“Everything you need for personal comfort is provided,” the man said. “You will find something to ease the pain next to the water. The fire will ignite soon; due to the construct of the citadel, we must maintain a constant temperature. You may wash, change your clothes—you will find a suitable set on the bed—and you may sleep. I have supplied reading material here…” he pointed out a battered and scratched, League-issue VI in the corner of the room. “This VI is an obsolete model gained from a trader. It’s ancient I’m afraid, but I have programed it in Seera.”
“His Seera is surprisingly good,” Laurel thought, “despite the accent. I wonder who taught him?”
God, Laurel, stop thinking! But he answered almost as soon as the thought concluded.
“My mother taught me from an accelerated learning program compiled by the League, my first language is that of my mother. Her birthplace is France, no doubt you know of it?” and it immediately dawned on Laurel his dominant accent, not Gartrya which she naturally looked for, but French mixed with other indistinguishable inflections. “She taught me her language to preserve our heritage,” the man said, “even though we both know it is a place I will never see. I speak Gartrya and Seera. I also understand many of the League’s interplanetary dialects. I am,” he gave a small nod of his head, “as you quite rightly projected, somewhat scholarly. Now, I will leave you, there is no means of exit save this door, and I will know if you attempt to open it. Lien will wish to act as a guard, even though I have told him you are to be trusted.” He made a step towards the door.
There would be no point in running, Laurel realised. She was incapable of running anywhere; with her ankle pain, she couldn’t even manage a pacy hobble. She took a second to decide the man’s strengths, and where he might fit into the scheme of things. Taller than her and—as he claimed—most likely physically stronger, he had a lean and athletic build that looked as though he was no stranger to the gym. But it didn’t matter; with her ribs, she wouldn’t do too well in a fight, even though he was unarmed. The man’s dark hair was in the style of all the Gartryan soldiers, trimmed over the ears, but the band of trimming was less severe on him. This man’s hair was longer, suggesting he was allowed individual style and expression, and judging by the size of the gem on his beautifully manicured thumb, possibly nobility. He did not wear the black battle dress of the enemy, instead his shirt was made of a soft fabric, the shade of which reflected the strange colour of his eyes; grey at first glance but she could be wrong, and she had no intention of staring into them to make a determination. His skin was smooth, his good looks, she felt, would be defined as beautiful rather than ruggedly handsome. His demeanour was confident and relaxed, yet a solitary air surrounded him, a remoteness. He didn’t appear as a man who had seen battle firsthand, in fact, the thought occurred to her; he looked like a librarian.
“Are you the Duke?”
Of course, she didn’t expect him to admit it, and he seemed too young to have the heirs Collitt mentioned, but anything was possible.
“I’m Gabriel, named for my father. There is a light on the VI, you can call me if necessary.” He turned and left, the door rattling across behind him.
Laurel didn’t care who they named him after, and she didn’t really expect a straightforward answer. So far, he hadn’t hurt her physically or threatened her, and she guessed he didn’t have that authority. If he was a whole soul, then he had to be a slave, unless Gartrya society had a different take on slavery, but from what she’d learned, she doubted it. This man seemed educated, informed and the awful potential truth struck her. What if the Duke were a whole soul and this man, his heir? The war may be as good as lost, particularly now they knew the League also had whole souls. Laurel bit her lip in confusion. He said his mother came from Earth? How did they get to the other side of the nebula? Thinking about it made her brain hurt.
She hobbled over to the door. Its surround glowed a grim, message-giving, “you are imprisoned” red; besides, she couldn’t take on Lien in her present condition. Probably not in any condition.
Chapter 31
Laurel knew her best hope lay with Eli making it back to 100 moons—if he wasn’t shot down— but she didn’t feel that had happened. In that case, Harry knew where to find her. But was she expendable? There were five other whole souls without her. Eli knew the fortress was deserted save for the one quarter-soul, so that’s what he would report. And they certainly didn’t know about this whole soul male. Laurel hoped Harry had more sense than to take a chance on rescuing her. He’d warned her. No, for now, she’d have to wait it out, watch for an opportunity to run.
Laurel checked out her ankles; sprains only thank goodness, but her ribs were another matter; there was extensive bruising on her left flank and breathing hurt. With these injuries, it was unlikely she’d get far. She looked around the cold room and wondered why the man took her captive; it made no sense, why not merely execute her or remove her to their homeworld as a slave? Having a whole soul in the enemy camp and conceivably even being the Duke or his heir, levelled the playing field. The League needed this information, but right now, there was nothing she could do. She crawled onto the bed, hoping that rest may ease her discomfort, and despite her confusion and pain, the soft mattress buoyed her into slumber. The fire ignited silently and cast dancing shadows around the room, but it woke her only briefly. It was the only thing that disturbed her for many hours.
The fire had extinguished itself by the time she woke. Laurel heard no sound, sensed no footsteps, so she used the open facilities, hoping no-one barged in. There was no shower or mirror, but there was running water. She dressed in the set of clothes left on the bed; long-sleeved shirt and trousers but no shoes or slippers; maybe an extra precaution against her trying to run away. She drew water from the dispenser and set her mind to sensing her surroundings. The exercise revealed little, only age and more age, extending several stories below her. With the window alcoves filled in, Laurel had no way to see outside. And again, that something. Something. Laurel felt the same sensation on the outside, but what that something might be eluded her.
The VI was, as the man said, ancient and only marginally bigger than a standard television set. It was relatively straightforward to operate, with a single beam for activation and deactivation. A separate menu hologram hovered at the side, and the panel sported all manner of reading material, many in a language she couldn’t understand, so she supposed it was Gartrya; a language she had no intention of becoming acquainted with. The VI didn’t respond to her voice, so she used old-fashioned scrolling on the holographic bar, eventually finding something she recognised, translated into Seera. Poems. Stephen Foster, James Masefield, Emily Dickinson, Philosophical writings of Voltaire and poets with French names she hadn’t heard before. Just seeing Emily Dickinson’s name, who Aunt Lucy loved, Laurel felt a pang of homesickness and hopelessness. She opened the first poem, and it came through as audio, in the voice of her jailer. She deactivated the panel, only reactivating it when she found out how to mute the sound. Tears spilling onto her cheeks, she read the verses aloud, then reread them.
No-one came to her that day, and she was glad. That night, after the fire simulation ignited, and for the next day, she remained alone, save for a tray pushed through the door by Lien, which she couldn’t bear to touch, so it remained where he left it. But Laurel checked and rechecked the exit. The red rim glowed; a reminder that she was trapped.
And each time she checked, she felt more disheartened. With that despair, for all her recent bravado and resolve, Laurel realised she wasn’t a revolutionary, a soldier. She was a nurse, in a hospital, with a way of life that was gone forever. She recalled the little park she liked to walk in on her days off, the one that had the small lake that always froze at the first hint of winter. The friendly little birds, the busy squirrels. She’d spent many mornings there sitting on a bench with a take-away cappuccino and her book. So far away now, she was a prisoner of war, not just in another country, but in another
universe.
What happened, Laurel? Did you ask for this?
She thought it, then said it aloud. Her heart sad, she went back to the verses, and the tears and homesickness started afresh. But the pain in her side ordered her to stay calm and not give in to sobbing.
The fire lit itself again, and Laurel made a vague note about it being her third night. When the door slid open, she was still at the VI, homesick, sad, defiant, entirely together and no longer crying. Gabriel stopped just inside the entrance and waited. Knowing he could read any thought that came into her head; she spat out one she’d rehearsed for just this moment.
“You’re not alone here. You can’t be. Why didn’t I sense you?”
He took one step closer to her, and she twisted in her seat to look up at him. She would have preferred to have stood and shoved her face dramatically to his and demanded answers, but she was still too stiff and sore for drama. His calmness, which Laurel interpreted as confidence, caused her adrenaline surge to retreat pretty promptly.
“I’ve had longer to develop my abilities, Laurel, to hone them. I chose not to let you know I was here.”
Laurel’s success in staying out of people’s heads was a relatively recently acquired skill; still difficult to control, but to stop others from sensing her, or to be invisible to them, was a whole new level. And this man had mastery over it. And her. He would recognise any plan she made to escape, realise even before the others arrived if they attempted a rescue. She turned away, she wouldn’t let him see the hopelessness on her face, but she couldn’t disguise what was in her mind, and the little fragments of despair that hung outside her resolve were clear to him.
“You’ve been sent on a fool’s errand, Laurel. There’s no way you can obtain a sample of the fortification, and no way your leaders can mount a rescue.”
“So why not just execute me?”
“A whole soul? Do you imagine the Duke would wish that? When he learns of you, he will want you on his side.”
“I’ll never do that.”
“Don’t be so sure, Laurel. The Duke has his ways of securing loyalty.”
He pointed to the poems she’d been reading.
“I thought to provide you something from your home. My mother enjoys this form of literature; she memorised a good many in her childhood. The philosophy files were provided by the Soul Monger who sold her to the Duke many years ago. She taught them to me, and I placed them on the panel for you to enjoy during your stay.”
“During my stay?” Laurel looked up and snorted. “I’m not on vacation! I’m not here for my health!” He took another step towards her. Laurel stood then, squeezing her eyelids together briefly against the pain, but she matched his gaze, ready to give him a piece of her mind, even if he already had all of it, but his expression stopped her. At their first encounter, she hadn’t seen his torment, the solemnity behind his gaze. No, beyond solemn. She looked into his eyes; she thought they were grey, but she was wrong, they were violet. Never in her life had she seen such eyes, and she couldn’t read him. He gave her nothing, merely waited, unblinking.
“What will happen to me?” Laurel tried to keep the trembling from her voice, but she had no practice in hostility, she could sustain one or two outbursts of short-lived anger, but no more.
There was no way out, of that she was sure, not with this odd, unfathomable man observing her every movement, her every thought.
“The Duke will decide,” he said. “I have yet to inform him of your capture. His methods of coercion take a few months to bear fruit, so you may be kept here. He may also consider the fact that you have slaughtered many of his soldiers, his subjects.”
“Like you,” Laurel said quietly. “I do the bidding of my master.”
“Like me? You judge me a slave?”
His answer stunned her.
“Well, I—assumed,” she searched for words, “if you’re not the Duke, I thought, was told, all whole souls were slaves, at least in the League they are—were.”
He studied her face and her mind for a moment. “Why only bring six of you, why not an army?”
Laurel made a few small non-committal twitches of her shoulders; then he dropped a bombshell.
“One of you is hiding out there in the asteroid belt.”
Laurel felt tension run from her brain down through her body, and she closed her eyes. Xavier was in danger! They knew where he was! The knowledge hurt and terrified her, and the resulting rush of anger led to a rapid recovery from her stammering response of a few seconds ago.
“You’re barbarians,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “You’re using a helpless lifeform to gain access to our space.”
But he didn’t respond in anger to her accusation. He listened from his calm place. She determined to be that way as well; she must not look overwhelmed. If he saw calm as strength, then she would be calm. She took a deep breath, centering herself as he answered softly.
“Our space? You identify with the League without knowing their part in all this?”
He might know her thoughts, but he would not control her actions. “How can you—” she took a painful step towards him, “as a whole-soul, as an empath, stand by as an entire civilisation is conquered?”
He simply shook his head. “It is as you say, Laurel, I am a slave, and like most whole-soul slaves before me, I have a child to protect, and I will do anything to preserve him.”
Laurel stood shocked, the wind taken completely out of her sails, and she knew it showed on her face. He’d answered frankly, and that frankness had been startling. She understood children were used as leverage to force a slave’s loyalty, but this man, well-dressed, educated, regal almost, didn’t fit the description the League gave her of whole-soul slaves.
Her voice softened without her realising, her anger fading. “I didn’t realise…” but she mustn’t weaken her resolve, nor show compassion, so she tried to sound off-hand. “I mean, I’ve been told something of the former customs of slave owners.”
“My son, Marcel is fourteen.”
Another jolt. Gabriel didn’t look any older than Laurel.
“Yes, you and I are similar in age,” he said, sensing her surprise. “At sixteen, for slave and freeborn alike, childhood is at an end, even in the League. I serve the Duke, and he is assured of my loyalty because not only do I have a son, I have my mother. He would not hesitate to strike at the heart of all that I hold dear if I do not do his bidding.”
A mother and a son. What lengths would anyone go to, to protect the people they love? Laurel flinched as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other to relieve the pressure on her ankles.
“You’re uncomfortable, come, sit,” Gabriel made to assist her, but she made a barrier with her hands as she reached for the chair.
“I’m fine. I don’t need your concern.”
He received her refusal with a nod. It was such a relief to sit, and she winced against the throb standing had brought to her ankles. She had his attention, and she needed to find out as much as possible for when she got back to the League.
“You claim you will do the Duke’s bidding to safeguard your family? What is his bidding? What part do you play?” Laurel wasn’t keen on him standing over her and wished he’d find somewhere to sit. As the thought came to her, he moved towards the bed and sat down, accepting her unspoken invitation.
“Subterfuge,” he said. “I know precisely what is planned from 100 moons. As I said, I can conceal myself if I wish. I can shield a single ship from your tracking and get close enough to listen.”
“Oh, my God! He knows about the base as well?” the thought surfaced before she could check it.
Gabriel half smiled. “No-one knows of the base, not even the Duke. At worst, I hand the Duke your full battle plans, at best, I hinder your progress.”
“But Semevalians are dying,” Laurel spread her hands. “Don’t you have a conscience? And your people are dying in the battles. How can you excuse this war? It’s utterly pointless.”
“I have a conscience, Laurel. And this war is not without reason, even though my desires for its outcome may differ widely from the Duke’s.”
“What possible reason can there be?”
His expression shifted as if he was considering telling her—a truth maybe, or something personal to him, more personal even than the fact he was protecting his mother and his child. But he didn’t, instead, after a moment, he stood and signalled she rise and leave with him. When she didn’t move, he bent and took her arm, but she slapped his hand away, stink-eyeing him. He let her go and went to stand at the door, his posture still invited, insisted that she follow. Laurel struggled from the seat. With a sideways glance at him to ensure he made no further moves to help her, side-stepped painfully past him into the passage.
Chapter 32
At one end, the passage rounded out to an alcove. A bench and table she hadn’t noticed on her arrival were arranged under one of the dim lights. He went ahead of her and seated himself, waiting as she slowly progressed toward him, but she refused to be intimidated. She had no intention of accepting his help to walk.
The bay was equipped with a food dispenser that looked like it was lifted from a League consular ship. Several jugs and various plates and beakers were piled on what had formerly been a window ledge. She supposed he expected her to eat. Well, he could guess again.
“I recognised your signature when you arrived here,” Gabriel said as she took the chair opposite. “I circled your ship near the nebula.”
So that was how they were detected. The Gartrya hadn’t developed a more accurate sensor; it was Gabriel who had sensed them. Laurel saw no point in denying she was there. “There were only half-souls on your ship.”
“I’ll say it as many times as you wish, Laurel, I can withhold my presence from you and from whomever I wish.”
“You say you have a conscience, what about the innocent creature you’re using as a conveyance? I’ve been close to it. It welcomed us. It appealed to us for help.”
The Soul Monger Page 28