Fire with Fire, Second Edition

by Charles E Gannon

  The vehicle, conspicuously large among the prevalent two-seater fuel cell econoboxes, weaved expertly through the streets, giving wide berths to the terrifyingly fearless pedestrians, who pushed their food carts and baby carriages within inches of the roadway. In an Irish accent, the vehicle started asking Caine if he wanted music, news, sport, weather—

  And then bucked and screeched to a halt in the middle of the road, a red light pulsing urgently at the center of the dash.

  Caine searched for a problem, found none, wasn’t even sure what all the gauges meant. “What the hell is wrong?” he asked, and then realized, Jesus Christ, I’m talking to a car.

  Stranger still, it answered. “Road sensors inoperative in this region; please assume manual control.”

  “But which way do I—?”

  “All automated functions suspended. Road sensors inoperative in this region: please assume—”

  “Oh, all right”—and, foot on the brake, he fumbled for the shifter. Expecting more resistance—it was a digital sliding switch now, not a mechanical gear selector—he over-shifted into low gear: the car jumped forward, then banged down into a crawl.

  Horns—from behind and in the cross-street he had just blocked—registered local reactions to his driving abilities. As Caine eased into the next gear—the car shuddering forward against the still-locked brakes—locals turned to look. They were joined by a few tourists, distinctive in their sundresses, sports jackets, sunglasses. One man, very tall, smiled a little.

  Caine grimaced a smile back at him, advanced the gear switch, realized he still had his foot on the brake, and lifted it. The car seemed to hop forward, rushing him swiftly away from the scene of embarrassment.

  In the rearview mirror, the tall tourist with the sunglasses was still looking after him. And was still smiling . . .

  CIRCE

  Still smiling, the tall man turned to resume his journey, found his way blocked by a squat and rather hirsute local who was shaking a half-hearted fist after the fleeing vehicle. “Tourist,” the local snorted, and then, noticing the attention of the tall—and obviously foreign—man, looked up with apologetic eyes.

  The tall man kept looking, kept smiling, the wraparound sunglasses a bar of black opacity. The local smiled, shrugged an apology, and moved off, with one backward glance at the tall man—who had not moved, but who kept watching him. The squat local disappeared quickly into a cluster of oncoming pedestrians.

  Turning on his heel, the tall man resumed his measured walk to the corner, turning into the narrow side street. Genuine cobblestones—older than the mostly repro buildings that flanked them—wobbled down toward the sea, some buildings tilting inward over them, some away. He shifted the bag of groceries he was carrying to his left arm, reached into his right pocket, produced a keyring festooned with real keys: toothed, mechanical, archaic keys.

  Three young boys blocked his path, playing something akin to street hockey with makeshift boards and a small child’s ball, stamped with the outline of a Mickey Mouse head, the face erased by sun and time. He slowed as he approached; the boys looked up, stopped playing. He walked on, down the cobblestone street and up the small rise at its end, from which one could enjoy a commanding view of the ocean and the high angles of the Temple of Poseidon, poised on the tip of the south-pointing headland to the west.

  The tall man carefully selected one of the keys as he approached the only two-story building at the end of the street: a dilapidated duplex with a distinct lack of local charm. He opened the door, looked back. Up the street, the boys turned away quickly as if to deny that they had been watching him the whole time, and hastily resumed their game. The man smiled, shut the door behind him and mounted the stairs with long, even steps.

  Entering the sea-facing apartment, he put the keys back in his pocket as he crossed into the kitchenette: cockroaches scurried away to refuges under the cupboards, alarmed at the intrusion. He dumped the bag’s uppermost contents—the bread, the oranges, soda cans and other unnecessary items—into the rust-stained sink as he walked past, not breaking his stride.

  He pushed open the balcony door, still cradling the bag carefully, and scanned north. Halfway to the hills which flattened down into the coast, a small rim of concrete rose above the low roofs: the Herakles stadium. He scanned south: the sea. One security delta was slowly angling back in. He noted the vehicle, checked his watch.

  Then he scanned west. A clear view of the Sounion headland and the Temple of Poseidon, just over six kilometers away. He reached down into the grocery bag, pulled out a canned ham and a large ceramic bell jar, crookedly adorned with the label of a grinning, buxom farm girl carrying a cornucopia of agricultural riches. He opened the lid; from the dark, glass-lined interior, there rose a sharp tang of high-molarity acid. He replaced the cap, resealed the jar, put it down to his right, behind the balcony’s chest-high weather wall.

  He pried back the seal on the canned ham, pulled the covering façade of meat aside, removed the plastic-sealed wide-lens binoculars, the jar of Vaseline, and a small, separately wrapped tripod. Throwing the wrappings aside, he snugged the binoculars into the tripod, which he mounted on the corner of the weather wall. He leaned over, swiveled the binoculars in the direction of the Temple of Poseidon, adjusted the lenses. Beyond the columns, occluded from the waist down, Corcoran’s silhouette swam into focus. He counted the number of columns to Nolan’s left, to his right, checked his watch, pulled out a paper pad, hastily scribbled additions to a growing set of notes.

  He began to lean away from the binoculars, halted, then rotated them in the other direction, slowing and adjusting the focus as the roof-topping lip of the Herakles stadium slid sideways into view . . .

  MENTOR

  As she sprinted out of view to the right, Downing noted the way Opal pumped her arms from the shoulders, and he thought, she runs like a man.

  He advanced until he could see the entirety of the track, but remained in the shadows of the entry. As she crossed what would normally be the finish line, she picked up the pace to a near sprint: the last lap, probably.

  She heals quickly. Tans nicely too; gold-bronze, despite the fair skin and light brown hair. Feet and hands so small that you could almost call them dainty. Torso proportionally long and flowing: shapely but lean.

  But her shoulders and her pelvis were square and strong, her legs well-muscled, and she moved with a slight, forward-leaning tension: she was a spring coiled in readiness. It would be easy to miss those hints of an incongruous, even unexpected strength. Her dossier indicated that more than one adversary had underestimated her—either on a battlefield or in a briefing room—and she had been quick to capitalize on those mistakes. Good: that was part of what made her perfect for this assignment.

  If only she embraced it. That, so far, had been the sticking point.

  As Opal entered the last turn, her sandy bangs were wet at the fringes, her chin tucked down. Still pumping her arms, she leaned into the turn until she emerged onto the straight again, huffing through the last few meters and over her self-imposed finish line. Downing emerged from the archway—

  But she had already turned around. “Do you approve of my training, Mr. Downing?”

  He had watched her eyes as she ran; she had never looked over in his direction. Impressive peripheral vision. “Captain, I’m sorry if I surprised you—”

  “You didn’t.” She was walking toward a towel hung over the spectator railing. “I’ve come to expect your scrutiny. Tell me: do you enjoy watching women exercise?”

  “Captain—”

  Rubbing her hair briskly, she laughed through the towel. “You fluster pretty easily. Must make it easy for your wife to keep you in line.”

  He didn’t like her insolence; he liked the stinging accuracy of her insight even less. “I assume you’re finished with today’s PT.”

  “Yep. About twenty minutes ago. Just putting in a little extra work: I need it. And I’ve got nothing better to do, since you won’t give me any rea
ding materials.”

  “That changes today.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “It’s true.”

  “That’ll be a first.”

  Downing felt a thin line of heat along his brow. “I have not told you one lie about this assignment. Not one.”

  “Okay. You haven’t lied about this assignment. But you’ve evaded. Declined to comment. Makes me feel real welcome here in the fabulous future.”

  “I’m sorry its been such a—a disappointing beginning for you, Captain.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure your heart is just bleeding for me.” She stopped adjusting her shoes, turned quickly. “I apologize: that was uncalled for.”

  “No need for regrets, Captain. May I call you Opal?”

  She thought for a second, looking off into the green scrub hills to the north. “No, I don’t think so. Not yet. Maybe never. We’ll have to see.”

  “About what?”

  She looked directly at him. “About whether you turn out to be someone I can trust. Downing, I might one day come to tolerate, even like you, but I’ll never like what you do. Oh, I know it’s necessary: I’m no idiot. There’s no way to get rid of the need for covert agencies and operatives: I’ve seen enough bad shit to know that well enough. And you might even be one of the good guys, the way you say you are. But you lie for a living. And now you want—you’re ordering—me to do the same.”

  “I’m sorry you see it that way. You may find that it’s something you’d want to do anyway.”

  “Yes, but I’m not free to find that out for myself.”

  “True. You were also not free to choose which of your combat assignments you felt were justified and which weren’t.”

  “Look: I volunteered to serve my country as a combat soldier, not a courtesan.”

  “But it seemed as though you liked Caine—”

  “So you tell me, but now I can’t even remember him. That whole first week is pretty much gone.”

  “I’m not surprised. Emergency wake-ups are very hard on the nervous system, on brain chemistries. You can lose a lot—”

  “Or it can be taken from me, as well.”

  Oh, bloody hell. “I beg your pardon?”

  Her eyes were an unblinking challenge. “I mean, if the wake-up memories are fragile, it must be particularly easy to erase them—if you wanted to. Maybe with drugs, or maybe that’s why I seem to recall shock therapy—”

  She’s right: I lie for a living. Lie number one: “There were no drugs.” Lie number two: “As for electroconvulsive therapy, you might be misremembering cardiac stimulation: your heart stopped twice during the first surgery.”

  She had not stopped looking at him. “Could be. But I seem to recall something a lot less benign than a few zaps with the paddles.” She broke the accusing stare, picked up her gym bag: “Anyway, I’ll never know if you’re telling me the truth or not, so I might as well let it go—but that’s the problem, isn’t it, Mr. Downing? I never know if you’re telling me the truth.”

  He couldn’t bring himself to contradict her: that would be just one more lie. “You can be sure of this: today you’re free.”

  “Free to do what? To become a commando-courtesan for a man I don’t even know? You’ve got a mighty strange definition of ‘freedom,’ Mr. Downing.”

  “Captain, you’re not a civilian—and nor am I. For us, freedom isn’t a blank check: it’s a limited, occasional luxury—that we buy for millions of others at the expense of our own.”

  She looked up: he hadn’t realized that the tone of his voice had become so sharp. Then she nodded: “Okay, you’re a true believer. I wasn’t sure until right now, when you got pissed off at me. Took two weeks to find out, but better late than never.” She rose, walked over to him, put her hands on her hips and looked up into his face from only a foot away. “Nothing else could make what you do excusable. I still don’t like you; I still don’t trust you. But I can accept a person who feels he is performing a necessary duty.” She extended her hand.

  Downing looked at it, smiled, was grateful, but also thought: I should find out how good she is.

  He extended his hand toward hers, but at the last possible moment, reached past it and grabbed her wrist—

  —but she had seen, or felt, it coming. She let him pull her in—he had the advantage of height and weight—but stepped outside and past him. With surprising—fearsome—speed, she had her right leg snugged behind his right knee. He felt her trapped hand recoil sharply, tugging him toward a forward fall—but the instant that he leaned back to pull away, her left hand came up, grabbed a fistful of his right shoulder and shirt, and added a sharp push to his backward reflex.

  Flat on his back, Downing looked up at her. “Textbook,” he grunted. “Well done.”

  “Wish I could say the same for you, Scarecrow. That was pretty predictable.”

  He rose to his spare elbows. “Just a basic check; sometimes, after extended time in cryosleep, reflexes go along with short-term memories.”

  “Not in my case. Here.” She extended a hand to help him up.

  He smiled crookedly, reached across with his own right hand—and again, snapped it down sharply on her wrist.

  But she rolled her wrist around and out of his grab, even as she once again allowed herself to be pulled forward by him, this time into a trajectory that carried her across his body. But as her right wrist finished rotating, the outer edge of her hand came up around his own wrist, clasped hard. She landed on the far side of his body, breaking her fall with her right knee, and using her left hand to secure a double grip on his wrist. She tugged towards herself sharply with both hands. Downing felt his elbow snap straight and then strain uncomfortably: his upper arm was tucked unyielding against her right tibia. Four or five more foot-pounds of backward pressure on his forearm from the combined pull of her arms and his elbow would snap.

  “Ow,” he said.

  Her eyes—the color of pecans, the shape of almonds—did not blink or smile. “Do I pass the audition or do we dance some more?”

  “That will be quite enough, Captain: I’m done.”

  Her eyes flicked down at his pilloried elbow. “Yes, I’d say you are.” She pushed his arm away in the same motion that she used to stand up. “Like I said, Downing, you never give me reason to do anything except distrust—”

  And she stopped. Her eyes were looking beyond him, her mouth still open a little, but the words abandoned. He rolled his head around, back in the direction of the shadowed archway.

  A man was walking out of its black maw: Caine. “Am I interrupting—something?” he asked, looking from Opal to Downing.

  “No, no, not at all, Caine. I just had a tumble trying to get in a little exercise of my own. Can’t keep up with this young lady. She’s too fit for me, I’m afraid.”

  Opal offered Downing a helpful hand, tried to smile at him, failed. Caine stepped in, extended his hand as soon as she had finished helping Richard. “Hello. I don’t think we really had a chance to meet, other than a few minutes in the back of that vertibird five weeks ago. I’m Caine Riordan.”

  She seemed to think about that for a moment—and then Downing realized why she was pausing: she’s attracted to him. No surprise: he’s handsome enough and fit. An excellent start. “Nice to meet you,” she was saying. “I’m Opal—Opal Patrone. Can’t say I remember you—or really anything about that night, really. They tell me that you lose memories if they jump-start you out of coldsleep.”

  Caine looked sidelong at Downing. “Supposedly, if they put you under or wake you up too quickly, memories get lost. Something about trauma to the chemical encoding of memories, with the more recent ones being the most vulnerable. Although I seem to have been particularly susceptible.”

  “What do you mean?” Which was theater, since she had been briefed about Riordan’s memory loss. So, she also lies passably well.

  He broke eye contact, looked off at nothing in the stands: “I seem to have lost a bit more memory than usual.”<
br />
  “I’m sorry.”

  Caine looked at her with a sharp yet sympathetic intensity. “From what I hear, some people have it far worse than I do.”

  Opal started. “You mean me? Oh, I don’t know: a fresh start on life sounds good. Particularly since I was pretty much dying when they put me in the freezer.”

  Caine didn’t say anything; but his lips crinkled upward at the edges, as if the two of them had shared a rueful private joke. She smiled back—and Downing sensed that she was about to move closer to him. No, too soon. She’s so damned frank, she’ll chase him off. Downing preemptively edged closer to Caine, blocking her. “When did you get in?”

  “About an hour ago. Nolan also wanted me to tell you that your collarcom is dead, and that you have a briefing at 1900 hours.” He turned to Opal. “Ms. Patrone, can I offer you a lift, or—?”

  Downing strolled toward the track. “Actually, that’s Captain Patrone. I’d be grateful if you could give her a ride back: I was late coming to collect her, and I’d like to get in a quick jog. Be a good chap and take her on back to the villa—or better yet, why not take a quick sightseeing tour?”

  “Sightseeing?” Opal repeated incredulously.

  Damnit, woman: do you have any subtle courtship instincts whatsoever? Downing provided a more specific prompt: “You certainly have enough time to drive up to the Legonia overlook. The ocean views are breathtaking. Or so I’m told.”

  That seemed to get Opal back on track. She smiled at Caine. “After being cooped up for almost six weeks, I could do with a change of scenery. It’s also just what the doctors ordered. Literally.”

  Caine’s eyes had not left hers, although his eyebrows had risen a notch when Downing had indicated that she was an officer. “Well, Captain Patrone? Shall we see the sights?”

  Opal smiled back. “Oh, just call me Opal—and yes, I’d love a look around. But, fair warning: you might want to rethink your offer. I’ve been working out for almost ninety minutes in this heat.” She used thumbs and forefingers to pull her sweat-soaked shirt away from her torso; when she let it go, it fell back and clung to her closely. Unplanned, but a nice effect, Downing had to admit.