Then I’m done. I’m back in the centre of the room, breathing hard and staring at Djoonga. Some parts of my clothes were singed, a few bits of me were missing and I tap away a flame from my right sleeve. The door’s holding a steady light and the room holds the same squares and globes as before, but now they were bigger and fizzed, crackling with fury. I think about taking a break. I want to take a break. I can’t take a break. Maybe I’m trying to prove something to Tchook. Maybe me. Most likely both. Out of nowhere I hear gunfire, bullets whistling past my ear with deadly intent. Explosions begin firing around me and I cower slightly with the noise. I can smell faeces and rot. Blood and gunpowder. Soil and wet. I stand up, letting the vision wash over me. The room hasn’t changed, a large, evil looking sphere hovering in the corner, but what I was seeing, had changed. I’m watching a terrible battle. One fought in the dirtiest of places. One taking place in trenches. Screams join the cacophony of noises and I watch as a ferocious force made its way through the soldiers. From above it’s a blur, a dark shape seemed to be shifting in and out of view moving fast, impossible fast. Pausing momentarily to deal a deadly blow, I slow the scene down, bits of dirt slowly flying up from explosions and obscuring my vision. Bullets and sparks cascade across the corpses lying still in the pools of water and blood. A mass of teeth and claws flip, slide, run, jump, swerve, flows from target to target, dealing crushing blows and lethal swipes that cut men and machine down with uncaring deadliness. Before bodies and parts fall to the ground the feral thing was moving, changing direction and visiting chaos on the next victim. It’s a bear. It’s me.
I watch what I can do in shock and awe. I watch what I do, with surprise and knowing. The black shape slowed, its work done and when it… I, stop, there’s silence. An entire battlefield quelled by one. I remember the battle. I remember the briefing. Months and no movement. A crucial line in the enemy’s defences that needed breaking. A line that only I could break. Defences that a good soldier with the right skills could dismantle. Black goo crept over my shoulder and warms me, slowing pulling me away from a floating limb stealer and I come back to the now for a moment. I’d caused such carnage, willingly in the past. How far I had strayed from my original purpose. I was to be a Dyad. A protector. I was happy to have experienced that. It showed me what the worst of me could be if I didn’t stay in check. It brought with it fond memories of my past before I lost Eve and knowledge I’d been seeking about myself. Worry floods through me at seeing that black furry nightmare breathing hard in the darkness, a pile of bodies surrounding him. Chunks of him, of me, were missing, blood, shit and dirt mixing with my fur. Steam billowing from my hot body from the effort. It was alright though, that was just an extreme version of me…
“...and rarely are answers either day or night. The truth hides in the special light in between.” I say aloud, looking over my shoulder at Tchook. I place a hand on his and he exclaims a question. “Something Cleric Augustine used to say.” I say casually before turning my attention back to the room.
“About time we got out of here, don’t you think?” Tingling then bliss. I look down at my fur, expecting to see what I had in the trenches, but my fur’s darker, richer and cleaner. It fills me with confidence knowing I can be more than what I’d seen. There was always room for more. Room for change. Room to be better. Drift. Tap. Flow. Drift. Tap. Flow. Drift. Tap. Flow... Stop. How long I’d been moving through the room as a bear I can’t tell, but I’m stood in the centre of the room again before I know it. I’m breathing very deeply. Sucking cool air into my lungs in controlled breaths. Chunks of me are missing, blood and sweat mixing with my fur. Steam swims up from shoulders, legs and arms from the exertion. Djoonga lights up fully for the final time. Or so I thought. The tingling and bliss come back as I return to my normal form. I look at my hand and see another line appear to finish the triangle. I look at the marking in the centre of the room and realis I’m missing the dot in the centre. Of course, there’s more. Eight months of training to master myself and there was more. My laugh dies in my throat as four beams of light reconnect the two symbols, followed by; four bright discs in the four walls, a square tile of light near one of them and a mocking, innocent, golden limb thief.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO - INCONSISTENCIES
Parod’s golden eye was far more detailed and mesmerising than Gerard had initially thought. When he first broke contact with the network to talk to Gerard earlier, he’d not noticed the small white flecks in the blackness. His golden iris burned bright and solitary in the middle of the black, a lonely sun reaching out amongst its brethren, the other stars shimmering brightly all around. He remembered how his father used to stargaze with him, talking about all their names and their stories. Where they were, how long their light had been travelling for. It was a warming memory. It reminded him that he wasn’t lost yet. There was a part, or parts of him that wanted more for him and all races. He joined The Protectorate to protect. He joined The Protectorate to help. He joined The Protectorate to make a difference.
“Your eye is quite something Parod.”
“Thank you.” The Orc accepted the compliment gracefully before turning to task. Always efficient, always focused, always watching. “Tor is making good progress through the rooms.” Gerard just waited, the unsaid questions on his face. “He will be making his final run soon.”
“That cannot be. Even with the time dilation he should not have progressed this far already.” Gerard did nothing to hide his surprise.
“He is quite the prodigy it seems. His companion is also quite formidable, which may also explain why he has been able to progress this far, so quickly.”
“It’s only been a few hours.” Gerard whispered, staring at the screen, watching as Tor wrapped his Bjørneskinn around his shoulders.
“That bear hide carries a strength I have not seen before as well Gerard. He is healing markedly faster than he should. Faster than any others.”
“Riddles buried in riddles and snake pits.” Gerard whispered again, recollecting one of his father’s favourite phrases. “Did you see any of what I discussed with Sylvane?” A golden eye stayed put as the head shook side to side. Gerard went over the conversation in detail with the Orc, laying out all that he heard, hoping that reliving it would bring inspiration. He carried on into the phone conversation he had as well, although kept some of those secrets to himself. Parod patiently listened, nodding occasionally to indicate he’d heard correctly, encouraging the Våpen to continue, his eye never moving.
When Gerard finished, the golden eye rolled upwards, a grey-green eye lid flickering over it. “He is right. I have reviewed the details and all Nahgwal that have been through the rooms break.”
“Is there a pattern in when they break?” An eye and eyelid dance their dance again as Parod searches for more.
“Yes. Eleven years after they ascend. They fall.”
“All of them?” Gerard asked incredulously, to a knowing and patient nod.
“To within 3 weeks of the eleven years of service, they turn and kill before losing their minds.”
“How many are in service as we speak?”
“Only one, and she is new.”
“Good. I don’t know of many Våpen who directly work with a Nahgwal on a regular basis, so it seems that scarcity of their use, and rarity of Våpen’s meeting, has kept the secret for so long.
“I can only surface approximately twenty five percent of the records associated with Nahgwal terminations. Any references to others who have been in our service simply state that they went missing.”
“Let me guess. The missing statements are all at the eleven-year mark?” The grey-green nods. “I think we are safe to assume that they all met the same fate as the ones we know about.” Another nod. “Name five of the missing cases for me.” Gerard reached into his pocket, fingers wrapping around his phone. “Must keep Fortune busy.” He said to Parod as he dialled his Sløv. “I need you to look into a few extra files.” He listed the names off, hanging up after For
tune’s grunt of understanding. “Let us see what that brings us.” The grey-green brow raised in question. “I am certain that Tor’s file has been tampered with. I am also reasonably confident that the ‘missing’ cases are also some sort of cover up. If Fortune can confirm both of these things, then I believe we have stumbled into something.” The grey-green brow creased with concentration. “And I would like to know where I am stumbling. I also do not like that the events Sylvane told me concerning Tor are not common knowledge. Can you find anything that supports his story?”
Grey-green and gold danced again. “There is enough to suggest he is telling the truth, Gerard. It seems that the details and facts surrounding those events have been deliberately vague, but there is enough. This was also in the early times of The Protectorate. Records were not as important as Reapers back then.”
Gerard looked around the room then, getting lost in the grey. Screens, corridors, rooms, clothes, they drove him mad sometimes, being surrounded by the drabness. His eyes settled on the Orc looking at the communal rooms, bright green light meeting grey-green skin, flecks of light dancing around where they met. The thread connected her to the network, real time information exchanged simultaneously across the whole world with others like her. Archives going back centuries were accessible at a thought, her brain filtering out the important and the nonsense alike. Always efficient, always focused, always watching.
“How are you able to keep things out of the network Parod?”
“I do not know.” Gerard was concerned by his answer, having trusted him to keep their conversations secret. Seeing the reaction, Parod continued, his eyes reaching for answers he couldn’t find. “I just know that I can keep things out of the network. When you see my real eye, it creates a fork, I think, in the stream. My seeing eye keeps seeing my mandate whilst my real eye’s recordings fade away. They are soaked up into a dry riverbed, impermanent. Safe.”
“The network can be fooled?”
“Yes. It is how I kept your conversation with Sylvane between you two. My real eye saw, but my seeing eye was looped. It will have shown Sylvane suffering in his chair all alone. It will have shown you standing by my side this whole time.”
“What about these two?” Gerard nodded towards the other Orcs in the room.
“Don’t worry about us, Gerard. Parod and we like you. Helping you in your games makes our job somewhat more bearable.” Gerard had never heard the female Orc speak before, and was Parod curling the corners of his mouth again?
“Sharn likes you more than we.” The third Orc offered to a stunned Gerard, none of them breaking sight with their screens. Laughing to himself he looked around the room again, wondering how many times they’d listened in on his visits with Parod. How many times they’d held their tongues. How many times they’d judged him. He didn’t care though; a friendly eye and two watchful ones were a good omen.
“So, will that explain why there is not footage from the unsanctioned magik that Enyo and Eris are investigating?” Three grey-green nodded.
“We only have the word of two orcs against that of Lars Engen?” Three more grey-green nods. They are in danger he thought to himself. If they’d gone to that much trouble to cover up the scene then they’ll be en route to tie up any loose ends. They were en route to erase any witnesses. They were en route to kill. Just like the mission he was on before he was summoned to meet The Hammer. He’d been sitting on this secret for so long it was starting to worm its way into his very being. It was so simple and so damaging he couldn’t believe that he’d been trusted with it.
“What do you need to tell me?” The anger had drained from Gerard at the idea of seeing behind the curtain. The Nameless in front of him had just admitted that The Shrike would be pleased and that they wanted him to help. They wanted him, above all others.
“Our weakness.” He then handed a slip of ancient paper to Gerard, stunning script leaping out at him. Nine names. He looked up at The Hammer confused. A wisp of black, smoky oil floated out of the shadowed Cowell, pointing at the fifth name on the list.
“Solomon Vance.” Gerard said aloud, afraid to take his eyes away from the paper. He heard a whooshing noise followed by nothing.
“You can look at us.” The voice from earlier had been replaced by a soft a caring one. Those sentiments were there earlier but now it was all Gerard could hear. It was friendly, honest and kind. You could trust it. Or could he? Snake pits he thought, worrying about being trapped in someone else’s game, being someone else’s pawn yet there was nothing to lose. He had partially made peace with being punished as he walked here. He’d thought about the hurt that would be visited on him by The Hammer. The horrors and time he would spend in pain. His eyes didn’t care though, they flicked up to where the shadows were. Where they used to be. His mouth didn’t care ether, dropping open at what he saw, betraying his patient and calm demeanour.
The man that stood in front of him was completely naked apart from a loose-fitting cloth around his middle that covered his modesty. Naked was the wrong work though as every bit of exposed skin was marked with tattoos. Shapes he knew. Animals he didn’t. Colours that frightened. Lines that soothed. Each delicate and perfect line looked like it blended into others, seamlessly painted into every crease, over every bend and muscle you could see. There were words too, at least what Gerard thought were words. They felt like words and letters, but he couldn’t be sure. The man was hairless, poured into the perfect mould of a man. Toned, muscular, soft, encouraging, hard, proportioned so exactly Gerard couldn’t keep his mouth closed.
“They are magiks from here and elsewhere.” The man said finally, steeling Gerard’s mouth shut.
“Where?”
“For another time, Elias. Remember those names. Protect those names. You may need them.”
“Why?”
“We cannot harm each other, even when we are in our true forms. Time may pass where it is necessary to harm one of us in order to save. That time may require you.” He offered his tattooed hand out, the fingers asking for the paper.
Gerard sharpened at this and began memorising the names, whilst moving the paper back towards its owner. “How will I know which name belongs to whom?”
“You will see.” The paper touching his palm.
“How will I know what to report to you?”
“You will see.” The shadows began swelling from all around. Sucked up from the corners of the room and whirlpooling around the tattooed man.
“Why me?” Gerard almost shouted.
“You will see.” The liquid gold voice having returned. Still soft and caring, but less so now. Dimmed by the transformation.
“How can I contact you?” Gerard spoke into the shadowy from to be rewarded with silence. He heard the door swing open behind him and some grey waved at him to leave the room, no further words to be exchanged with The Hammer.
He worked the names on the list over and over again in his head. He chewed at them. Spat them out. He punched them like a punch bag. He caressed them like he used to caress Isabella. He lay them down carefully and looked at them for hours on end. He whipped them around in his mind, always repeating, always moving them but never saying them. He would remember. Other parts of their conversation stuck with him too. The sickness in The Protectorate. How to contact The Nameless when he needed to. What they wanted him to see. How could all this be going on and no one know? How did he not know? He didn’t want to believe any of it. He didn’t want to think about it, be burdened with the secrets. He wanted to walk out and not look back. Forget all he’d seen and become another. But he joined The Protectorate to protect. He joined The Protectorate to help. He joined The Protectorate to make a difference. Maybe this is how he could do that.
* * *
Vaughn was surprised by what he was seeing. Ever since the Shrike had asked him to report on strange goings on, he’d been prepared for anything. Dwarves, they thought lost to space, seemed fair game. Extinct faeries, dragons and spirits captured and dragged to a secre
t facility seemed within acceptable margins of the strangeness he was expecting but not, what he was watching unfold now. The Naïves on their own were enough to catch him off-guard, but for them to be followed by imprisoned Reapers, all being marshalled by Reapers, was too much for his expectations. He’d worked with pacified Reapers in the past, so them acting as an armed guard of sorts didn’t pull at his guts and tell him things were off. It was how they were leading their own kind into sector forty-seven that tugged and wrenched at him, screaming that what was happening here was evil. The Protectorate also had strict regulations on Naïve relations that favoured limited, if any, interactions with them and a zero-tolerance policy on exposing their kind to magik. But here they were, being led into a black site.
“They aren’t coming back out, are they?” Ransom asked the back of Vaughn’s head, reading the situation in the same way as his master.
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