Trickster Page 3

  On the other hand, she had a mate.

  Mates, boyfriends, parents, and other family members normally took their pregnant loved ones into hiding. They also protected them with a viciousness that bordered on psychopathic.

  That this female seer had successfully hidden from authorities for over a hundred years, only to poke her head above-ground while pregnant, when she had a bonded mate, made no kind of sense whatsoever.

  That didn’t even get into why the Sweeps hadn’t just let her go.

  The Org more or less completely ran the Sweeps.

  The head of the Org, Galaith, was pretty old-school on the pregnancy issue. He also seemed intent on keeping faith with the treaty stipulations he’d hammered out with Old World seers––particularly in the more touchy areas of seer life.

  Anything to do with pregnancy or seer children usually headed that list.

  “Any thoughts on the father?” I asked Varlan finally. “Did I miss anything there?”

  Varlan only smiled.

  Again, I couldn’t help but feel about ten steps behind the elder seer.

  At least I could tell he thought I was asking the right questions now, though.

  Three

  You Look Like Him, You Know

  Guorum Work Camp

  Nearest city: Manaus, Brazil

  November 27, 1978

  We touched down on the Black Arrow landing site at oh-nine-hundred, just outside of the main perimeter of the work camp called Guoruem.

  As I looked up at the rusted, brushed-metal sign, I found myself remembering that Guoruem was a mythological bird, a kind of eagle from the seer pantheon.

  Guoruem was one of the old ones.

  From what I could recall, he was one often portrayed as a dark force, or, at the very least, one who dipped between dark and light––a kind of “Trickster” spirit who played both sides of the fence, pushing history forward in the role of chaos agent.

  I wondered who had named this place after him, and why.

  As soon as my pod left the confines of the aircraft’s fuselage, the pilot caused the helicopter to immediately lift off again. Both pilot and helicopter belonged to the multibillion-dollar defense corporation and contractor, Black Arrow, which built and operated the work camp for the World Court.

  The helicopter leaving the vicinity of the camp was the law.

  No operational air support vehicles were permitted to remain within a fifty-mile radius of any work camp, by order of the World Court. They could come in and go out, but only as part of a direct, ongoing, operational purpose, limited in scope and duration.

  Which essentially meant: take-offs, landings, emergency refueling, combat missions, minor maintenance, equipment drops, food and supply drops, medical and organ transport… in the event of fire or other natural disaster.

  So yes… operational things.

  Exceptions could be made for ongoing military ops for which a specific vehicle had an immediate and operation-critical purpose, but those were relatively rare.

  Usually work camps were off-limits for use as forward operating bases, or FOBs, since they were considered strategic targets in their own right.

  As of the last eight years, when the tech changed, land vehicles were once again permitted to remain onsite, but only those with DNA-coded locks and ignitions.

  Looking around at the dense jungle around the helipad, I already felt sweat popping out on my skin, my breath tightening in my chest as the humidity and heat descended upon me.

  The heat only seemed to grow more intense as I tried to get my bearings with my aleimic light, using the map I accessed via my headset as a holographic image.

  I felt my sense-suit fighting to adjust to the new climate, but the temperature-moderating panels would never be able to make up the difference entirely.

  The suit would definitely help, though.

  Given the seven or eight pounds of armor I wore, not to mention the thirty pounds of weapons and ammo I had strapped to my person, along with several canteens of purified water and the required cache of basic survival gear, the suit was pretty much critical.

  Water was a big issue down here.

  Well, really, water was a big issue in most parts of the world, especially in the last few years. Unlike in the Middle East and some other parts of the globe, finding water wouldn’t be the problem here. Rather, the issue would be finding water that wouldn’t kill me.

  Other things I had to carry, according to the regs: compass, matches, waterproof maps, waterproof collapsible shelter, rations, water purification wand, first aid kit, poison capsules, flare gun, non-networked radio, twist tie handcuffs, sight restraint collars. I had a small stick of insect repellant, too, for the parts of me left uncovered by the suit. It wasn’t much, not more than two or three ounces in weight, but even the smallest straw counted out here.

  I was still looking around, marking the different strategic points close by, including the location of the fenced enclosures in the distance, when Varlan pinged us all, connecting the pod via our portable Barrier construct.

  “Come,” he said aloud. “They are waiting for us.”

  I glanced at Gregor, who answered my grim look with one of his own.

  By then, Varlan had dropped a few bombs on us, en route.

  After my conversation with him about the targets, he re-emphasized that the top brass had a particular interest in this op.

  The biggest bombshell he dropped was about who our commanding officer would be, once we were on the ground.

  He told us Terian would be here.

  As with the intel on the targets, he aimed his words initially at me.

  “We will be working with Sweeps once we reach the camp,” he said in his deep voice, speaking loud above the rotors. “You have contacts among the Brazilian agents, do you not, brother?”

  I’d nodded, still consumed by my focus on the pregnant female’s records.

  “I know their leader,” I said, distracted. “Farley. I came up with him.”

  Varlan gestured in approval.

  “Good,” he said. “We might need allies at the personal level.”

  I frowned in his direction, my attention finally pulled by his words. I watched his violet-tinged irises focus down at the jungle, as if he didn’t notice my stare.

  For the first time, I noticed he didn’t wear any body armor.

  He wore only a traditional cloak over what looked like a handmade shirt from the old country. His dense-fabric pants, a chocolate brown in color, also appeared to lack organic armor sleeving. His boots looked heavy enough that they might be anti-grav, if an older variant, but I didn’t see any weight-setting controls on the side.

  Guy was a relic.

  A damned powerful one, but strangely out of place, even within his own pod. He looked like he belonged to a different time period.

  Well––I guess he more or less did.

  Even his gun looked old, if heavily modified by modern organics.

  I turned over the male’s words, wondering why Varlan cared if I had connections among the Brazilian Sweeps. But Varlan wasn’t one to fill space with idle talk.

  If he asked, he clearly had a reason.

  Usually such on-the-ground connections were only relevant if one expected to be operating inside a hostile and/or impenetrable Barrier construct, where one might need an in with one of the local construct pillars.

  Surely Varlan could see through any shield or construct the Sweeps might have erected, though, no matter how complex?

  Across from me, Varlan chuckled, giving me a side-eye glance.

  “I appreciate your faith in me, brother,” he said. “But I would not be so sure of that, not in this case. Remember, friend Quay––the Sweeps fall under brother Terian.”

  I flinched, almost before I’d thought about why.

  “Terian?” I said.

  “Yes, brother.”

  “Certainly he won’t be there. For this?”

  Varlan shrugged, his expression blank.
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  I couldn’t let it go. Not that time.

  “Will he actually be there, brother Varlan?” I said. “Brother Terian?”

  “It is probable, yes.”

  I stared, shocked in spite of myself.

  “Why?” I said finally.

  Varlan gave one of his elegant, old school seer shrugs.

  “I can only speculate, brother,” he said, matter-of-fact. “From what Father Galaith told me, in our brief conversation on this matter, there is reason to believe Terian’s special skills are needed, as well as specific knowledge possessed only by him.”

  He turned, giving me a flat look with his violet eyes.

  “…There is some chance an old friend is involved. One with sufficient skills to entertain even you, brother Quay.”

  I heard humor in his voice at this last.

  I heard something else there, too.

  Something harder to define.

  I watched his pale, unreadable eyes. When he didn’t go on, I raised my voice over the helicopter’s blades.

  “What old friend would that be?” I said. “Someone from the Seven?”

  “Dehgoies,” Varlan said simply.

  I stiffened.

  I may have been more shocked by that than by his confession that Terian might be there to meet us on the ground.

  While the surname belonged to one of the oldest of the original seer clan names, and therefore had many beings attached to it––there was only one Deghoies he could mean.

  I said it aloud anyway, over the high-pitched whine of rotors.

  “Dehgoies Revik?”

  Varlan made an affirmative gesture with one hand, a softer yes in the older version of seer sign language.

  By then, I’d noticed others in my pod listening to us talk.

  Those who hadn’t turned at the mention of Terian’s name managed to hear that of Dehgoies Revik when I spoke it aloud.

  “What in the hell is Dehgoies doing in South America?” I said, still speaking loudly, even though I knew I didn’t need to, given that I wore my headset. “I thought he was locked up in some kneeler ice cave somewhere, repenting for his crimes against the Ancestors? Hasn’t he been completely out of commission since ‘74?”

  I couldn’t quite keep the disgust out of my voice, or my light.

  It wasn’t until I saw a faint frown touch Varlan’s lips that I realized I wasn’t all that sure about Varlan’s own religious convictions.

  “I apologize if you’re of the old beliefs,” I quickly amended, subdued. “I mean no disrespect to the practice of penance more generally, brother. It just strikes me as more than a little hypocritical in Dehgoies’ case. If you’ll pardon my saying it.”

  Varlan made a dismissive gesture.

  He didn’t answer me, though.

  For some reason, that bugged me.

  “You don’t think he’s sincere about it, do you?” I pressed. “Dehgoies?”

  Another longish pause went by before Varlan answered.

  “Perhaps,” he said, noncommittal. “Perhaps his past actions are exactly why he felt he needed absolution, little brother.”

  A faint smile hovered at the seer’s scar-broken mouth.

  I honestly couldn’t tell if he was fucking with me, or if I’d really offended him.

  “Okay,” I said, noncommittal. “…Sure. Unless he did it to save his ass, after all the shit he pulled before he defected. Funny how they all ‘find the Ancestors’ when it’s that or have their heads removed from their necks for treason––”

  “You’re assuming you’ve heard the whole story on that, too, little brother.”

  The warning was on the surface that time.

  I immediately backed down.

  “True,” I conceded.

  To make sure Varlan knew I wasn’t being a smart ass, I erased the more judgmental edge to my light, in effect giving him the argument, using my aleimi.

  “…Okay,” I said, keeping the deference in my tone. “So, what do you think he’s doing here? In Brazil?” An idea bloomed in my mind, even as it reached my lips. “They don’t believe he’s the father, do they? Of the unborn child?”

  Varlan shook his head, clicking softly. “No, brother.”

  Thinking about that, I realized Dehgoies would be far too young to father a child.

  He hadn’t even been at his full growth when he left the Org, only around eighty- or ninety-years-old. Seers generally couldn’t reproduce until they hit at least the two-century mark. A good chunk of males couldn’t reproduce until they were closer to three centuries.

  That was assuming they could reproduce at all.

  Infertility was high among seers, particularly with males.

  Once I remembered Dehgoies’ age, I flushed.

  “Do they think he’s working for the Seven?” I said, partly to cover my embarrassment over the stupidity of my other question. “…Going after the work camps more generally? Or is this a targeted extraction?”

  Varlan made a noncommittal gesture. “I do not know, brother.”

  “Did Galaith tell you anything more about this?”

  “No.”

  I frowned, wondering if Varlan was telling me the truth.

  I’d never know if he wasn’t.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Dehgoies as I, and the rest of my pod, watched Varlan stare down at the jungle below the helicopter’s fuselage.

  We might get a shot at Dehgoies Revik.

  We might get a shot at the Defector himself.

  The thought of having him in my sights brought an excited jolt of adrenaline, I admit. That would be no small fish to bring down, no matter what he was these days.

  Of course, Galaith might not permit a kill order on Deghoies, even now.

  I’d heard all the rumors, including the fantastical ones, as to why Galaith favored Dehgoies to such an extent, despite his youth and what he’d done in the end. I’d even heard a rumor about Dehgoies being some kind of intermediary being––although I’d never heard or seen anything that approached proof of that claim.

  I suspect it came about as an explanation for why Galiath favored him to such a degree. A fair-few sour grapes must have existed in older seers for all the privileges Dehgoies got, back when he worked directly under Galaith.

  Likely, they looked for some way to rationalize it.

  I’d also heard that Dehgoies was Galaith’s biological son.

  That one, I had less trouble believing.

  Truly, it would have explained a lot.

  Dehgoies had been, by all accounts, a talented infiltrator. Everyone in the Org feared him while he’d still been an agent, and not only due to his reputation for brutality out in the field. It was said that Dehgoies had an unpredictable quality about him, one that made him dangerous in a lot of seers’ eyes. He definitely didn’t hold himself to the same rules of conduct that seers of the earlier generations got pounded into them from birth.

  Either way, he’d been practically untouchable in those years.

  Until he defected.

  “Why does Galaith think Dehgoies is involved in this breakout?” I pressed. “Is he the reason you want us focused on the target?”

  Varlan made a noncommittal gesture.

  I frowned a little more. “Are there any working theories from Central as to who she might be to him? Or do they think he’s simply a hired gun in this?”

  Varlan repeated the noncommittal gesture.

  My frown deepened still more.

  When I glanced around the helicopter’s cabin, I saw every other eye on Varlan, as well. The faces of my pod-mates held a mixture of shock, interest, excitement––even anger.

  Varlan ignored all of us.

  I had thought the conversation to be finished entirely, when his eyes shifted back to me, specifically to my face. He looked me over for what felt like several minutes, his violet eyes critical, even searching, as they studied my features. He examined every detail of my physical appearance, as if noticing something about me for the fir
st time.

  “What?” I said at last.

  A faint frown touched the older seer’s lips.

  “It is nothing… a small thing. Likely unimportant.”

  “Which is what?” I said. “What is that small thing?”

  Varlan’s eyes left my chest, clicking directly with mine.

  “You look like him, you know,” he said.

  Whatever I’d expected Varlan to say, it wasn’t that.

  “What?” I frowned for real. “Who do I look alike to?”

  Varlan gestured smoothly towards my face, his lips touched with a faint quirk. He shook his large, gray head, still examining my features with his eyes.

  “Dehgoies,” he said. “The resemblance is not exact, of course, but it is there. The eye color and shape. The cheekbones. Your mouth. Your shoulders. Even your height is comparable to his, which is somewhat unusual, even among us seers. That, coupled with your somewhat unique flavor of light…”

  Varlan trailed, his eyes narrowing.

  After another pause, those violet eyes flickered back over my face.

  He seemed to sigh, right before he shrugged with one hand.

  “I do not know if Galaith sent you here deliberately, for that reason,” he said, neutral. “It would not be unlike him.”

  I felt my unease worsen.

  “Unlike him in what way?” I said.

  That time, I was unable to keep the incredulity from my voice.

  Varlan only made another vague gesture.

  When he didn’t go on, I stared at him in that silence, completely thrown.

  Dehgoies? I looked like fucking Dehgoies?

  I’d never met the infamous defector before, or even seen him, not in person, not even while he worked for the Org––but no one had ever said that to me until now.

  No one.

  Then again, Dehgoies had mainly been assigned to the New World when he worked for Galaith and the Org.

  From the beginning of my own career, I’d worked primarily out of Asia.

  But no one had ever expressed such a thing to me, not in any of the ops to which I’d been assigned. Surely, some of those seers must have worked with Dehgoies?