A stranger Phel had never met grunted in disdain as they rose, his commanding presence dominating the room like a storm cloud over the crashing waves. He was taller than most men by a head’s span. Boots and black leather armor distinguished him as one of the elite Ghost Knights.
Men like him are not messengers. “Morni—” Phel began.
“Do not speak!” Jillian yelled, the tone masking any emotion. She stuttered an inquisitive apology to the knight.
She is never inquisitive. It was a warning. She is unusually tense. Phel shut his mouth, his senses turning to the oddness of the situation, and listened to a sudden commotion in the yard. Horses coming to a halt and people dismounting. Tackle jingled. Perhaps it was the actual messenger.
The powerful warrior in black garb turned to Jillian, Felina, and Jaspen, ignoring the insignificant Phel, and declared authoritatively, “Meldz desires that your Alexorian pet be sent to join his new project. He shall leave under guard with me.” Jillian was pale.
New project. Now Phel was pale. He was curious but terrified at what this could mean. They knew almost nothing about this secret initiative.
“I already explained that Drane and I require him here for the good of our operations. He is a comrade of Drane’s.”
The man ignored her. “Clamp your lips shut, woman, when I speak.”
Felina surged forward, shoulders hunched with evil intent, but Jillian’s hand on her chest stopped her attack. “Nolly wants a beating.”
A taunting, teasing giggle—an unexpected sound from such a fierce visage. “Sir Nolan doesn’t want the little pussycat to be reminded of her beatings, her training.”
Phel thought he had seen Felina angry, but the hate in her eyes sparkled like a forest fire. Only Jillian’s emotionless gaze and touch kept Felina from attacking the visitor.
“Humph. Too bad, I was hoping to relive some of our past.” Smirking and giggling. Nolan was used to having his orders followed. “Furthermore, as we discussed, your warrior here shall deliver this letter per the instructions left with my man, who waits with the horses saddled and ready in your barn.” The Ghost Knight handed the letter to Phel. The seal was cracked and the letters visible. The handwritten note was written in the secret Driston tongue. “Sonz slave, give this to my new messenger. Be a good pet.” The man indicated Jaspen, acting as if it were beneath him to take an extra task if it was avoidable, and turned back to Jillian.
Bastard. Phel began to understand, empathize with, and feel the hate that flared in Felina’s eyes. The words on the note caught Phel’s interest. The Ghost Knight assumed Phel could not read a handwritten letter in this tongue. Phel read a few words before obliging and in turn handing the note to Jaspen. Jaspen took the letter and folded it up without daring to read it after he saw the cracked wax insignia on the front.
The few words Phel had read made his heart jump: “Deliver a secret message to a Sonz spy.” He also saw Sir Drane’s mission mentioned. How are these commands connected? Phel wondered. He needed to know. He stared at Jillian until their eyes caught. He hoped she understood his glance.
Jillian saw the look of warning on Phel’s face, but she was busy handling Nolan. “I’ll not give up Drane’s house pet, and I’ll not have my few warriors running messages for Meldz. Jaspen organizes our lookouts and scouts.”
“You were always a hard case. Too bad, Jillian. Without your attitude flaws, you would’ve been offered a position as a Ghost.”
Jillian retorted. “Meldz may not deem us worthy to know his plans, but he betrays the Driston way by leaving us vulnerable to another attack. This is as ridiculous as the orders to send Drane into Alexorian territory.”
The man in black chuckled. “You wish you knew where Drane was sent. The moon shall shine upon his punishment.” He pounded a boot against the floor in a sign of respect. It was not respect for Jillian or Drane. The door to the manor opened, and Lord Meldz himself entered. His midnight helmet with the diamond moon glistened. He was a strongly built, middle-aged, dark-skinned man with a painted white goatee. The three in the room gasped in shock.
“You overstep yourself, Jillian. Our of respect for your brave service, I will not have your tongue cut out. Yet.” The lord turned and slapped Phel with his armored gauntlet so hard that he crashed to the floor, bleeding out his nose and mouth. “Get out of my sight, you dog. Go await our departure in the yard.” Jillian dared not say anything. Not even Drane stood up to Meldz.
“Lord Meldz, your command is our will.” Jaspen, next to Phel, bowed and nervously backed down the hallway and walked to the back of the house to meet up with Meldz’s messenger. Phel heard Jaspen exchange words with the messenger, and then his boots stamped out of the house to prepare the horses. They walked briskly down the hallway toward the rear kitchen and yard.
Nolan kicked Phel again as he stumbled to his feet. “Begone already, dog.”
Phel looked at Jillian, then at the departing messenger, and he nodded at Jillian and whispered so she could read his lips, “I’ll be back.” The Creator himself wouldn’t keep him from returning.
He stood, turned, and stiffly bowed to Meldz. A rage took hold of Phel as he stomped out of the room like a beaten dog.
He heard Nolan say, “Gotta love a good slave.”
Shame filled Phel. “Take destiny in your hand. Force your way. You’re a warrior, Phel.” He would not be beaten down again. The rage grew into a wild, unruly plan. “I need to know the rest of that note.”
He rushed down the hallway and caught up with the lord’s guard, who was waiting in the kitchen for Jaspen to return. Phel slit the man’s throat before he could turn. Wet blood oozed onto his fingers as the body toppled against him. He took the handwritten message from the dead man’s belt pouch and read it, trying not to smear red onto it. The message was for a spy in the Alexorian castle.
The handwritten letter outlined Drane’s movements, mission, and timing. It was a betrayal. Drane would be captured. It was an offering for something in return. Phel did not read the rest of the letter. He needed to act.
Jaspen came around the corner and interrupted his reading, grabbing the letter and kicking Phel hard with a studded boot. “Phel, too far.”
How to explain to Jaspen? “It’s not what it looks like.”
The trained warrior only saw the facts and drew a dagger. “Stay down, dog. Meldz will hang you for this.”
“Jaspen, Drane is in danger. Read the letter again!” Phel pointed at the letter and tried to rise.
“No one reads his lord’s communications. That is treason in Driston.”
“You know me, Jaspen.” The truth was that Jaspen partially despised Phel’s good luck. Phel could not blame him for judging Phel, dagger dripping with the blood of the messenger.
“You Alexorian dog. Betraying the mouth that feeds you.” Jaspen turned to yell to the other knights, but as he opened his mouth, Phel kicked his chin just above his birthmark and elbowed him in the gut. Phel leaped out the window and ran to the waiting horses that were tied to the kitchen entrance fence. He galloped away before Meldz could send men to kill him. He looked back and knew he wouldn’t be allowed to return. He heard the soldiers’ hunting horns bellow.
“Another door shut to me,” he murmured into the wind with regret. He urged his horse onward. “Damn the heavens.” He shouted, like a prayer into the woods, “I’ll return, Jillian!” The Creator be cursed for splitting them asunder. “If I warn Drane, Jillian will see reason.” He hoped. Hope was a flighty taunting idea.
Chapter 24
Scientific Inquisition
“Closet time-out for you.” Grandpa Greg’s voice followed David’s hurried retreat down the hallway in a taunting warning. “Don’t visit my team’s space unless I summon you.” The disrespectful voice rang in David’s ears. “Manager.”
“Manager my bank account,” David muttered, wondering how someone could make such a precious word sound so dirty. He reached for a blue button next to a sliding door that barri
caded this wing from the shared research spaces. “Please open, please open,” David begged the great accountant. His fingers sweated, and he felt damp drips forming on his neck. The door should have zipped open as he approached, but the airlock was engaged and held the door shut. The blue manual override button taunted him. This was his third doorway. “Please open. Let me out,” David whispered. The button compressed with his touch, but the door did not open. “Shieet.” The beaded sweat began to trickle down his back.
“Closet time-out as punishment.” Grandpa Greg’s voice echoed from a room down the hallway.
“Greg, stop your games. No, I won’t. I’m your manager.”
“I won’t tell anyone about this encounter. Thirty seconds in the closet. Then you can go—consider this your last lesson for trying to micromanage my team.”
The accountant would know of David’s shame. “By the stock,” David whispered as he banged his fist against the door override. “I am trapped.”
“Closet time-out, David, dear,” the sadistic voice said, as if Grandpa Greg were watching David’s futile attempts to escape the wing.
“OK, I won’t interfere.”
“Not enough. Enter the closet.”
“No.”
“Then remain trapped.”
“I have work to do.” To David’s shame, he begged. “Please let me go.”
“Hahhaha.” The laughter cut David deeply. Grandpa Greg did not relent. “The closet.”
Did he have a choice? A door behind David hissed open. Looking around, before stepping into the door that had opened, to make sure no one was watching, David sighed. “Compromise,” he told himself.
The closet door zipped shut as soon as David had stepped out of the hallway. The small room, too small to be called a room, was two feet by one foot wide. His back touched the wall behind him.
“This is the last time I get tricked by that devil,” David promised himself as he fought to steady his breath and avoid a panic attack. He was claustrophobic.
Grandpa Greg had hacked into the computer system of this wing. David had learned too late that he could not leave this area without obeying Grandpa Greg. The other manager was punishing David for storming into his wing and micromanaging his testing. David felt totally helpless.
“Twenty seconds.” He counted in his head, darkness surrounding him.
“I promise I won’t tell anyone if you stop stepping on my toes.” The voice of Grandpa Greg spoke through a wall speaker in the closet.
“You better watch yourself, Greg.”
“Don’t threaten when you are on my turf.”
“Ten seconds.” David counted. He hoped Greg would actually let him out. He dared not think of the alternative. A QC team would find him if he was late for a meeting. He hoped.
“The team is expecting me back.”
“Remember who has all the power, David, dear,” the voice warned as the closet door zipped open. “You may go.”
The humiliation and helplessness made David feel like shit. He breathed deeply, fighting the panic, as he approached the wing’s exit door. Please open. The door did not open as he walked into the sensors path.
“Say please, ahahah.” A cackle.
I will not beg. David thought but in desperation said, “Please let me out.” Shame rose to his cheeks.
The door zipped open. The cackle followed him as David leaped and ran to clear the doorway. The panic attack that he had been trying to hold back hit him. Relief, panic, and shame took control of his body. David fell to his knees shaking, and he grasped a plant’s concrete pot to stabilize himself.
“By the stock, by the stock.” A semblance of self-control returned. I can’t get caught in that wing again without some leverage. I need leverage. But he did not know how to get leverage. He would not complain to the CEO; that would be a sign of weakness. Grandpa Greg had been finding small ways to humiliate David all week. “He is trying to cause you to have a meltdown. He is jealous of your role. You are in control,” David intoned.
With his composure mostly intact, David hurried toward back to the main labs. “Time to be about doing.” Manager infighting could wait.
“You OK?” a concerned Manda asked as David entered the command center.
“It’s nothing,” he lied.
“The other managers tormenting you?” She was a lot more attentive than people gave her credit for.
“No, just a poor bowel movement. You shoulda warned me about the purple gel packs.” David attempted a chuckle. The look on her face said she didn’t believe him for one moment, but thankfully she let it slide.
The command center was the home base for the research teams. The round room contained a growing database with the interactive analysis from the four competitive teams, who were diligently studying their respective batches of procured slaves.
“Let’s be about doing,” clapping hands together, he declared to his immediate huddle of scientists.
Manda started the session off. “We’re making many new discoveries.” The team spent all morning inputting the data into our simulators.”
“Our five subjects are going through rigorous scenario after scenario,” and the scientists contemplated each test from concealed control rooms.
David loved the power trip of studying humans like test rats. It made him smile as he directed his small world of subjects.
“Our experts recorded and compiled their observations,” another scientist added. “Our library of data is growing.” She pointed at the computer simulations.
“Good. Good.” Trying to understand their complex slaves, David looked at the simulators and 3D data screen. The data multiplied industriously like parasitic mold on a damp riverbank.
Nods. Pointing. Brainstorming. Comments. Musings. Propositions. The huddle all took stock. They scrutinized and dissected the lab rats by running the data through algorithms, trying to fill in gaps of human being history, culture, and weakness.
“Pretty fascinating slaves,” Manda chimed in. Coffee stimulator drinks were passed around. They recorded, observed, and questioned. As they deliberated, even more questions began to emerge in David’s inquisitive mind.
The more David watched, the more he thought, How strange; how many similarities these human beings have to human-doings.
“The very belief systems of these humans defy our own philosophical constructs,” Manda said. He was glad such a Lave Lab veteran was on his team. She was bright and well equipped for the rational, prying requirements of discovery.
“The itch is coming on me, team,” David began to say. He had heard this saying from one of his old team members. Dan? he thought. Yes, Dan was the employee who always referred to his mental itch.
David had a questioning itch, and he couldn’t quite escape the uneasy hankering as the subterranean snooping region in his mind began to compare key differences in philosophies and cultural aspects between the Tri-Coalition and Xchange. Things he had taken for granted.
“Keep up the good input work,” David said to the data members of the group. “Manda, let’s walk, observe, and agenda review.”
“Doing onward,” the scientists mumbled as the manager left.
They walked to the balcony outside of the simulator room, sipping on the energy booster. Standing on the observation deck, rocking absentmindedly on his heels and staring at his tablet, reading the agenda for the next hour of testing, David habitually caressed his brand arm to reassure himself that he was not ever going to betray his corporate moral code. I will never be as base as Grandpa Greg. “Rise above your humanity,” David mumbled, encouraging himself to be the best he could be.
“Don’t let them get to you.” Manda said.
Hoping she was not catching on to his drama with the other managers, David said, “I won’t let the slaves’ philosophies get to me, Manda. I can be inquisitive without be treasonous.”
“Hazing is part of corporate bullshit.” She did not beat around the push. “I’ve been through the ringer myself.”
Was that pity he saw in her eyes? The compassion made David feel weak, so he changed the subject back to the puzzle of the slaves. He pointed at the slaves, saying, “How do you deal with the uncomfortable knowledge of Tri-Coalition history? How Xchange commoners don’t even know they exist? How do you feel about using our slaves for profit?”
“Working in secret with unknown entities. It’s a tough burden to carry, but do we have a choice?” She had a point. “Work is given to us and not chosen.” He could tell she was hiding some of her thoughts, treading cautiously.
“Can you explain more?” he asked, genuinely curious.
She answered, “I assume you read about other managers going crazy after a year or two of responsibility in the Lave Labs. The labs can become a roller coaster of curiosity, affection, attachment, power, guilt, doubt, philosophical unease, and…”
“‘Guilt’ is a strange word.” He had read about some of his predecessors’ struggles in his management preparation. He wouldn’t admit it, but it was strange having kids locked up in cells. Brac was staring around helplessly below him. Admittedly there were moments where he even felt guilty—just brief moments of guilt—about the occasional treasonous discoveries springing up in his thought process. He felt even guiltier when flashes of occasional compassion for the captured slaves sprang up like unwanted weeds among the grain.
He didn’t admit his feelings but said, “Compassion and unproductive fascination are common weaknesses in our generation, Manda. Thank our branding departments for ever stronger tattoos that discourage our baser selves.” He rubbed his tattoo. “Pain is a powerful motivator for virtue.”
She didn’t seem like she agreed entirely, but she nodded and said conversationally, “You did do your research. You know, there’ve been Nnect employees who’ve gotten hyperfocused on random useless discoveries; this often resulted in the employee pursuing a project without any profitable aim or end point.”
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