The Soul Monger

by Matilda Scotney

  Harry, inwardly shocked when Eli returned without her, feigned practicality to hide his true feelings about Laurel’s disappearance. “She knew the risks,” he said, knowing perfectly well they could all read him like a book, “From what Eli says, she’s captured, not killed; if she had, the enemy would leave her body where it fell. We’ll have to give careful consideration to what we do next.” Simply uttering the word “killed” made his blood run cold.

  Helen jumped up. “She knew the risks?” she yelled as she launched herself at Harry. “You can keep your bloody excuses!” Helen meant to give full vent to her resentment, even thinking she might punch Harry on the nose; now blaming him for allowing Laurel to go in the first place. Instead, she collapsed into his arms, weeping. Harry held her for a while until Marta came to guide her gently back to her seat.

  Harry left the lodge and headed for the stream. Laurel made an impression on him from the start, from the first time he looked into her eyes. He’d been determined his personal feelings about her wouldn’t interfere with his decisions, and up to now they hadn’t, but he hated that he’d been the one who let her go.

  As in all wars, duty distracts those engaged in its waging from dwelling on those lost. Personal reflections and sorrows were placed aside for the greater good, and Semevale 8 called to the whole souls repeatedly. But in between battles, the others missed Laurel, her absence bringing a weight of despair to each whole soul, one that even regular, hopeful transmissions from Xavier did not lift. Xavier’s presence proved valuable to the League, and enemy movements detected far sooner than ever before, resulting in the destruction of many Gartryan vessels. Xavier’s affinity with the lifeform continued, but as it was incapable of more than the most basic telepathic communication, Xavier contented himself with reassurances and promises that the League were doing all in its power to secure its freedom.

  But now they had another captive to consider. Escape may not be a possibility for Laurel, her friends reasoned, but a rescue might.

  Laurel was tired. Her pain relieved, but whatever else was in that analgesic preparation slugged her brain. Now her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool, and her body twitched, denying her sleep. Reaching out, she grabbed a blanket from the bed to cover herself, then lay on the rug in front of the fire, hoping the flickering of the synthetic flames might lull her, but the discussion with Gabriel kept running through her mind, robbing her of any chance of rest. He’d let her rant at him, but then, looking into his eyes, she saw a sincerity that was at odds with this situation. She wondered if he would readily sacrifice her to preserve his family. Of course, he would. Either way, he had no choice but to do his master’s bidding. Gabriel said the invasion of Semevale was to hurt the League—she should have asked him to elaborate— and that the Duke had another target. She needed all this intelligence, needed to take it to the League or at least let them know, help them prepare. Next time, she mustn’t get so damn emotional or argumentative.

  Laurel took her hand out from under the blanket to check if there was any blood residue after Gabriel’s stunt with the knife. It looked clean, but she probably should go and wash her hands before sleeping. Laurel didn’t move; just returned to staring at the fire. In a while, its warmth and the dancing flames soothed her, and the possibility of Gabriel’s blood on her hand grew unimportant as her mind settled. As she drifted off to sleep, she wished she’d listened to Harry, bowed to his greater experience, and lamented this new arrogance in her personality. She delivered a few weary thoughts into the night, but all that returned to her was Lien’s stinking presence at the elevator beam outside her door. Gabriel was nowhere to be found.

  Gabriel entered the room unannounced the next morning just as Laurel wandered groggily from the slot. He glanced at the makeshift bed in front of the now-cold fire, and without a word, picked up the blanket, folded it and placed it neatly on the bottom of the bed. He was so immaculately turned out; she hoped her untidiness annoyed him, not caring if he knew what she thought but hoping he saw the events of the preceding night still rattled her.

  “Were you cold?” he asked. “I can reset the fire to serve your needs better if you wish.”

  During the night, during wakeful periods, it had come to her she felt more sympathy for him than contempt, even so, she wasn’t about to become a complacent prisoner, resigned to her fate. He could poke around her mind if he felt he required a definitive answer.

  “I fell asleep on the rug,” she said, offering no apology for the untidy state of the room.

  “I decided not to disturb you too early,” he didn’t move. “I offended you last night. I made you angry.”

  “Really?” she treated him to a touch of sarcasm, though it felt strange on her tongue.

  He smiled. “You did ask about the war.”

  “It’s a topic we’ll have to agree to disagree on.”

  “Our views are not that different,” he countered.

  “We’re on opposite sides. How different can they be?”

  Gabriel sighed, “I will not continue with this discussion, Laurel, because judging by last night, you have drawn your conclusions.”

  And to her dismay, a thought came to her; she needed to try harder to keep him out of her head, but this thought was too nimble for her to block. “It’s just you and I. There’s no-one else except Lien. Why are you keeping me here? Am I to be an offering to the Duke?” Damn, damn Laurel, shut up!

  Gabriel appeared to be waiting for her to respond, giving no sign he heard her thoughts. This time, they seemed truly her own. She decided to test it.

  “I suppose Lien knows how to get out of here?”

  Gabriel wasn’t in there, of that she was certain, but knowing if he’d withdrawn intentionally or she had somehow learned to conceal her thoughts. Of the latter, she was less sure.

  He signalled for her to sit on the bed as he folded himself comfortably into the chair by the VI. He looked too comfortable. That would have to stop.

  “Is this a social call?” Laurel injected some of her newly acquired sarcasm into her question.

  “I thought you might appreciate some company,” he answered, ignoring the nuance, “I can tell you about the society in which I live if you wish?”

  “I’d prefer to learn about the Duke’s eventual goal,” Laurel retorted, “and why Semevale has been singled out as an example. I’d also like to be in possession of those ‘facts’ you crowed about last night. And if Lien knows a way out of here.” She chucked the last part in for good measure, but it only served to elicit a grin from Gabriel.

  “Trying to read Lien is a futile exercise, as you have discovered. Lien is a field slave, offspring of quarter-soul slaves. Slavery is an accepted practice within the systems on the other side of the nebula. Lien isn’t originally from Gartrya. His first master sent him for progression; a process whereby the limbic system is modified to make the slave docile and undemanding. The slave is then more suited to undertake work in agriculture and repetitive tasks. You will find it difficult to read him further than the fact he is a quarter-soul.”

  “If he’s a field slave, why is he here?”

  “The Duke is flighty. He takes a liking to people, and while it serves him, is fiercely loyal. With Lien, he won him in a wager and used him as a recreational fighter, until Lien lost his eye. Usually, a master disposes of the slave, but Lien is so devoted, my father rewarded that devotion by keeping him as a pet.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Of course it is, to you, but to Lien, he is grateful every day for his deliverance. To him, and others like him, any life is better than no life.”

  “Are you suggesting servitude has an upside?”

  “I’m saying that if your options are limited, as Lien’s were, and you wish to survive, you will show or at least pretend to show gratitude.”

  “It’s not going to happen with me,” Laurel said, folding her arms across her chest in a gesture of defiance.

  “The Duke dislikes rebels. His ang
er increases with any defeat suffered at the hands of the League.”

  “You need defeating.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “The League invaded first.”

  A simple phrase, spoken as fact placed the burden of guilt squarely at the League’s feet. Laurel needed an explanation because his statement made absolutely no sense to her.

  Seeing her puzzlement, Gabriel gave up his chair and invited her to sit at the VI, kneeling beside her as she seated herself. Using a voice command in the Gartryan language to bring up a starchart, he pointed out a planetary system, homing in on a single, green and blue world.

  “The Duke’s ancient birthright, the planet Inikamara,” he announced. “As you can see, Inikamara and its sister planet,” he pointed to a smaller world, “are on the threshold of League space, at the edge farthest away from the nebula. In the early days of the League, they were not treaty planets.”

  “Why does it have the League symbol above the northern pole?” Laurel asked, pointing to the too-busy and self-important emblem of the League, its coat of arms, a gold cross within a circle, encompassing many colourful points of lights; depicting the planets protected by the League.

  “To warn passing ships the planet is League quarantined and landing requires a permit.”

  “Why?”

  “That will soon become clear to you.” Gabriel brought up a view of a planetscape. As the scenes rolled across, Laurel saw vast oceans, snow-capped mountains and verdant land. Gabriel narrated as the scenes changed. “Water covers much of the surface of Inikamara,” he said, changing the views of the planet between space and surface perspectives as he spoke. “Since the beginning of time, the oceans sustained the populations with its produce; the lakes and springs offered clean water, the soil was fertile, and the people were farmers, artists and builders. They had no understanding of war, of greed, of hunger. A peaceful and harmonious society, much like the Semevalians, and a society that shunned technology.”

  “A quarter-soul society?”

  “You and I both know that’s not accurate,” he smiled slightly, then shook his head as he revealed the next part of the story, which painted a less pleasant picture. “Centuries ago, a small meteor hit the planet; it did little physical damage but released a contaminant into the atmosphere. The poison rained down across much of the planet; sea life perished, and few places were left habitable as the effects spread. Over two-thirds of the farmland became unresponsive to cultivation. The good people of Inikamara fought and died over the meagre offerings of the earth; their peaceful way of life gave way to a desperate need to survive. Art was lost, culture, tolerance, decency. Those who could, migrated to other worlds, but many were left behind. At their most desperate, the Inikamarans turned to the League for aid. The League evacuated part of the population while the planet underwent rehabilitation, which League scientists knew would take several centuries. With the support of the League, those left on Inikamara set about minimising the effects of the contamination and commenced the slow process of soil and vegetation recovery. They performed these tasks willingly, in the hopeful expectation they were establishing the means of their people’s return.”

  Laurel listened in silence. What a catastrophe for these people, an entire planet devastated. Gabriel allowed her a moment to digest his words.

  “It sounds as if the League acted in their best interests,” she said after a moment, picturing disaster relief footage she’d seen back on Earth, that being the only comparison she had.

  Gabriel nodded, conceding the point. “At first, yes. The Duke of that time was one of those who remained. To ensure their continued support, he signed with the League, making Inikamara a treaty planet, thereby coming under the League’s protection.”

  “Did the people agree to this move?”

  Gabriel pressed his lips together and shook his head. “History tells us it was not a popular decision, and those exiled to the sister planet were resentful, but we are not speaking of a democracy. On Inikamara itself, there grew division, a rift between those who welcomed the treaty and those who wished to preserve their sovereignty. At that time, only two territories were left inhabited, but the discord between this once peaceful and interdependent people grew, and civil war broke out. Once again, the League intervened.”

  “Intervened? Not invited?”

  “That depended on whose side you were on,” Gabriel glanced at her. “With the return of the League, the war came to an end, but with enormous loss of life. The native Inikamarans were not warriors, not strategists; these were artists and farmers raising arms against their brothers. The League didn’t fire a single shot in the civil war, but their very presence brought an end to the hostilities, and the two opposing sides were once again unified, each side lowering their weapons and becoming brothers once more. At least that’s how legend records it.”

  “It’s a legend? Isn’t this a factual account?”

  “Even truth lends itself to embellishment, Laurel. It is here the story takes a sinister turn. The events that followed led to the League falsifying their records.”

  Laurel would have liked to scoff that the League would not be involved in anything underhand, but it occurred to her, they might, after all, they kidnapped her and five others. She thought about Congressman Bela; her genuineness, her sincerity, even so, she would have to bow to Canon Akkuh’s authority. In truth, the League were not above questionable ethics if it served their purpose, so she would not judge until she heard the full story.

  “There is a transcription of what followed the civil war,” Gabriel continued, “taken from League records and copied before the League altered them. I can’t tell you how the transcript came into the Duke’s possession; I’m not privy to that information.

  “A League guard received a minor injury while assisting an Inikamaran farmer. The farmer treated the wound with a common root, regarded locally as a healing herb, but the result was dramatic enough that the soldier mentioned it to his commanding officer, who quickly secured a batch of the plant for study. The herb could heal everything from itching to fever to broken bones; even painless childbirth. To the simple people of the land, it was just a local remedy.”

  Laurel had a sense of where the story was leading. With that sense, on this journey through history, if everything he told her turned out to be true, her views of the League were likely to be reformed.

  Gabriel brought up an image of a white, radish-like plant. “The League arranged for analysis and interviewed the farmer,” he said. “The farmer, supportive of the League’s presence on Inikamara, saw no wrong in revealing local medicine to the experts. An assay revealed it wasn’t the root that held the healing property; it was the soil in which it grew. The League identified large deposits of the soil beneath the Duke’s private land and parts of the neighbouring farmland, but nowhere else on the planet. Somehow, it showed no contamination.”

  The sense of foreboding grew in Laurel. She looked up at Gabriel, but his gaze was on the VI. She knew this story wasn’t destined for a happy ending.

  “The soil showed itself to be remarkably amenable to refinement,” Gabriel said, pointing out the plants and areas where the soil was found. “The League took a sizable specimen, modifying it to use in medicine. It is still in use throughout the League and occurs nowhere else in the known universe. The League sought to negotiate control of the mineral but the incumbent Duke, with an eye on his diminished circumstances, the cost of the war and the hardship of his people, agreed that they might extract it from unoccupied areas but must compensate the Inikamarans.”

  “Did they?”

  Gabriel shook his head. “No, this is the only document I have seen, hidden from the League during the Purge.”

  Laurel took a mental step back at the word “purge” but didn’t stop him as he continued the story.

  “It reveals what was handed over to the League and the League’s token response. The Duke tried to halt the removal o
f the soil, but it was the protest of a tiny insect against a rampaging beast, small, inconsequential and useless. The Canonical family of Mentelci withdrew the military and quietly laid claim that Inikamara was abandoned. Accordingly, the planet fell to them, as founders of the League.”

  When Laurel heard him say “Canonical family” Canon Akkuh instantly came to mind. His ancestors? “But it was still inhabited,” she said. “What happened to the people? The farmers?”

  “The Canonical family sent them into the nebula.”

  Laurel lifted her hand to her mouth in horror, her body shuddering. The Purge. She’d sensed something awful was about to be revealed, and she searched Gabriel’s face, not wanting to believe, but she saw nothing that caused her to doubt him.

  “But no life can exist in the nebula. Oh my God!” Laurel could barely drag the words from her throat.

  Gabriel expected her to be horrified, but he didn’t tell her the story to shock her. He needed her to understand, to shift her thinking. This woman had compassion, honour. Exactly the person he needed; when he could be sure he trusted her.

  “No-one knows what happened to the others, the ones who escaped to exile on other worlds,” Gabriel said gently, waiting for her to recover. “The Duke believes the League carried out a systematic slaughter before the remainder, many on ancient hold carriers, were propelled into the nebula. Two hundred thousand made it through to the other side, owing their lives to the few whole soul slaves that were sent in with them.”

  One and a half million! Laurel shrank in horror at the slaughter of so many people; those simple farmers, their children, undeserving of such a fate.