried to confiscate the lands.”

  “And?” Aubry’s voice rasped.

  “Two million Ibandi just disappeared into the mountains. They waged such a war of attrition that the government of Zaire was forced to cut a deal with them, help them build factories. It was their fierceness that brought them to the attention of the world. Their young men became prized mercenaries. The first Ibandis competed in the Olympics in the nineties. Superlative distance runners and wrestlers.”

  “I know some of the rest of this,” Jenna said. “Phillipe Swarna was the spiritual leader of their warrior class. The religion, this ‘Five Songs’ thing, began spreading into the regular armies of the dozen or so countries that hired Ibandian mercenaries.”

  “It’s not exactly a religion,” Koskotas corrected. “It’s more of a philosophical approach to dealing with life as combat. Christianity, Islam, a dozen polytheistic sects—they were all absorbed. Fucking amazing, really. Apparently there was some feeling of alarm connected with the growth of his power and influence, and there was an attempt to kill, or disable, him. We don’t have the details. It may have involved acid, or fire. We know that he went into seclusion, and disappeared into the northern desert for four years. During that time, his face was reconstructed to resemble a mythic hero of the Ibandi, a man named Erahs. These are the first reliable pictures that we have of him.”

  The image was clear, but not sharp-edged, as if the product of computer reconstruction.

  What was displayed before them was a man in his fifties, with features more like those of a Negroid Pakistani than an African. Ridges of keloid tribal scars braided his face.

  “He may not even be truly of Negroid stock. In recent years, Swarna has been too well isolated for us to get more current data.

  “In 1999, the initial contracts were signed creating PanAfrica. This man united a dozen tribes and nations, played one off against the other, and seemed virtually unstoppable.

  “The United States was experiencing its own period of collapse, and there were no resources for adventurism. After centuries of starvation, war, and disease, the world had wearied of Africa.”

  And here for the first time Koskotas winced a bit. “The decision was made to let Black Africa die. Swarna had a free hand. And he carved out an empire.

  “You know the PanAfrican concept,” Koskotas continued. “Nobody believed in it—but he made it work, by God. When he couldn’t get cooperation from the Japanese government, he made arrangements with the largest criminal organization in Asia, the Divine Blossom Yakuza. Divine Blossom stole the technology he needed, and mass-produced it in prefabricated factories erected in PanAfrica. Swarna became even more of a power. In the teens, we tried to prune him back, on the Zimbabwe plain, and PanAfrica crushed the United Nations forces. Through its deal with Swarna, Divine Blossom had the mineral resources to consolidate its power in Japan. It was the first ‘Yakuza keiretsu’—a keiretsu being a sort of industrial and economic confederation. Divine Blossom possessed power under and above the law, within and outside of Japan. They are probably the largest multinational in the world, powerful enough to laugh at our embargoes. The technology continued to flow into Swarna’s little social experiment.

  “Then we … tried more direct actions.”

  Promise looked at Aubry, as if expecting a query. When none was forthcoming, she said, “You attempted an assassination?”

  “Understand that the current administration had nothing to do with it. Yes. We tried to remove Phillipe Swarna. The attempt failed. We tried again. And failed again. Swarna expanded his political empire to Asia and Central America. Counting the labor, land, and material resources he commands or influences, Phillipe Swarna is almost certainly one of the ten most powerful men in the world, and he hates the West virulently.”

  “With reason,” Jenna observed. “You raped his continent, abandoned them, and then when a leader finally rose with the vision to put things back together, you tried to stop him. When that failed, you tried to kill him. What are you angling for now?”

  Her gaze was merciless. Koskotas met it for about eight seconds; then his eyes shifted. Some dynamo within Kramer seemed to activate at that moment—you could almost hear him hum. Without moving, he seemed to grow in size, to radiate heat. Jenna’s attention was pulled away from Koskotas to the younger man. She didn’t look at his eyes—she looked at a spot just beneath his chin. She nodded to herself, and to Aubry.

  Aubry gave her a hard, flat smile, then spoke. “Thank you for the briefing.”

  Koskotas shifted, as if the room was too warm for him. “Frankly, I had no interest in this meeting. Certain … pressures were brought to bear.”

  There was silence in the room for a long moment. Some kind of energy whorl seemed to connect Aubry Knight and Koskotas, as if they were playing some kind of high-stakes poker game.

  Aubry broke the impasse. “I used to be a professional killer,” he said. “A ‘soldier’ for the Ortega crime organization. Part of my training was conducted by the American military, and part by former spooks.” He paused, and smiled without humor. “Of course, they might have been current operatives on detached assignment—after all, you did use Ortega men in your first attempt on Swarna, didn’t you?”

  There was no audible answer, but Kramer nodded shallowly.

  “I want to go after Swarna. I want you to help me.”

  “Jesus Christ—” Kramer hissed, speaking at last. He clamped down, silent again.

  Koskotas raised his hand. “No. We understand your position, Mr. Knight, but cannot allow such a thing. In fact, United Nations policies directly forbid any such interference in the political or economic structure of another country. We cannot prove that Swarna was responsible for the attempt on President Harris—even though his son was involved.

  “We cannot prove that Swarna was responsible for the attempt on you, Mr. Knight—although the killer bears tribal tattoos associated with Swarna’s tribe of origin, and elite guard.”

  Promise was staring at Aubry, had stared since he first made the offer.

  “We can provide you with protection,” Koskotas continued. “We owe you this much for your efforts on behalf of President Harris. That is all we came to say.” He pushed a silver envelope toward them. “In this envelope is our proposal for security, and a special number you can call, should you need more information, or support.”

  The two men smiled, shook hands, and left the room.

  Aubry sat, staring at the envelope. Brooding.

  21

  Koskotas and Kramer rose up in the skimmer. They waited until they were hooked into the Pacific Coast guidance system before they began to talk.

  “So,” Koskotas said finally. “What do you think?”

  “I’ve seen the reports,” Kramer said. He spoke with machine precision, utterly bloodless. “His hand-eye stats were through the roof. Firearms almost as high. Explosives—good. Infiltration skills—adequate, with potential. But he was considered more or less a natural.
Doesn’t make a difference. We can’t use him. He’s an amateur.”

  “What about the kid?”

  “Total freak. Makes my flesh crawl. But too unstable.” He paused. “What about the chronological scan on the clone? What did the machine really say?”

  “You know me too well. Thirteen years.”

  “Thirteen years!?”

  “Yes. Interesting, isn’t it?”

  “So what do we do?”

  “For now, stonewall it.”

  Koskotas opened a scrambled line and waited for the computers to handshake. The skimmer was already hopped from the Pacific to the Executive network, prioritized above the commuter and transport traffic, and routed to the preferred air corridors. In four hours they’d be back on the East Coast. Current plans suggested a refueling in St. Louis.

  “General Koskotas?”

  The voice that came over the radio was soft but precise. President Roland Harris.

  “We’ve made our report, sir.”

  “And?”

  “And he wants in on STYX.”

  Harris was quiet. “Is that … possible?”

  “Absolutely not. Inappropriate in the extreme.”

  Harris paused. “How many times have you … failed, General?”

  “Never. The men before me …”

  “How many times have we failed?”

  “Sir, I understand your personal feelings—”

  “No,” the president said quietly. “I don’t believe you do. If Knight wants in, I want you to make a place for him. I want to be kept briefed.”

  “But sir—”

  “Koskotas—I was against the operation. I don’t like this sort of thing. But if there is one man with a legitimate reason to … participate in STYX, it is Aubry Knight. Military solutions have failed. Covert intelligence operations have failed. Perhaps a more personal approach is needed.”

  “But sir—”

  “I want you to modify your existing plans to include him. And I want to stay current on those plans. Do you understand?”

  “Yes … sir.” The connection died.

  Koskotas slammed his hand against the panel. “Goddamn amateur fucking politicos!”

  “Can we … stall him? Tell him that the pipeline will close too soon?”

  “No, damn it to hell. He received a full briefing last month.”

  “Can Harris really shut us down?”

  Koskotas glared at him. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” He balled his hand into a fist, slammed it down again. “All right. We use Knight if we have to. We keep Harris informed. But Kramer—”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Training accidents have been known to happen. See that one does.”

  22

  The moon was a swollen, pale blue portal into another, calmer time. It sat atop the pines, shining down, joining with the breeze that fluttered their curtains. The dew of their lovemaking was beginning to cool; the sighs, and the kisses, and the whispered affirmations of love and existence began to lose their urgency as heartbeats slowed to normal. All intensities eventually fade, and in the fading some of life’s fears and sorrows hammer at the door, slip through the keyhole, slide through the windowpanes.

  Love can banish shadows for a time, but in the end, night always prevails.

  Promise ran her fingers through the tightly curled hair on Aubry’s chest. Quietly, she said, “They can protect us. You heard them.”

  Aubry smiled wanly. “You don’t know this business. They can protect us as long as we stay within their guidelines, as long as we don’t go anywhere, don’t do anything, and are never alone again.”

  “And what’s so wrong with that?”

  “Is that why we’ve worked so hard? For so long? So that we can run and hide for the rest of our lives?”

  His voice was beginning to change, revealing a steely edge. She clung to him, afraid. “Aubry, listen. You don’t have to do this. Dying won’t solve anything.”

  But Aubry’s ears were filled with a music Promise couldn’t hear. “I killed myself,” he said slowly. “I clamped my hand around my own neck. I twisted. I watched myself hit the ground, dead while living. I smelled my stench when I shit and pissed myself. How am I supposed to forget that?”

  “It wasn’t you, Aubry.” She fought to keep her voice even, reasonable. “It was a piece of your meat.”

  “It was a clone. A three-year-old clone. That’s even worse. I killed a baby. It was big, and muscular, and it had moves, but it was a baby.” Out in the trees beyond their window, the wind shifted. The leaves and needles rustled, stirring from dreams. Distantly, a lonely animal howled, seeking its mate, hoping to share the moonlight. “That bastard Swarna did that to me. I don’t feel … right.” He searched for the right word. “I don’t feel … alive.”

  Promise turned her head away from him, pressed her face hard against a pillow. “I’m not sure that I believe you. I think that this is the first time in three years you’ve felt completely alive. You needed this to happen. This is your chance to get back into the game, and you can’t let it go.”

  His gaze grew remote. “I can’t expect you to understand it.” He rose naked from the bed, and paused there for a moment. He was a man on the edge of a whirlpool, calmly considering its depths. He opened a corner cabinet and pulled out a pair of pants, a shirt, another shirt … he wouldn’t need much, just a few items of clothing and some toiletries.

  “No,” Promise said. “Maybe I can’t understand. But Jenna can. And Bloodeagle can. Will you at least talk to them? They are your friends. You can trust them, can’t you?”

  Aubry folded shirts and pants carefully. He tugged down a brown leather case and popped the lock. He tucked the clothes into a corner, and reached into the closet for another pair of pants.

  “Can’t you trust them?” Her voice was cracking now. “Can’t you trust anyone?”

  Aubry closed the lid, and then paused. Naked, motionless in the moonlight, he resembled a heroic statue, a guardian before some mausoleum. For almost a minute, he didn’t move, didn’t speak. Then finally, reluctantly, he said, “I’ll talk to Jenna.”

  23

  Archery was one of the four weapon disciplines of durga, the warrior art practiced by the women of Ephesus. Forty women were in Jenna’s night class. They were positioned in staggered rows of ten. They drew their fiberglass bows, notched their arrows with the tips raised to seventy degrees, and waited.

  Aubry watched from his seat near the top of the amphitheater. The bowstrings remained taut for eighteen minutes. Even with leather finger guards, despite perfect posture, pain narrowed their eyes, arms trembled, sweat rolled in sour rivulets down strain-creased faces. Every few seconds a thin, shuddering gasp of exertion pierced the night air.

  At a prearranged signal, the students released their arrows. A dark cloud flew toward the padded log target, buzzing like an angry bee swarm. They thumped sh-shuck! All but two furred the log. There was a sort of group exhalation; then they returned to the ready position.

  To Aubry’s way of thinking, they seemed more concerned with the ritual than the actual targeting. Somehow, they managed to produce accuracy without having it as a primary concern.

  He had another impression, an image that remained in his mind regardless of his attempts to shake it loose: they were connected to the target in some manner. He couldn’t see the connective threads, but he could feel them.

  Jenna looked up at Aubry, a slight and secret smile shading her lips. Then she was guru again, her attention riveted to the class.

  She drilled them with knives, with staffs, with a single twenty-inch stick, and with the empty hands and feet. She pushed them on and on, driving with her will and her knowledge and her hard-won fitness, until every one of them dripped with sweat and panted for breath.

  She danced her women through their stretching exercises, then reclined them for deep breathing and a measured visualization.

  And here she spoke to them, in measured tones. She spoke of hills, a
nd valleys, and the animals of the Earth. Her voice lulled them into trance, and bade them dream of children and children unborn, of art and music and the gentle rhythms of existence.

  “All that is of value is born of Woman,” she said. “Of the female, and of the feminine side of men. All building, all creation. All dreams. But a child is safe only when protected, and dreams, unwalled, are torn by those who cannot sleep.…”

  “Men, and the masculine force, cannot be. It must do. And it must analyze—ripping the life from what it examines. When the knowledge is extracted from the body of a chimpanzee, all that remains is meat. The masculine has feasted. Science benefits. Civilization progresses. But the chimp is dead.

  “If we would have life, in our way, we must be prepared to defend it. Beauty without strength is death. Strength without beauty is death. Only together is there life.…”

  Aubry sat, listening to Jenna’s singsong words, and felt as if a shell around him were cracking. As if the wind whipping in through the pine needles bore secrets, coded whispers for some part of him beneath and aside from the part he called Aubry.

  And they make their knives of railroad spikes, to this day …

  Where had he…?

  How had he…?

  He knew those words. And some others, which flitted, unbidden, into his mind.

  Come, they said. Come to the Firedance.…

  Aubry shook himself out of the reverie, realizing that the class was over.

  Many of the women waved or smiled to Aubry as he trotted down the amphitheater stairs to the workout area. A few averted their eyes, faces tight with resentment.

  Jenna directed a trio of assistants in the packing of gear as Aubry descended. Bows and arrows and staffs and knives were slotted into hardwood cabinets behind the stage.

  Aubry descended and stood quietly, waiting as Jenna cleaned the gleaming, curved length of her durga fighting knives. She stroked them with an oiled white cloth with a red border. Jenna’s movements were very precise, very controlled, as they were whenever she performed her ceremonial cleansing.