So even the famous Armand Fontes eventually surrendered to the stubborn Nick Aames. Since Nick insisted on finding fault with everything, Fontes turned it into a new assignment, a new form of lesson. He made Nick put his findings in writing: official incident reports, change requests, and action plans. That kept Nick busy, but not busy enough. He still found time to critique our work; and because of our names, because of an accident of the Roman alphabet, I was the most frequent subject of his reviews.
I did mention I was proud, did I not? Nick was not the only young fool at LSS, as I hope I have made clear by now. I was proud, young, full of life, and full of myself. As I have matured, I have learned restraint. A warrior uses force for a purpose and does not let it drive him; but back then, I saw force as a way to win respect. After my embarrassment that first day, every report by Nick only made me angrier. Every report led to an assignment from Fontes: more research, more writing, more time with my head buried in my comm. Being more interested in action and strategy and planning, I hated the studies, and those assignments took up most of my spare time. Every hour of lost sleep made me hate Aames just a little more.
And on top of it all, Father’s spies were as efficient as ever. Somehow word of my disgrace and my additional assignments got back to him. He messaged me, and I feared he would be angry; but it was worse: he was pitying. He offered to send me tutors. Personal tutors, at Lunar Survival School. What could be more embarrassing? But he was not worried about my embarrassment, only his own. He could not let his son fail out of LSS. His political enemies would use me against him.
I snapped off my comm without answering. And I went back to my studies, but I could not concentrate. All I could see was the judgmental face of Nick Aames.
One day in a survival exercise, I made just another small error, despite my increased diligence. I neglected to check a seal when assembling an emergency stretcher. The LED sensors around the edge said the seal was complete, and I was in a hurry to get our “patient” to medical care; but there was a bandage caught in the seal. The bandage was translucent enough for the LED to penetrate and read as a seal, but there was a small air leak. And naturally, Nick Aames was the one who checked the pressure and found the leak. After yet another of Nick’s stinging incident reports and another assignment from Fontes, I had finally had enough. I would show this tiny little man with the red hair that no American could push around a Nigerian.
So the next evening I found Nick working out alone in the LSS gymnasium, as I knew was his habit. The rest of our classmates were wrapped up in duties or studies, but Aames was ahead of his work, as usual. We would have this room to ourselves for a while, long enough that I could corner Nick and teach him some respect.
Aames was running on a lunar treadmill, pulled down by elastic bands to keep him from bounding off the track. “Aames,” I said, closing and locking the door behind me.
“I’m busy, Adika,” he said, not breaking stride.
I shook my head. “We must have words, Aames. Now.” As I approached, Aames came to a stop and detached the bands. I stood in front of him, my arms held loosely at my side.
Aames lifted a towel from the treadmill display and wiped his face. “Make them fast words. I have reports to file.”
“I do not think it will take long.” I shifted my weight, ready in case he tried to run past me. “And I have had enough of your reports. You will cease inspecting my work, and you will keep a civil tongue when you address me.”
He pulled the towel away. “Fontes assigned those reports. Take it up with him.”
“This has nothing to do with Fontes.” I flexed my knuckles. “You must learn some respect.”
Aames stepped down from the treadmill and walked over to me, hands on hips, not breathing hard despite his workout. “I must learn, eh?”
“You must.” I looked down at the short little man, and I smiled. “And since I have seen that you will only learn the hard way, I—”
I had expected to banter with Aames, threaten him to make him respect me, and then bruise him just a little to take some satisfaction from his surrender; but Nick Aames did not know how such dominance games were played. I never finished my threat. He threw the towel at my face, and instinctively I blocked it, harmless though it was. Then without visibly flexing his muscles against the weak lunar gravity, Aames sprang backward, one foot flying up and catching me in the chin as he tumbled. The foot caught me entirely by surprise—my Earth reflexes simply could not conceive that such a short man could kick as high as my head—and I was lifted completely off my own feet. I flew backward, slowly falling as I smashed to a halt against the far wall.
The wind was knocked out of me by the impact, but I did not let it slow me down. I sprang back to my feet and leaped back toward Aames, determined to make my own use of the low gravity. But as I arced through the air, Aames danced away. It was the first time I had seen the graceful, acrobatic art of capoeira, and I did not know what to make of it. Compared to the wrestling styles I had learned in Nigeria and the savate de rue I had learned in the UN, Aames’s moves seemed delicate, almost fanciful. I fought back the urge to laugh—just as Aames suddenly reversed course, sprang back at me as he rolled sideways, and kicked me in the side of the head with both feet in rapid succession. This time I fell to the ground, stunned.
As more proof that I was young and foolish, I believed then that size was the measure of a warrior. It was beyond my comprehension that this tiny American had struck me three times with such humiliating blows, without me once returning the attack. I was unfamiliar with Aames’s style of fighting, I was unfamiliar with the low gravity, and I was growing blinded by anger.
My head rang with the kicks, but I recovered quickly, breathing deeply to try to master my temper. I assessed the situation. We both wore the shorts and shirts that were standard off-duty wear in the controlled environment of LSS. There would be no loose fabric to grab. My height was no advantage when Aames could easily leap over me. Instead I crouched low, minimizing my target area as I backed toward the door. I spread my arms out for a wider reach. Whatever tricks Aames might pull, I blocked his only way out. He could not evade me forever.
Still, I was not willing to wait while he made me look foolish. I tried to taunt him into a rash move. “You are a good dancer, Aames, but we do not dance. We fight! I am Chukwunwike, the strongest of my city, the strongest of my unit. You are just a little American, nobody at all. Come closer, and I will toss you like a sack of rice.” But Aames ignored my challenge. He spoke not a word, standing ready but staying out of reach. “Come, man, are you afraid? You have exhausted your stock of tricks, and now you can do nothing but run?”
Still he said nothing. I started slowly edging toward him, trying to trap him against the wall; but just when I thought I might have him, he did another backward spring, bounced from his hands, and planted both feet on the wall. Then he bounced off and up and over my head, landing halfway across the room. He ran for the door.
Sensing weakness, I called after him, “You are a typical little American. You think you are the king of the world, until someone stands up to you. Then you run home like a frightened child. Run home to the women, Aames, and leave space to men. Run home to your mother and grandmother.”
Something clicked. Somehow I had finally gotten to Aames’s weak spot, whatever it might be. In an instant, he snarled and turned and leaped at me feet first; and for the first time he miscalculated, jumping too high and falling too slowly and giving me time to see the kick coming. I stepped aside at the last instant and grabbed Aames around the waist. We fell to the ground.
I had expected that this little man, this—this dancer would not know what to do when grappled, but Aames surprised me again. He fought like a jackal defending its home, all frenzy and energy. I held on, my strength and my reach finally giving me the advantage. Still he refused to surrender. He squirmed, he kicked, and he punched, and I realized that I could not let him go without risking injury. I tried to subdue him. As he tw
isted, I wrapped my legs around his torso, my arms around his legs, and I stretched him out. I would hold him there until he submitted. But no, he continued to wriggle and fight, despite all my advantages. I squeezed my legs, hoping that would make him yield.
But Aames proved to be a jackal in another way: he had teeth! I felt a tearing pain in my calf as Aames bit into my leg. Hard. I tried to squeeze the air out of him, but that only made him bite harder.
Squeeze, bite, squeeze, bite . . . I thought we might be locked there in a stalemate until Fontes would appear and throw us both out of LSS, but finally Aames worked free a hand and tapped twice on my side. He released his bite, and he went limp.
Nick Aames had surrendered. And what did I have to show for it? A set of bloody teeth marks. You can still see them to this day.
I let Aames loose, and we stood. I didn’t feel triumphant, I felt spent. I had won the fight, but had I taught him respect? I did not see it. I still saw defiance in his eyes.
Then I heard pounding on the door. How long it had been going on, I could not say. I had been too focused on the fight. But as soon as I noticed it, the pounding stopped, and the door opened. Fontes strode in, followed by Barnes. Immediately he set into us. “Adika! Aames! I couldn’t believe it when Barnes told me the gym was locked. What the hell were you two doing in here?”
I looked at Aames and down at myself, and I wondered how there could be any question: bruises, torn clothes, and blood running down my calf. And worse, if Aames demanded that the surveillance video be shown, it would be clear that I had provoked the fight. With one request, one well within his rights, he could ruin my career. I caught my breath as I tried to word an apology and hoped my father would not disown me when I was expelled from LSS. I hoped he would not lose his standing in the government.
But before I could speak, Aames answered, hardly breathing heavily at all: “Combat training, Sergeant. Mister Adika was teaching me UN hand-to-hand techniques, and I was showing him some things I learned in São Paulo.”
Fontes looked down at my calf. “They teach biting in São Paulo?”
“They teach survival, whatever it takes. In some districts, São Paulo is as dangerous as Luna.”
Fontes scowled. “Combat training isn’t in the curriculum here, Nicolau.”
Aames sneered back. “It should be, Armand. Sometimes survivors are in a panic, and they need to be subdued.” And then he looked at me. “Without serious injury.”
I looked at Aames in wonder. In his place, as angry as he made me, I would have informed on him without a moment’s hesitation. Why had he covered for me? But I realized that any delay looked suspicious; so I turned back to Fontes, I nodded, and I found my voice. “Yes, Sergeant Fontes. Mister Aames was explaining that to me. So we decided it is never too soon to start training.”
Fontes frowned at both of us then. “And for that you needed to lock the gym?”
Aames spoke up again. “Adika had a lot to teach me. I needed time to consider it.”
Fontes still looked skeptical. “Maybe we need to check surveillance.” I opened my mouth to explain—somehow—but then he waved his hand and shook his head. “Never mind, I don’t see any permanent damage, so I’ll let it slide. You’ll both see an infraction in your records, but not enough to get you booted. If I caught you fighting, now . . .”
Fontes stared at both of us just long enough to be sure that we got the point. Then he continued, “Barnes, you have your gym now. Aames, you owe me some paperwork. Move.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
I was unsure how to react: I was still angry with Aames, but I was also grateful to him for not turning me in. At last I gave him a tentative smile; but he only stared at me, face like a carven mask, and left the gym. I was sure he would look back, but he never did. He had already forgotten me.
Fontes had not forgotten, though. He turned to me. “And Chukwunwike, I have a dirty yeast vat down on the third level and a wire brush with your name on it. If that vat isn’t clean by 2300, that’ll be another mark in your record. Go.”
I went, following my comm map to the yeast vats. I was grateful that Aames had saved us both from far worse punishment. I was glad that I would not embarrass my father. But still I was not happy. I had entered the gym with wounded pride; and now my pride was confused, not assuaged. Aames had proven far too difficult to subdue, as if my size and strength were somehow less significant than awareness and determination. I had exhausted myself, so the anger was spent, but I did not know how to feel next. Yet Aames had shown no emotion at all, as if the fight had never happened. And where I would have held a grudge, he seemed simply not to care. As if the evening had meant nothing to him.
Then as I scrubbed the yeast vat, an anonymous message came in on my comm; and when I read it, I laughed until the echoes poured out of the vat. It was a single sentence: “If you ever do that when it puts a mission at risk, I won’t go so easy on you next time.”
When I finally tamed my laughter, I felt good, even with the throbbing pain in my calf. I did not fear the little American, but I was learning to like him.
5. BEDSIDE MANNERS
FROM THE MEMOIRS OF PARK YERIM
2 JUNE THROUGH 5 JUNE 2083
I looked at Adika. He still sat perfectly straight on the edge of the chair. “He lied for you? Everyone gives me the impression that Nick Aames never lies.”
Adika’s big grin returned. “I thought of that, years later, and I went over his words. Not a single one was false, precisely. They were valid interpretations of the facts. He just failed to put them in context.”
“So that was it?” I asked. “An adolescent male bonding ritual, and you became fast friends?”
Adika shook his head. “It was not a bonding ritual, and there was nothing fast about it. We were not friends. But Aames puzzled me. I just could not understand his behavior.
“And so I studied him: not as an opponent, merely as an object of my curiosity. And in time I realized: none of this was personal to him at all. Not the inspections, the reviews, the constant testing. It was not about proving himself better than anyone, it was not a dominance game. It was not even malicious, though his lack of tact can seem like malice. It was simply about being right. Nick Aames is absolutely obsessed with being right, and correcting himself or others when they are wrong. He has that sense we see in children, but most of us outgrow: everything must be right, must be in order, or he cannot be at peace.”
I looked around the office. I could see Adika’s point: except for the hand-painted sign and the e-reader, everything here looked very ordered and polished, each black piece of furniture precisely placed within the room. There was a sense of dark unity in the design. But still . . . “The world is not an orderly place. He can’t have much peace.”
“Ah.” Adika smiled. “And now you know. Like I did, you just got a glimpse into the heart of Nick Aames. He must have everything right, and he knows he never will. This is what makes him so difficult. He is always disappointed.”
I thought about that. Adika’s description was nothing like I had heard from Aames’s detractors; and yet it fit somehow. It wasn’t the whole of Nick Aames, but it was a piece of the puzzle I hadn’t even realized was missing. It was like I had placed a jigsaw piece, and suddenly what I thought was a horse became a zebra. I wondered what the picture would become when I found more puzzle pieces.
“So you understood him? That changed your relationship?”
Adika shook his head again. “I am sorry, Inspector, you are looking for simple transitions, a switch turning on or off, when reality changes over years. I still do not truly understand Nick even today. And our relationship is always changing. But I can tell you the one crucial change that let us get through Lunar Survival School without killing each other.”
“Oh?”
“I asked him for help.”
“Huh? Captain Aames does not strike me as helpful.”
“That is because people so rarely ask him. They know that he will
pounce on every little mistake, and that is too much stress for most people. He makes himself unapproachable, unless you have the hide of a rhinoceros. But when I realized I was over my head with my studies, and I knew that Aames was ahead of the class, I swallowed my pride and I asked. And without hesitation, without making me beg, he readily answered my questions and helped me with my assignments. Oh, he was as abrasive as ever when I made a mistake. He has so little tolerance for error. But asking for help meant I wanted to be right, like he does. In the pursuit of knowledge, he becomes almost enjoyable to be around, like a large dog who will growl if you approach him incorrectly but will join you in the hunt. With his help, I turned my academic problems around, and I managed to graduate from LSS. Not with honors, but with my dignity intact.”
I pointed at his record on my comm. “More than intact, Commander. You’ve had an incredible career. You could have your pick of top assignments. And yet you’ve settled for security chief on a transport. That’s practically retirement for a man of your talents. What sort of influence does Captain Aames have, that he could talk you into this?”
Adika leaned forward and looked right in my eyes. “Inspector, you interviewed Constance about Nick, and now you have interviewed me. If you listen carefully, our answers are there. The one question I have is: If you truly want to understand Captain Aames, why do you not interview him?”
I had kept wondering that myself; and eventually I had found an answer, something more sensible than just me being intimidated by Aames’s reputation. “I will when I’m ready, Commander. When I’m ready, and when I’m sure I can do so without prejudice.”
“Prejudice?”
I nodded. “You must know that Captain Aames has a difficult reputation throughout much of the Corps. It’s not something you can miss as you rise through the ranks. And during my preparation for this assignment, I heard from admirals and bureaucrats and astronauts and port authorities who all admonished me not to trust Aames, not to let him escape responsibility for his actions. Oh, sure, I also knew him as the hero of the second Bradbury expedition; but even that he turned into a mess before he ever got back to Earth. So by the time I set foot aboard the Aldrin, almost the entire picture—the entire negative picture that I had of Nick Aames—came from his enemies. That has to color my judgment and my reactions when I meet him. Everything I will hear from him, I will hear through that filter. And I hate that. I pride myself on my objectivity. As much as Aames demands to be right, I demand objectivity. So since I can’t unhear those stories, the closest I can get to balance is to hear the other story from his friends.”
The Last Dance Page 10
