“In here,” he jerked his head towards the room.
Laurel hobbled through the doorway into a circular chamber. The walls were just a continuation of the ones in the corridor; grey and greasy. The lighting was harsh on her still sensitive eyes. A second, smaller chamber, led from the circular area and filled almost to capacity by a vast array of controls, set against a backdrop of glass, presumably a window, but one which provided no view that might offer her a frame of reference; a landmark or something familiar. There was only darkness outside; darkness punctuated by an odd, eerie, swirling mistiness with “pops” of light that drifted at random. The larger circular area in which she now stood, shifting from one foot to the other to relieve the pain, was laid out with several plain chairs with a tray on one side.
A woman sat alone at one of the tables. In front of her, on the tray, stood an empty beaker. She looked up as they entered; her eyes red from crying. Possibly in her early thirties, the woman’s dark hair was cropped close against her head. Seeing her, Laurel reached up slowly and found her own long curly locks were gone. The lower half of the woman’s face was red and swollen, as if she’d suffered a severe beating. Laurel wondered if the man was capable of such brutality and decided he was, so when he indicated she sit, she obeyed without question. A purple band of light arced over her knees and she felt a weight against her upper thighs; she made a weak attempt at struggling, but the light kept her firmly in her seat.
The man placed a beaker of thick pink liquid and a lump of flat, rubbery bread on the tray. Laurel pondered it. Hunger or thirst was not at the forefront of her mind right now.
“Drink half of that,” he instructed, “then eat the bapth, then drink the rest of the liquid. It’ll get rid of the disorientation and most of the pain.” Then, he turned away and entered the side-chamber that held the controls.
With the man’s back to her, Laurel allowed herself a sideways glance at the woman. The woman saw it and looked at the man, but he wasn’t paying them any attention, and she gave Laurel a painful smile in return.
“It helps,” she rasped, “not so much with your throat though.”
Laurel sipped at the thick, sweet liquid, and encouraged by a nod from the woman, ate the bread-like “bapth”, struggling with each swallow, then finished the rest of the liquid. Within moments, her head cleared and much of her pain eased. The man didn’t even turn in his seat to see if she followed his instructions, and Laurel suspected her comfort or otherwise was of no real interest to him.
“Where am I? We?” she whispered to the other woman. It wasn’t easy, her vocal cords felt paralysed, and her voice came out as little more than a breathy hiss.
“I’ve asked him,” the woman said, her voice just as strained and low. “He says he’ll tell us soon when the others wake up; I don’t know what ‘others’ he means but I’m sure we’re prisoners.”
“Prisoners?” Laurel gasped in disbelief and her throat spasmed at the effort. She darted an anxious glance at the man to see if he heard. He was still ignoring them, but she checked her voice to an even lower whisper, almost mouthing the words. “How can I be a prisoner? I was coming off night shift and heading home, then I woke up with that man standing over me. I thought I might have been in an accident or hospital.” Laurel looked down and plucked in confusion at the surgical gown.
The other woman matched Laurel’s low whisper, supplementing her words with hand gestures. “I was on a beach in Bali, half-asleep in the sun and having a foot massage. I don’t think we’re in a hospital. Look…” she pointed to the purple light on their knees. “You can’t move from this chair. This band, I don’t know how, but it stops you moving. I needed the toilet—which you will soon, that stuff…” she pointed to the beakers, “…gets your insides moving. He’s got a robot who goes with you. It’s scarier than him, and it stands and watches while you pee.” She kept looking up at the man who remained otherwise occupied or most likely disinterested, but it was clear the woman was afraid of what he might do.
“A robot?”
“Yes,” the woman said, trying to lean closer. “Whatever prison we’re in, it’s pretty high tech. I’m not bad with technical stuff, but I’ve never seen a computer like that one,” she pointed to the smaller round room. “I’m not sure what he’s operating, and I don’t know why he has such a bloody enormous window you can’t see out of,” she sat back, exhausted from the effort and pain of speaking.
“He likes McDonald’s,” Laurel noticed the mess in the control room. “Look at the rubbish on the floor; it’s all McDonald’s wrappers and containers.”
“I saw that,” the other woman said, after a moment’s recovery, “so when he gave me that stuff to drink, I thought it was a McDonald’s thick shake, a strawberry one, but I only like chocolate and vanilla.”
“It didn’t taste like a McDonald’s thick shake.”
“You’ll get your questions answered,” the man threw over his shoulder, cutting in on their conversation. “Don’t worry; you’re not prisoners.”
“That’s a relief,” the woman whispered, looking over at Laurel.
“You’re slaves,” the man added, his tone scarily matter-of-fact.
“Slaves?” Laurel tried to clear her throat; still too painful for such ministrations, but softly spoken indignation didn’t carry a lot of impact, and there was no way she could muster a yell, so she put on her fiercest whisper, “I’m not a slave; I’m an American citizen. There’s no slave trade in America.” But Laurel had sudden visions of white slavers, people who abducted young women for the sex trade abroad. In truth, both Laurel and the woman were probably a little mature for human traffickers; nevertheless, she turned an uncertain look to her fellow captive, who shook her head as she also addressed the man’s back.
“And I’m an Australian citizen; our governments will be asking a lot of questions.”
The man swivelled his chair around to face them, his expression suggesting he was unbothered, even bored by their concerns, he lifted his hands, letting them slap back onto his knees. “I doubt it,” he said. “None of you have anyone who’ll miss you, not really. And where you’re going, anyone looking will never find you.”
“Where are we going?” Laurel asked.
“I’ll give you a little geography lesson when the others wake up; meanwhile, keep talking between yourselves, dream up a few theories. Earth humans like to postulate.” With a grin, the man turned back to his tasks.
“Postulate?” the dark-haired woman whispered, inclining her head again towards Laurel while not taking her eyes off the man. Laurel considered herself a pragmatist, so as the fogginess in her brain disappeared, there arose the analysis of this situation.
“He said, ‘Earth humans like to postulate’,” Laurel blinked and swallowed against the soreness in her throat.
“What’s ‘postulate’?” the woman said, also blinking and swallowing. “And I don’t remember anyone kidnapping me. I only remember being on the beach.”
“Postulate means to explore reasons for things. But he said ‘Earth humans’, as if differentiating between him and us. I don’t remember being kidnapped either; I only remember leaving the hospital,” then added with an irrelevant footnote. “It was dawn.”
Laurel thought back to the events of that morning. She’d just turned the corner from the hospital. Her apartment building was only a couple of blocks away. But then—nothing. No-one grabbed her, tackled her, nothing at all.
The man rose from his seat, and the two women fell into silence, dropping their gaze and avoiding meeting his eyes, feeling they’d said enough and not wishing to do anything that might antagonise him. He didn’t even glance at them, just stepped through the narrow section between the two rooms, creating sparks as he did, before leaving them alone.
“Should we try to escape?” Laurel looked around. Even though nothing in the room suggested an opening, she guessed there must be another entry or exit somewhere.
The woman shook her head.
&nb
sp; “Whatever he has there between the two rooms is an electric barrier. The robot touched it to show me what happens if I try to get through, and besides, this band over our knees is like being tied to the chair. I think we’re stuck.” The woman sighed, resigned, then raised her hand to Laurel and attempted a smile.
“I’m Helen.”
“Laurel.”
Chapter 2
The man returned with a young girl, hair closely cropped, her face deathly white and with the same swelling over her jaw. Stumbling and wailing in distress, she struggled as the man held her by the upper arm in his none-too-gentle grasp. He ordered the girl to sit and drink the liquid. Laurel waited until he’d resumed his position at his controls, then caught the girl’s eye, encouraging her with a tiny smile. The girl, shaking and gulping back sobs, did as the man commanded, but she didn’t speak or acknowledge Laurel or Helen.
Over the next few—what seemed like hours—the man left often, each time returning with another unfortunate destined for whatever fate he had in store. After the young girl, he brought a strangely composed elderly man, who nodded politely at the two women and the girl. There followed a young, dark-skinned man with a shaved head who didn’t even look in their direction. His last victim was another woman, tall, blonde and around Helen and Laurel’s age, with the same cropped haircut and facial bruising. Each of the prisoners was dressed identically in a too-short surgical gown. The younger man also had an air of quiet belligerence. He ignored the liquid and the bapth, and the shabby man simply removed the beaker and bread with a grunt. Laurel decided it might be safer not to say it would help.
The old man and the woman drank the liquid and ate the bapth obediently; when they finished, they sat quietly. The woman didn’t make eye contact with anyone else in the room, but the man watched the proceedings in the smaller chamber with interest. The young girl gave herself up to soft weeping. Without knowing what her appearance might be and with her jaw still throbbing, Laurel assumed her face sported the same injuries as her fellow prisoners, most likely as a consequence of the configuration of the tube yanked from her throat.
Despite Helen’s doomsaying, Laurel decided to formulate a plan for escape. Helen was right, there were no visible doors, and Laurel couldn’t crane her head around far enough to view where she entered the room. Perhaps when the need to pee came on her as Helen promised, she might get a little more knowledge of the layout. Laurel returned her gaze to the front. The area with the lights and machines was as filthy as the corridor. The control desks, dirty from what must be years of sweat and grease, were arranged in a semicircle. Wires dangled from the domed ceiling and a plastic car dashboard multijointed hula girl swayed on a small ledge. A lone blue and white enamel camping beaker stood on the console.
The man sat like a lord in this well of technology, his feet lost in the sea of takeaway wrappers littering the floor. Food residue, slopped down and long dried out over the many panels, mingled with what appeared to be coffee stains on practically every surface. It was beyond disgusting. With her eyes now accustomed to the light, and her brain back into position, Laurel saw how easily the man blended with his surrounds. A deadbeat in a tatty woollen coat, reaching as far as his ankles, and she noted with not a small measure of surprise, good quality designer leather boots on his feet. He looked as if he’d dressed against the cold even though where they were located felt quite warm. His shirt collar was just discernible under the layers, in a kind of pastel green, but you couldn’t use a word such as pastel for this man, you’d have to say faded. Over the shirt, he wore an embroidered waistcoat with yet another thin coat covering. On top of this ensemble, to complete his layered outfit, the long overcoat. His hair was very dark, frizzy and matted; his face was round with high cheekbones and chin stubble, his skin leathery and wrinkled. Laurel estimated him to be in his mid-fifties, but if she ignored what appeared to be substantial sun damage over his cheeks, he may have been younger. His eyes were narrow and blue, with a drooping eyelid over one eye, like half a pirate’s patch. He looked, and sounded, dangerous.
But for all that, he was definitely human, despite making a distinction between himself and the others in the room. The man seemed remarkably comfortable with the technology surrounding him; switching from one highly technological desk to the other, occasionally muttering to activate voice-sensitive controls, and looking in one direction while he carried out a task in another. Laurel conceded that the knowledge and operation of technology of this nature would belong to an expert, possibly a highly intelligent being, and although the man’s manner and appearance seemed incongruous with that notion, he was utterly at home.
The man came to the threshold of his technical room. All focus shifted towards him; even the sullen young man raised his eyes. Shabby Man, as Laurel privately nicknamed him, snapped his fingers and with a dull click, a menacing figure detached from an alcove beside him. The robot could have been a human-sized child’s toy, something a delighted little boy might receive for Christmas. That is if it worked by remote control. This robot had a mind of its own. Its legs were hinged at several places with large joints at the hip and knee. The split lower limbs inserted into an arch-shaped foot. The robot’s arms consisted of two flexible shafts, with many hinged joints to facilitate flexion, and terminated in powerful-looking steel claws. All the limbs sprouted from a central coiled core; it’s mechanical innards clearly visible. The head was a flat, transparent screen, and as it showed as it left its alcove, easily swivelled 360 degrees. It had obviously been designed with no human facial features, but someone, probably the man, had drawn a face on the screen, complete with a menacing zigzag smile. The robot was covered in scratches, and matching its steely environment, was greasy and filthy. On second thought, the robot was nothing like a small boy would want for Christmas.
“If any of you has a plan of escape or if you decide to attack me, Mer here,” Shabby Man thumbed to his robotic comrade, “will make sure you fail. He may even tear you to shreds. If you try to escape, the only place to go is outside, and outside is space and not conducive to the support of human life without considerable protective gear. The anchors on your knees will inhibit your movements in here, but as the bapth makes its way through you, you will need to move, the restraint will transfer to your arm and attach to Mer. As an added precaution, there is a forcefield partitioning me and you—show them, Mer.”
Mer placed a metallic claw out towards the captives, and a shower of blue stars landed on each of them, sending painful sparks wherever they fell. The young girl curled herself up in as much of a ball as the restraint allowed. No-one dared look at her or speak a word of reassurance, and the man went on, in a monotone, employing the droning manner of a stewardess on a long-haul flight, demonstrating safety procedures.
“Mer can modify the field as he wills. Humans attempting to cross will be damaged. When you need the ablutions, Mer will escort you.” Then he grinned. “Now, my buyers have told me I must answer questions.”
“You said we’re slaves,” Laurel was the first to speak up.
“Slaves!” The young girl screamed and kicked out, shrinking away when the robot took a step towards her.
“You need to be quiet little lady, Mer’s got a nasty pinch,” Shabby Man snapped, then turned back to Laurel. “Correct.” But he offered nothing else. Laurel was incredulous. Ignoring the pain in her throat, she demanded, “Is that all! Is that your answer? We need more. Like why? Like how?”
The man shrugged as if her questions were inconsequential. “Well, why will be answered in depth by your new owners. How? Now, that was the easy part. I just took you. You weren’t doing anything in particular.” He paused and leaned forward, his expression one of mock apology. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I interrupt something important? I do apologise. It just looked as if your minds were engaged in such trivial pursuits, I just hopped right in and grabbed you,” he made a gesture of grabbing before laughing briefly and shrugging again. “You fit the criteria. I haven’t been to Earth for years
, been stuck as a trader; but for this cargo, I already had a buyer.”
“A buyer!” Laurel was again quick to respond, ignoring her throat’s desperate pleas to stay quiet. “What would anyone want with us? And what do you mean, ‘been to Earth?’ Where else could we be? Can’t you see, you’re not making sense?” Laurel’s throat tightened, and she swallowed hard to relieve the choking sensation. Her confusion had many layers, each question she asked returned to her with the need for another question, reinforcing her confusion, but none of the others said a word; unwittingly, she’d set herself up as the spokesperson.
“I don’t need to make sense; I’m just the courier. You have a purpose, believe me,” the man responded, his awful, filthy robot looking at each of them in turn, terrifying red eyes suddenly appearing above its zigzaggy mouth, “and once I deliver you, I don't care what happens.”
“Slavery is barbarism,” Helen joined in, attempting an angry, indignant voice, but it took a lot of effort. It was just too painful.
“That’s what the League used to say,” the man said. “Looking down their noses at the Soul Mongers, taking the moral high ground until their historical lies caught them out. Changed their minds then. All their superiority and pontificating about the evils of soul mongering went out the window.” He looked up at his robot and laughed at a secret joke. The robot made an evil cackle in reply.
“But you’ve taken an elderly man—at the end of his life,” Laurel ventured, speaking slowly to avoid another spasm. It might be impolite to single out the old man, but as barbarous as it was to take young people, it seemed doubly cruel to take someone of advanced years. “Whatever they want us for, surely he should be left in peace?”
The shabby man looked amused. He raised his eyebrows comically at Laurel, then at the man. “Is that right old man? Should I have left you in peace?”
The Soul Monger Page 2
