Gabriel nodded slowly. This wasn’t news to him. The very fact he knew the lifeform suffered made her blood boil, but before she could retort, he held up his hand to stop her.
“Gartrya is a unique blend of marshland and desert,” he explained. “Where the water table is at its lowest, the Gartrya have adapted the ground for farming. Farming brings stability to families, security, and the wiser Dukes of the past recognised this; they encouraged and supported the people’s endeavours.
“Records tell us of the visitation of a lifeform which burrowed into the marshlands. After shedding its skin, the creature discharged a vapour into the structures of the plants, causing them to be deadly to humans. To a people already stricken by their exile, and struggling to establish a community, the appearance of the lifeform was a calamity. A judgement from the Gods.”
“And I suppose they slaughtered it?”
He shook his head. “They were a society in its infancy, their technology was not advanced, and they lived by strict laws and statutes. Killing the lifeform would have represented dishonour towards the sanctity of life. They called the lifeform Kol, from their native word for death by an evil presence. They moved away from the marshland and reestablished their farms, but it returned, or another like it. There was no way of foreseeing where it would settle. This event took place every hundred years or so; the last time, science and technology were ready for the lifeform, largely.”
“Ready to enslave it?”
“To deter it, to study it. They learned that the lifeform lives within the nebula but is attracted to Gartrya to shed its skin and renew itself. The other systems near Gartrya had limited knowledge of the lifeform. To them, it was a myth, a story to frighten little children into obedience. The scientists set snares and quickly learned of its sensitivity to sound. After identifying which frequency subdued the creature, they set up a field to contain the area upon which the lifeform was settled. The frequency was low, harmless to humans and used in ancient transmissions. The creature didn’t move, but following its nature, and as it had come to do, it shed its skin. In their research, the scientists found the hide impervious to virtually all our weapons.”
Laurel considered it. Harmonics? Radio waves of some kind? The League would have no problem blocking those, but the answer was so simple, they may not have considered it.
Gabriel was watching her. It was just too hard to stop herself from mentally processing information. No matter. She’d get out of here soon enough.
“Your people have no regard for life,” she said.
He arched an eyebrow ever so slightly. “Subjugation of that which we do not understand is part of human culture. We overcome, we conquer, and this creature, in its innocence presented the Duke with a gateway to the nebula, and the potential of movement across it. A potential he and his forefathers only ever dreamed of before.”
“I was told the nebula is hostile to human life,” Laurel retorted.
“Nevertheless, we are here. The jugular network that relays the emissions is adapted from schematics developed by League engineers and supplied by a trader who did not know our history. Gartryan scientists formulated a passage, extensive enough for the lifeform to proceed at a speed that mimics widespeed, carrying thirty ships at a time.” He dipped his head and smiled. “Not exactly an armada.”
Laurel remembered Eli using the term “jugular network”. “I know there is some sort of system to guide the creature across. To force it into cooperating, from what you say.”
Again, that movement of one eyebrow. “A frill runs along the rim of the creature,” Gabriel demonstrated with his hands. “Fifteen ships on each side can attach within the frill, shielded from the effects of the nebula. The ships detach at the final relay to make their way into an exit conduit and enter League space. The creature retreats from the harmonics back along the corridor.”
“If that poor creature is scuttling backwards and forwards trying to evade the noise, it must be suffering.”
“Yes,” he responded, and Laurel couldn’t tell if he felt any sadness for the lifeform’s plight. “The League might know now of the lifeform, but they are unaware of how the Gartrya secured its help.”
Laurel smiled then. “You just told me.”
He didn’t answer, only stood and moved around her to the food dispenser.
“Another thing I need to do while you are here is to provide you with proper nourishment.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I insist.” He stopped what he was doing and lifted her face, so she could not avoid his eyes. His voice held no menace, but his tone was clear. “I can ask the MedAid to insert a nourishment tube if you wish.”
Laurel shrank at the notion and pulled her face away. Despite his calm tone, he was adept at covering his thoughts, so, therefore, might cover his true meaning. Perhaps she would do as asked this time.
As if schooled in hospitality etiquette, Gabriel set a place in front of her with cutlery and a napkin, and a dish of unrecognisable cuisine drawn from the dispenser. For a barbarian, his table manners were—like his appearance—precise and refined. Laurel stared at the plate of food.
“It isn’t poisoned, or drugged,” he said.
“It looks poisonous.” Laurel eyed the food. It was green and yellow. What she always called as a child; poisonous insect colours.
He chuckled, making her look up; humour seemed so out of place here.
“Poisonous ladybirds? Much of our food has this appearance; either my palate is accustomed to it, or it is indeed, quite good. Try it before you pass judgement.”
Laurel picked up the spoon, prepared to spit the meal out, but her first taste reminded her of soup she’d eaten in the hospital canteen, not gourmet fare, but not inedible either. A sudden growling in her stomach egged her on.
Gabriel didn’t speak, just let her eat, and when she finished, offered her more. He ate little himself. The only liquid provided was a kind of wine, tart on the palate, but like the soup, quite tolerable.
Laurel fixed Gabriel in her peripheral vision as she ate, not caring if he knew she was watching him. His status confused her. A slave, he had seemingly achieved a form of superior standing within the ranks, though not immunity to the tyrannical whims of an exacting master, and in a move that most would see as risky, he seemed willing to share knowledge. He was either a fool or too confident they would not rescue her, or that escape was impossible. Laurel had seen firsthand this enemy’s overconfidence in battle. It hadn’t served them well. Now might be a good time to pump him for information, while he appeared relaxed on the bench, one leg crossed over the other, leaning back against the wall, observing her. As soon as she thought it, he cut through, not even uttering his statement aloud.
“Tell me about yourself.”
At his question, Laurel’s answer formed, composing itself in her mind and arriving at her mouth before she smoothed the cutting edge of her voice, to express her anger that he communicated with her telepathically. He could read her mind, but to expect her to respond willingly in that manner was not something she would grant him.
“Look inside my head. Be my guest,” she realised she sounded defensive, but she had to remain calm, strong and defiant. She thought she saw a tiny smile on his lips.
“I can look for any details I need. I can’t discover the real you in there. Just as you can’t discover me.”
“I find your mind rather blank.” Again, she tried to resist him with words. But he was having none of it.
“Of course you do, you’ve never been there. I find yours filled with wonder. All the things I have asked questions about over the years. But I can’t see everything. I’m curious about Earth, and I sense you cared for sick people.”
“I was a trauma nurse.” Laurel didn’t suppose she was giving anything of consequence away.
“Trauma? Injury?”
“Something like that.”
“You would be useful to us. The League are not fully utilising your skills.”
“I can do nothing the doctors on either side can’t do.”
“Not true, medical knowledge is invaluable if a physician is not on hand to administer.”
“I don’t know how to use the instrumentation.”
“Surely, if a man is bleeding, and no equipment is nearby, you possess the knowledge to stem the flow?” Then to her horror, he raised his hand, and in his other took a knife and casually slashed himself across the palm. He offered her the injured hand, his expression quizzical.
“Show me how you would manage such an injury.”
She leapt to her feet, flinching with pain from her ankles and ribs, and snatched the cloth, forcing it hard against his palm, pursing her lips at him as if he were a youngster who just pulled a stupid stunt. He merely watched the proceedings with an air of detachment. She held the napkin against his hand for a few minutes, not speaking, before gently lifting it to see if the bleeding had stopped; it was a deep cut and still oozing. Laurel continued with pressure over the wound; the cut was severe enough to hurt, but he displayed no sign of pain.
“That was stupid!” she spat. “You’ve got tendons and nerves running through your palm. You might have done significant damage.”
Unrepentant, Gabriel accepted her huffing noises while she inspected the wound.
“Can you move your fingers?”
He waggled his fingers.
“Can you feel this?” She scraped the knife, more roughly than was called for, against the tips of his fingers.
He nodded.
“You’re lucky. You don’t seem to have damaged anything.”
She wrapped a clean cloth around his hand and dropped the blood-soaked napkin on the table in front of him. He pushed it nonchalantly to the side.
“Do I need the MedAid?”
“It could do with stitches or closure, and you might need to check for infection,” Laurel pointed to the knife. “I don’t know where that’s been.”
He smiled. “In that case, you dealt with a straightforward injury easily, with nothing more than cloth and a scolding of your patient. A useful skill in battle. I will suffer no ill effects.”
“I suppose I should be glad you didn’t try it on something more vital.”
He ignored her sarcasm. “I was merely intrigued.”
“Then I hope your curiosity is satisfied.”
He moved his head in a way that showed he was considering it, so to avoid him pulling more stunts and quizzing her on her life, she settled on a topic of more value to the League.
“Tell me about this war, at least the Duke’s justification for it.”
He received the change of subject without comment; Laurel guessed he believed he had all the time in the world.
“I can tell you anything you wish to know. We are alone up here. In fact, this fortress needs few guards because of the exterior surfactant. The Duke is commonly in residence and directs the war, but unluckily for you, his health became a concern, and he is currently on our home planet. He is recovered and returns soon. I’m sure you are aware the League made a single, futile effort to penetrate the fortress. Their attack was comprehensive, but a total failure.”
“You are just as thorough when you choose.”
“Only when challenged. In the early days, the Gartrya killed no-one. The killing only began when the League intervened.”
“What did you expect?” Laurel couldn’t believe he was blaming the League for the massacre of innocent people. “The League swore to protect the Semevalians. You would subjugate them, seize their homes, their livelihoods.”
Gabriel considered her words for a moment, giving Laurel time to uncover a fleeting sense of sadness from him, at the devastation the war delivered, whether for his people or the League, she couldn’t tell.
“Semevale is a stepping stone towards the Duke’s ultimate goal,” he said. “The destruction of Semevale is a payback to the League.”
“But they are a gentle people; they have few weapons; how could they resist?”
“Strange that the League,” he gave a short, humourless laugh, “who also claim to be peacemakers, managed to install stealth and weapons—deadly weapons—to fortify their ships in a remarkably short time, and when that didn’t work, found you, the deadliest weapon in this war. Our fatalities have doubled since your arrival.”
“The League didn’t know a whole soul was working for the enemy and spying on their base. It’s not wrong to reject an oppressor.” The conversation felt bizarre to Laurel, here she was debating the war with her jailer, over dinner.
“Neither is it wrong to fight for something or someone you love,” he said, revealing something of the emotion he felt for his family’s safety.
Laurel caught the feeling but shook her head. “Even if it means the sacrifice of countless lives?”
Gabriel sighed. He didn’t expect someone so recently brought to this life to understand.
“I do not sacrifice lives without conscience, Laurel. You do not possess the facts, yet you judge, so sure you are in the right. When you took the First Column battalion into custody, you believed yourself humane, noble. In the eyes of the Duke, those men are now weak, dispensable, easily crushed. That was no victory, Laurel. You defeated them; saved them, yes, but not in the sense you believe. If the Duke ever learns they are prisoners; and right now, he believes they perished; you will see that killing them would have been a kindness, to them and their families.”
Laurel’s rage began to build. How dare he diminish those men? They were not weak, they were good men, struggling to preserve the people they loved from a ruthless megalomaniac.
But this was his arena. And he wouldn’t allow her the floor.
“You see me as a jailer,” he continued, “a spy, an executioner, but I make no independent contribution to this war. I do what I must do in the preservation of my family. I cannot save everyone, but I can save them. This war would have been waged even if I had not been born. Don’t place your trust in the League, Laurel, you do not have the facts. They are not without blame, believe me; this war is a result of their past actions,” he waited for a response but she offered none, so he continued.
“And you, you have no quarrel with the Gartrya, you marvel at the carnage and weep at the cost to life yet still you fight them, kill them without even knowing why. They are innocent of any offence against you.” He raised his chin as if defying her to tell him he was wrong. “You are in no position to judge the Duke, or me.”
If she had not been taken over by indignance at his words, had thought wisely, she would have demanded he made her in possession of the facts. Instead, all she saw was that he was audaciously comparing his motives with hers and had just told her she was in the wrong.
“Yet you judge me!” Angry colour flamed Laurel’s face, her voice cold with fury. “The Gartrya have slaughtered thousands of innocent men, women and children, they’ve tortured and abused young girls, traded them as food in return for machines, destroyed the Semevalian’s way of life, and we stand here, in one of their most sacred citadels, desecrated by your people, and you tell me I am in no position to judge? Those facts speak for themselves! Should I just stand by and watch because I have no argument?” She rose, her anger clouding her better judgement. “Even if you contribute this much to that war,” she held up her finger and thumb to illustrate the slightest proportion, “you have given to each and every act of inhumanity as if you performed it yourself!”
She watched as he stood and faced her, but she wasn’t finished. She fixed him with her stare. “I wish you’d cut an artery. I’d have enjoyed watching you bleed to death!”
He didn’t speak, just looked down into her eyes; radiant with defiance. For a brief moment, he allowed her to visit his torment, his appalling anguish. With a rapid intake of breath, her anger drained from her as she realised his motives for fighting had nothing to do with the war. But it was too late, the bitter words floated in the air between them and could not be unsaid.
Rationality dawned,
but she thrust it aside. He was still her captor, and they were enemies, seeing his misery didn’t change that. She spun around, intending to stalk back to her room, but hardly achieved two steps before the pain in her ankles slowed the drama, reducing her to a pathetic hobble. Confused and diminished, knowing his eyes were on her, right now, Laurel felt equal parts sadness and hate.
Laurel knelt beside the fire; the tears starting as soon as she turned her back to him; tears for her present condition, tears for missing Helen’s silly sayings, Marta’s spirit, Chloe and Eli’s companionship, daily chats with Xavier and Harry’s anecdotes about his father. Maybe she’d never see them again, never hear their voices. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and gazed sadly into the artificial, chimneyless, smokeless fire. The exchange with Gabriel rattled her. The League was adamant it didn’t know the reasons behind the invasion; more importantly, Harry assured her he didn’t know, and she trusted him. Gabriel accused her of not being in possession of the facts. If so, why oh, why didn’t she remain sensible and ask him for them instead of getting on the defensive? Perhaps the pain in her ribs and ankles was getting to her.
Laurel inched her way over to the counter and hauled herself up. The analgesic liquid stood unopened. She swallowed it in one. Next time, she’d remain calm and quiz him on those facts, although nothing he could say would change her mind about the Duke nor erase the horror of what she saw on Semevale 8.
Chapter 33
Eli tried to pick up Laurel after she fell from the fortress, but coming under fire, he had no choice but to leave to avoid being hit. By the time he doubled back around, she’d vanished. He hovered close to the ground, but there was no sign of her, nor evidence of a struggle. The fortress was once again, deathly quiet. She had to be inside, concealed somehow, which meant whatever that concealment was, could likewise be shielding thousands of battle units. Eli stayed as long as he dared, trying to locate her using her spit ring locator; when that failed, he tried his senses but doubted his accuracy, unsure that what he sensed was her, or just a sense of her borne of hope. In the end, he returned to 100 moons. Once there, he faced Helen’s tearful reproach of not trying hard enough, and accepted Chloe and Marta’s distress, although he knew no-one truly blamed him.
The Soul Monger Page 29