Con Lagrimas: The Book of New Life, II

By Eve Ocotillo

As social unrest on Philos escalates, Thayil is finding it harder to hide in that shadowy place between cultures. As one of his own is threated with hanging, Thayil is forced to decide who he will be. Then Dustin launches himself into an explosion of violence, and Thayil prays he can reach him before it's too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eve Ocotillo
• Release date: Jun 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311744524

Eve Ocotillo

In the mundane world, Eve Ocotillo plays a scientist. She escapes from the grind by conjuring tough and conflicted men and then throwing them at each other in romantic and not-so-romantic situations. Her stories range from alternate history to contemporary to science fiction, and are influenced by her interest in diverse social issues, her fascination with the natural environment, and her fundamentalist upbringing. She doesn’t much like TV, but her Xbox and a new RPG can suck her in for weeks at a time.

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Con Lagrimas: The Book of New Life, II

By Eve Ocotillo

Copyright 2011 Eve Ocotillo

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Map of Philos

Con Lagrimas

About Eve Ocotillo

Other books by Eve Ocotillo

Acknowledgements

After a couple of fails at publishing this novel mainstream, I decided that what I most want to do is write new stories. To do that, I need to get some of the old ones out of my hair, hence I am putting them out here for free. Accordingly, I’ve not hired professional editorial help, and so the foremost of my thanks (and yours) really must go to my readers at LiveJournal, who via reads of early versions provided invaluable feedback on grammatical and plot construction issues, Spanish usage and spelling, and medicine, as well as being a constant source of high morale and inspiration. You are a smart and generous bunch of people, and this manuscript is considerably tighter because of you. Please forgive remaining mistakes.

This time, a special thanks to Bean Montag, who has been a cohort in crimes both slash-y and RPG, and to sickpuppy, too, for that all-important enablement of said crimes and others and for the perpetual loan of her goggles.

And as always, great thanks to my partner, who is a wonderful source of support in all parts of my life.

Map of Philos

For those of us who love a map with our travels, this one describes the major locales of Philos within this story and the last, as well as some that will become important in the next.

Day 239 of the year 124 N.V.

I expect him back within the hour.

The redhead at the desk had a pale spray of freckles across his cheeks and nose—a nose that had been broken at some point and set slightly crooked, incongruous on such a fresh-scrubbed face. Tiny lines creased skin as he squinted towards an appointment book. Not so young as he seemed.

He looks open for the rest of the morning... Raising his eyes, he gave Thayil a friendly, if practiced, smile. Will you wait, or when should I tell Mr. Helms to expect you?

I'll wait. Outside. Thayil'd had enough already of walls—a whole summer of them—enough of the city, the heat and stink of people.

Very good, Mr. Thayil. If you miss him, I'll tell him you called.

Thayil nodded and retreated, blinking at the glare of the late year sun as he stepped outside. The grounds of Bethel Mining Corporation weren't exactly 'away from it all', but the complex sprawled, the buildings were sparsely laid, and there were never many people at this end. He could think of worse ways to pass what remained of the hour.

He pulled a candy from his front jeans pocket—he'd splurged on a handful at the bodega—and ambled towards the shade of a knuckle tree several meters from the building. Chewy, salty and sweet, scented with yerba triste, Abuela'd made something like them. As a remedy, he thought, though for what he couldn't remember now.

An electric twinge shot up his thigh. Thayil muttered a curse and reminded himself not to favor the leg. Bypassing the picnic table, he slid down against the trunk of the tree and rubbed at the ache, only half-aware he was doing it. Of course he'd be stiff; what could you expect after long immobility? Hobbling in to New Bethel over three months ago now, he'd thought it'd be few weeks, no more. A hairline fracture, invisible to early X-rays. Thayil'd hadn't even been able to see the pinche thing on the film and would've been happy to ignore it—but the doctor had been reporting to Helms, and with Helms, you picked your battles, because battling him took energy, and most of them weren't worth fighting.

Pinche Trini doctors.

Sucking on the candy, trying to pry it from his teeth, wishing now he had water to wash the cloying sweetness from his mouth. He flexed his leg and scowled. Weak, slow—could be fatally so, in his line of work. He'd been crash-coursing the recovery ever since the splint had come off, but there was only so much he could push without risking re-injury.

A movement caught Thayil's attention, and he glanced towards the source. To the south, a plume of yellow dust rose, scattering westward, the source traveling towards him at a good clip. A motorized vehicle.

Thayil stood, stamped his boots, and dusted off the seat of his pants. About time. He'd had enough thinking this summer to last him a lifetime.

The truck pulled up near the building and the passenger side door opened with a choked squawk of gritty hinges. Helms nodded a cursory greeting. Thayil.

Ray.

Come on in, take a load off. Been a while, how's the leg?

No worse.

Helms snorted amusement, then pitched away from the vehicle towards the three-step flight back into Sec-Ops. His right leg fell heavily where he swung it, bringing up a puff of dust at each step, while his longer leg controlled the walk, correcting the screw that a curling spine imposed on his motion. Thayil walked at his side, chagrined to see the pain evident in every step—bitching as he was about his own.

Inside, Helms stopped at the front desk, likely as much for the opportunity to rest as any real need to check in. Anything for me, Grant?

Grant. That was his name. Thayil remembered now—Grant had been manning the front since spring, but the name hadn't stuck.

Grant shook his head and gestured with his chin towards Thayil. Only Mr. Thayil, sir.

Good. Get us a couple of Jonahs, would you?

My pleasure, sir. The secretary rose and disappeared around a corner as Helms continued to his office door, punched a code, and let them in.

Thayil sat. Helms negotiated around the wide expanse of his desk and settled heavily into his chair, wheezing faintly from the dust and exertion, but otherwise giving no outward indication of distress. A hard man, tough as pig leather. Thayil had no idea what kind of circumstances made such a force out of a man crippled since birth, but only a fool underestimated the steel in Ray Helms. Thayil certainly didn't.

So what brings you this way? Ready to get back into the game? Thurman warned me you were becoming a problem patient, tells me I should insist you take another couple of weeks—

Fuck that. Another couple of weeks, my ass. Thayil wasn't about to tackle a difficult job, but another two weeks and he'd be looking for a rope to hang himself with. That would ease the strain on the leg.

Helms chuckled—even Thayil's darkest mutterings only ever seemed to amuse him.

But Thayil wasn't here for a job, just a confirmation...and maybe an offer. Hear you're sending O'Brien back to the uranium operation.

You did, did you? Eyeing Thayil, Helms frowned. Seems I need to give the team another pep talk on discretion.

Cost me enough in favors that it can't happen too often. Chingame. The sentence wasn't even out of Thayil's mouth before he regretted it. He was getting a little too confident around Helms, and confident meant lazy, giving away information between the lines.

As Thayil schooled his expression into neutrality, Grant sidled in and deposited two fat mugs of tea on the desk. He retreated as smoothly as he'd entered. Helms had him well-trained.

Thayil picked up his tea and inhaled the steam as it cooled enough to drink. When does he leave?

Helms took a sip of his own and swallowed with a wince. End of the week, with luck. Still have arrangements to make. Haven't lined up an escort yet.

And there was Thayil's opening, wide as the salt valley flats. I'll find you one.

Raising an eyebrow, Helms said, Don't trust our judgment?

Thayil shrugged. He'd meant no disrespect and Helms knew that. But there was always a prioritization, and Thayil counted that Dustin ranked higher on his list than on Helms's.

Helms studied Thayil, a crooked smirk playing across his lips. Not like you, Thayil. What's O'Brien got that has you giving a damn?

He'd get no reaction from Thayil on that comment—Thayil'd been expecting a dig. Besides getting a peculiar satisfaction from prodding at Thayil's armor, Helms always wanted to know what motivated anyone who worked under him. Let him figure it out for himself...if he hadn't already. Thayil said only, I owe him.

Helms nodded, still holding Thayil's gaze. Owe him enough that you pull in favors to keep you informed?

So he had caught the slip. Thayil didn't answer though, only shrugged.

All right. We'll say it's that. Why not you? You want first rate, but you'll pawn him off on someone else?

Nice to know Helms wasn't putting him out to pasture yet. Doubt he'd agree to that. He thinks my name is 'asshole'.

A laugh burst from Helms. Perceptive, isn't he? Still chuckling, he opened a drawer in his desk, fingered through it for a moment before pulling out a file, then slipped on his reading glasses and opened the folder. Flipping through the contents, he said, Your timing is good. I was going to send a page for you. You saved me the trouble.

He set the file on his desk, open to what Thayil recognized as a blank contract. Peering over his glasses at Thayil, Helms flashed a wicked grin. O'Brien asked if you might be available.

#

Sitting at a dry fountain in the southwest square, Dustin peered again at the scrap of paper between his fingers. He glanced up and eastwards, then back at the smudged pencil lines—that would be the street, the one that angled upwards onto the levee. But Dustin had known that; this was procrastination, no more. A nervous shiver ran through him as he fisted the map and crammed it into the front pocket of his jeans. He'd been second guessing himself all the way here, and even now, he replayed old conversations.

You're not a partner

But Dustin had never wanted to be his partner. Only maybe...

and I haven't lost a piece of cargo yet.

Dustin sighed and shifted his rifle between his knees. Cargo. Dustin was cargo. And he'd be cargo on this trip, too.

Assuming Thayil agreed.

Dustin had wrapped the rifle in a blanket, because he was in the middle of New Bethel, not Dobson, and he wasn't looking for trouble. He felt like an idiot just having it on him—the very way he held it told anyone with a lick of sense that he was green. A whole summer, and he hadn't done a damn thing with it, just stowed it in a corner of his apartment to gather dust.

But Thayil'd offered, hadn't he?

You know how to clean a rifle?

Not enthusiastically, no, but then when was the man ever enthusiastic about anything?

And Dustin hadn't forgotten the offer, not even close. Coming home at night, late, he'd tumble into bed, worn out from studies and work. He'd look at the gun sometimes, barrel gleaming in a shaft of Myrrh's light, and think that once he'd settled in, he could make a time present itself...and then maybe once he was there, he could...

He could what?

Tell Thayil what he'd been trying to find the words for in that last, hurried, conversation.

But now the summer had gotten away, and hell, Dustin was settled in. In most senses, anyway. He had a steady paycheck, was taking classes at New Bethel University. Philean ecosystems, geophysics. More when he got back. He fit in at BMC labs, got on with his boss. Like a friend, even—Chris and his wife were church types, yeah, but easy about it in a way that Dustin had never known.

But Dustin still felt like a hick most of the time, learning his way around city customs. There was still the strong influence of the church here, but with both Trini and Matria sharing the streets—along with other minor Protestant sects, Afrikan, Kor—there were places in between where a man could breathe. But that came with a sacrifice in trust—a deep-seated undercurrent of suspicion. Anyone could enter the circle of acceptance...but only so far. Surrounded by people, Dustin was no less a loner than he'd been in Dobson.

Stifling a curse, Dustin stood, shouldered the rifle, and then set off up the hill. This wasn't going to get any easier for putting it off.

The neighborhood reminded him of his old one in Dobson, air stale and heavy with hard-living aromas—dust, sweat, mildew and piss. Rotting fish. The homes were cement, not wood or clay, but they were cramped together like those in Northgate, with crooked shutters over barred windows with cracked glass, and graying laundry draped over sills—diapers, towels, shirts and underwear. Paint peeled from those doors that had any at all. Even the street was wretched, and Dustin nearly turned an ankle in a pothole as he gawked.

Dustin stopped in front of one of the larger buildings, two stories, double doors in front. Age and salt had pitted the lettering, but the sign read, The Wayward Inn, and so this had to be it. With luck, the coin he'd doled out had fallen into the palm of a man who knew what he said he knew.

There's a man for hire, goes by Thayil, you know him?

Poking into the seedier parts of New Bethel, where he thought someone of Thayil's station and disposition might conceal himself, he'd learned much of Thayil's reputation as a cold but competent bastard. Much less of his whereabouts for a time.

The inn's hall smelled of stale beer and rancid lard, with an undercurrent of sick. The scent of a well-used tavern, the like of which he hadn't encountered at all before he'd arrived in New Bethel. He glanced around the room, half hoping, half fearing that he'd find that familiar frame tucked in a dark corner, watching him. But no, the place was empty save for a scrawny, ancient creature with sparse hair who sat at one end of the bar, perusing the daily news sheet under a dim LED.

Dustin approached him, cleared his throat, and waited. Politeness didn't truck for much in this city—particularly not in the tougher areas—but it wasn't easy to change the training of a lifetime. You didn't interrupt oldsters.

The man raised his eyes finally—watery yellow and annoyed. Out with it! Don't waste my time.

Dustin very nearly flinched. Man goes by Thayil. They tell me he's here.

Yah—usually is when he's in town. He looked Dustin up and down, briefly resting an interested gaze on the rifle, but then turned again to his news.

Could you direct me to his room, please? Come on, you old fart, why the hell do you think I'm asking?

Upstairs. He waved impatiently somewhere off to Dustin's left. Number eight. On the right.

Dustin climbed a flight of concrete stairs that hugged one wall, and found a second floor corridor. Dark, with no windows to let daylight in, the only illumination came from the ends of the hall, and that was little enough.

Eight was on the left.

Dustin stood, debating, chewing on his thumbnail. Wasn't that some sort of omen? He had no desire to begin knocking at multiple doors, and he did not want to meet anyone new here.

Shh. He was thinking with his nerves again. Figure...the skeleton was more likely to confuse left and right than a room number written on a bill, right? Dustin let out a breath. Actually, that made a lot of sense. Okay, number eight.

Leaning his forehead against the frame for a moment, Dustin tried to screw up his courage. He listened; he didn't know in particular what for, maybe for any noise that would give him an excuse to leave. When he heard footsteps on the stairs, he bolted upright and knocked, not wanting to draw attention to his foolishness.

He backed away from the door and waited, heart pounding, but there was no answer. The footsteps receded. He knocked again—a little more surely now that there'd been no answer—and stepped back again, feeling his heart sink. Despite the anxiety...hell, because of the anxiety. He'd worked himself up to this and the asshole wasn't even here.

Dustin stood, kicked at the butt of the rifle with his toe, thinking what it was he should do now. Try another door? He didn't want to wake up every drunk in the hall.

He could wait in the tavern.

No. This was a loss. It had been an ill-conceived lark from the beginning, another adolescent fit of longing.

Except now it was more than admiration—Dustin had been sucked in on a much more visceral level. Dreams of the close warm air in the tent haunted him sometimes...that and nightmares of Thayil's scalding words afterwards. But Thayil wasn't here, and Dustin didn't like to place much stock in concepts of fate or God's will, but that had to be a signal to Dustin, didn't it? Thayil had answered—he'd said...No.

One overcharged episode didn't mean that the man was excited about having a young Trini hanging over his shoulder. It'd be best to leave. Preferably, before Thayil returned from wherever the hell he'd gone.

Coming here had been a stupid idea. Only Dustin could've thought of it.

#

The morning before heading out, Thayil woke to a summons from Helms. Had a fair lot to do still, packing food, settling bills, so he scrawled a list over a fast breakfast of chorizo and egg, then headed out to sec-ops to find Helms waiting for him. Helms motioned him outside towards the tree.

This'll be fine. Helms reached a hand to the picnic table to steady himself, then turned slowly to sit on the bench, negotiating his spine with awkward care. Thayil knew there was pain in that movement, he counted that he knew the man that well by now, but Helms showed little sign of it.

Thayil perched himself on the table, raised his boots onto the seat next to Helms, and while Helms caught his breath, gazed back across the dusty yard towards Sec-Ops C. Helms had something on his mind, and his taking the trouble to heave his uncooperative body out here meant that whatever it was, was big and quiet. Thayil'd already signed the contract—was there more to it than simply getting Dustin to the mine?

This isn't especially related to the trip, Helms said, just want to pick your brain a little. As if reading his mind. Give you a heads up about events on the horizon. Lob an idea your way. He adjusted himself, finding a more comfortable position on the hard bench. You find a replacement yet?

A working partner, he meant. Thayil damn well should have, for all the time he'd spent doing nothing this summer—sleeping, reading, jacking off, and generally feeding one hell of a black mood.

No. Haven't much tried. He hadn't had it in him. Couldn't see how he wanted to deal with breaking in yet another pendejo hotshot, only to kill him off within a couple months. More and more it seemed a pointless exercise.

Just as well.

Thayil raised an eyebrow.

How's the leg?

Same as yesterday, Ray.

Except now I want a real answer.

Thayil grunted and studied Helms's face for some indication of what he was digging for. Nothing, just a deadpan expression. It hurts. Muscle's stiff from disuse... Thayil shrugged. Should work itself out. With any luck. Decades of abuse—he already had aches in his knees, in his left shoulder. At thirty-eight, a body didn't heal so fast, so well, as it did at twenty. Still, Thayil planned to go down kicking.

Slowing you down?

Now? Of course. Ask me again after this job.

Helms nodded and leaned back into the edge of the table.

Any other work on your horizon?

Haven't been looking. Solo jobs were generally small—and hard to come by, besides.

Helms studied Thayil for a few moments and then seemed to come to a decision. He glanced in the direction of the building. You've been doing jobs for BMC off and on for, what—how long now...?

Ten or so years, I'd guess.

Eleven. Going on twelve. Some recent ones sensitive.

Thayil didn't respond, only watched Helms, wondering where this was going.

I have a proposition for you. Once I outline it, you can accept or not, as you see fit. Either way, what gets said from this point on doesn't leave this bench. I wouldn't even say this much if I didn't already trust your discretion, but I want your explicit pledge on this...my ass could be on the line. Hell, Philos's could be. Do you agree?

Thayil gave himself a moment. Keeping his mouth shut wasn't a problem. He'd had a lifetime's worth of practice at that. And for all Thayil didn't like agreeing to what he didn't fully understand, Helms had always been a straight shooter. Hard—even ruthless, sometimes—but never underhanded.

He nodded, and then—realizing an explicit verbal response might be expected—said, Sure. I agree.

All right then. I want you to work for me. As in, dedicated. You'd receive steady pay, whether you've done anything tangible or not. I need someone who's available at a moment's notice, someone with a history I know, a record I know. Someone I trust implicitly—to do what he says he'll do, do it well, and keep his mouth shut while he's about it. No one else fits the bill. In fact, if you turn this down, I don't have a plan B. I'll just make do.

Thayil didn't respond. So far, nothing Helms had said warranted his trek out here. There was more.

"You'd be working for me. Not BMC. Fiscal compensation would be under the table,

Reviews for Con Lagrimas

[Estarianne · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Really enjoying this series.

Dustin and Theyil have a troubled relationship. They are both real pieces of work. Yet, they are likeable and interesting.

The world building is really excellent. This book didn't have as much plot complexity as the last one but the next one sounds to pick up steam again.