Gabriel remained utterly silent, soaking up every detail, he didn’t even ask one question, his face and eyes playing out every single emotion he felt as she spoke. When she found him at the boundary of her mind, she let him in, but he didn’t venture far, just enough to see what she saw.
He looked away from her and dropped his eyes; his mouth opened slightly in wonderment.
“Just now,” she said, “as we shared thoughts, I saw your mother came from Paris?” Laurel prompted him, but he wasn’t listening. Courtesy of Laurel’s storytelling and open mind, he was strolling along the Champs Elysee, looking across the Seine, just as his mother described. He heard the shouts and echoes of people in the street, the ringing of bells on the odd two-wheeled vehicles called bicycles, competing with the thunder of bells from the ancient cathedral.
Laurel knew where he was, so she followed him, reliving her own experience and reflecting a few images that belonged to his mother; memories imparted in narratives from mother to son. Minutes passed before he looked up.
“It’s as if I were there, with you, walking together,” his voice carried the wonderment of a child. “My mother was unable to share, as we did. She painted a beautiful picture for me, but she was never able to take me there. Not like you.” His eyes grew distant; then he sat back. “Yes, my mother is from Paris.”
“Is this making you sad?” Laurel asked.
“Not at all, it brings comfort. It helps me see that I was born to something far worthier than that which I became.”
Laurel’s compassionate heart could not ignore the fact that Gabriel’s story was tragic; he was the enemy, sure, but a life that held unlimited hopelessness? How could anyone endure it? If she ever escaped, she would know freedom again, but Gabriel? Not unless the League won the war.
“Do you know when your mother was taken?” she asked. “The Soul Monger collected us at different points.”
“I know that I was born in your year 1943. It amuses my mother to observe the day,” he gave one of his rare laughs. “She calls it a birthday.”
“They’re still called that,” Laurel grinned. “1943? The Nazis occupied France in 1943; it was a difficult time for the French.”
“My mother told me a war covered your world and in time, arrived in her land. She and others resisted it…”
“She was in the French Resistance?” Laurel’s passion was history; the French Resistance a favourite study topic at school.
Gabriel lifted his hands in surprise. “You have heard of this? She uses those terms, French Resistance and sometimes, The Resistance.”
“It was long before my time. I learned about it in history in school. Was your father in the Resistance as well?”
“No, the Resistance protected him after his flying craft was shot down. My mother shielded him and his companion; they were to be smuggled onto a ship and transported to a safe place across an ocean. His name was also Gabriel. Mother calls him an American airman, a navigator I presume. She planned to join him in his land when the war was over.”
Laurel hesitated. “I’m American,” she said, her throat suddenly dry.
Her comment appeared to stun him to silence. After a moment, he shook his head. “You are American?” he studied her face, assuring himself of the truth of her claim. “Like my father?”
Laurel nodded.
“That inflection in your voice, does it mean your first language is American?”
“I have an American accent,” she answered, sensing that this shared history had a deep, emotional effect on him. “But my language is English. All over America, we have distinctive accents, inflections.” Laurel felt from him a restrained joy to meet someone from his father’s homeland; but too familiar with the pain of emotion, he didn’t give in to it.
“I had long left childhood behind when I learned the truth about my father,” he said. “Mother instructed me in the language of her fathers, and later, she taught my son. It is a beautiful language. We speak it at all times, save in the presence of the Duke and his aides,” his brief joy once again giving way to sadness. “But then we spend much time alone.”
He fell so readily to sorrow. It never eased up on him. There was more, much more to his story, even so, Laurel wished not to be around when it ended.
Gabriel stood abruptly. “I’ve enjoyed being with you, learning of your world, our world.”
His sudden decision to end the visit took her by surprise. “You’re welcome, I suppose.” It occurred to her at that moment, regardless of how pleasant he seemed, and how much he hated the Duke, just how appropriate was it to be polite to her jailer and to enjoy his company.
Chapter 35
After Gabriel left, Laurel noticed he’d left the VI open, so she picked up at the point where they’d previously been researching League social structures. Laurel had no comprehension of the language Gabriel used for voice commands, but manoeuvring the starchart to include Semevale 7 was simple. She zoomed in on her coordinates, but the image was not as sharp as she’d hoped, not even as good as Streetview on Google Maps, but she could make out the fortress. As she suspected, nothing surrounded it for kilometres apart from the mountains behind, but she wondered if a closer view of the fortress itself might reveal a few clues. Gabriel said the skin of the creature resisted their weapons, so perhaps they’d synthesised one of its components to develop a covering or…Laurel sat back. Used the skin itself!
To construct a weapon, the League would need a specimen. The skin appeared smooth and clung tightly to the fortress, so it was malleable; but then she didn’t know in detail the contours of the lifeform, not being able to sense it at the nebula. All she had to go on was Xavier’s drawing, and he wasn’t an artist. If there was a way to get this information to Xavier, it might be possible for him to ask the lifeform about its cellular structure, though she doubted its species had scientists that researched such things, although it might know what kind of weapon could pierce its hide. Meanwhile, there had to be at least one exit; if she could locate it and possibly steal a ship, deliver her suspicions to Harry, the League may be able to construct a dedicated missile in time for the Duke’s return.
Laurel sat in front of the fire, stilling herself and trying to use her senses to find any entrance to the fortress. She shook her head; for some reason, she couldn’t get further than this room, the corridor outside and labyrinthine tunnels beneath. It was almost as if there was no other level to the structure, even though she saw its proportions for herself when she landed, but there had to be a way in and a way out. After a while, she gave up and allowed her mind to wander. She realised she no longer saw the League as innocent victims in this war, and now Laurel knew that Canon Akkuh was not to be trusted, in truth, she couldn’t go to the League with any information. She could only trust Harry and the other whole souls. Harry once said six whole souls could be an army; Laurel hoped he was right, for it seemed the imperative was to destroy this stronghold, with the Duke inside. While the Duke lived, the war would continue, and Canon Akkuh’s secret of hiding the Duke’s overture and the genocide of the Inikamarans would be protected. Surely the Canon would want the Duke dead? Dead men tell no secrets—right? But what about the heirs? Gabriel said Princess—whatever her name was, was pro-change, but what about the other heir? The son? What if he challenged his sister? This war might just be everlasting. Killing the Duke wouldn’t be like killing a queen in a nest of ants; the workers might simply swarm behind a new leader, and that might not be the one who promotes peace.
When her thoughts finally stilled, and her head filled with thoughts of sleep, Laurel suddenly lifted her head, to listen as a whisper broke through the silence. A sad and quiet echo of Gabriel’s words.
“It is not in my family’s interests that the Duke dies.”
“I’ve just left Harry,” Eli came into the lodge, furious, and tossed his gloves on the counter.
“And?” Marta and Helen spoke at once.
“Canon Akkuh refused permission for a rescue mission; agai
n. We’ve lost Laurel for now according to him, and we must concentrate on the task at hand.”
“I’m not accepting that,” Helen looked at the others in turn. “I can’t believe Harry does either. We all know how he feels about Laurel.”
“Canon Akkuh told him capturing the columnists was bad enough without allowing Laurel to go to the fortress, risking the enemy discovering the League is using whole souls.” Eli ran his hand through his hair. “He said he’d demote and probably have Harry returned to Mentelci if he steps out of line again.”
“Well,” Marta shoved herself out of her seat. “We do it without Harry. We haven’t signed anything; we’re volunteers.”
“But we gave our word,” Helen said quietly, right now wishing she hadn’t.
“We’ll ungive it,” Chloe shook Helen’s shoulder. “We can’t leave Laurel where she is; it’s been weeks. We have to do something.”
Eli agreed. “I think Harry would still take a risk. We should include him.”
Helen was sceptical. “He might block it or inform the Canon. Besides, Laurel was right; he’s a company man.”
“She didn’t mean that,” Chloe said, “she was just mad at him. We know more about the enemy than Harry does, anyway.”
Marta started messaging on the VI. “Let’s get Xavier involved. He’ll have some ideas.”
“What’s the covering on the citadel?” Laurel asked Gabriel, launching into the question almost as soon as he arrived the next day.
“It’s…” he regarded her for a moment, “a…natural covering. Impenetrable.”
“Natural? Organic?”
He didn’t answer.
Not unexpected, but Laurel continued to probe for answers. “How do you get in and out of the fortress?”
“It’s a building, like any other, Laurel. It has doors. And attacking the fortress if the Duke isn’t in residence would be pointless,” Gabriel added, either guessing or reading her front of mind ideas; she couldn’t tell which but didn’t care as long as he arrived at answers. “I’d know if the League dared such a bold move. But if they did, they need to arm their warhead with Alisitrite minerals; not found anywhere in the League, only on Gartrya.”
Alisitrite. Laurel silently repeated the word to herself, assigning it to memory.
“When does the Duke arrive?”
“Soon. He will wish to know if you are tractable, humble or whether you represent a continued threat.”
“What will you tell him?”
“I will tell him you are a continued threat.”
As she suspected, he would be loyal to the Duke, to spare his mother and his child, sacrificing her without question. What else did she expect?
“You’d sign my death warrant?”
Gabriel dipped his head, acknowledging Laurel’s words, but the expression that glinted in his violet eyes showed it wasn’t so straightforward. “Would you prefer that I say you are easily moulded? That you will serve him? Laurel, death is preferable to what you might suffer.”
Laurel puffed her breath out. She had to escape. The idea came swiftly, and she looked up, but Gabriel wasn’t sharing it. Or if he was, he was hiding it well. He didn’t turn away, and a suspicion flared in her, but it faded quickly, unwilling to be examined at this point. No matter, Gabriel wasn’t as closed as before, and in turn, she was sure he no longer ventured too far into her mind, but right now, she wanted to be alone.
“Do you mind?” Laurel stood. “I have a headache. I’d like to lie down.”
“Of course,” Gabriel was all concern. “Shall I call the MedAid?”
But Laurel shook her head and pointed to the door. He left without further comment.
Thoughts of escape raced in Laurel’s mind. She checked to see if she was alone inside her head. Gabriel wasn’t there, so for what seemed like the millionth time, Laurel examined every corner, every nook and cranny of the room for any possible way she might escape, somewhere she might have missed on one of her many searches. She determined finally that the only chance would be to surprise Lien at the elevator and try to get to a ship or at least a door before Gabriel realised. It was possible Eli or one of the others was regularly slipping through the ordnance web and scouting for her. She hadn’t sensed them, but that could be Gabriel blocking them to dupe her into thinking no-one was looking for her. That theory worked—except for one thing; Gabriel’s intent cleared for her just now. He wanted something. And it wasn’t just to give her up to the Duke to prove his allegiance. The slippery suspicion refused any real scrutiny, so she’d have to let it go for now. Laurel was now positive the skin of the lifeform covered the fortress, and she also now knew the name of the alloy that could arm a warhead to penetrate it. But that knowledge served no purpose if they couldn’t get hold of the Alisitrite; that was safely on the other side of the nebula, but with her newfound knowledge that the nebula couldn’t harm her, nor the others, made it a whole different ball game. There was so much Harry needed to know.
Laurel measured her days according to the time the fire ignited and extinguished. Gabriel took her into the gallery in the evening for what he smilingly called “poisonous ladybird stew”.
One night, several weeks after her capture and many discarded ideas of escape later, Laurel waited for Gabriel. The fire had burned for a good while, but still, he didn’t come. She glanced towards the door and scrambled to her feet in astonishment. There was no mistake. A blue field surrounded the door.
It was unlocked.
Tiptoeing, Laurel pressed her ear against the door, listening for sounds and trying to sense anyone on the other side, but there was only Lien, and even now, after daily stretches, yoga and running on the spot to keep her strength up, without a weapon, she still had no hope of taking him down.
Laurel touched the operating panel, and the door slid open; she stepped through with only a rudimentary idea of what she might do on the other side. The sight of the massively built Lien standing in front of the elevator beam was enough for her to scrap any idea of tackling him. His smell was almost enough to keep her at arm’s length, regardless. He peered down at her from his remarkable height, his mouth set in a grim, downward arch. The only way Laurel could take him out was if he were paralysed or near death. In his conscious state, he was as impenetrable as this fortress.
“I’m hungry,” Laurel pointed to the alcove at the far end of the gallery. Lien stood unmoving, growling softly, his facial hair bristling.
She backed away towards the alcove. The food dispenser didn’t recognise her and conducted a series of sharp clips in response to her requests. Lien’s heavy footsteps behind her made her shrink, but he just grunted at the dispenser, provoking it to deposit what looked like something pale and thick, possibly edible in a beaker. He then drained the wine-like drink from a jug, and thrusting both cups at her, grunted again and stomped back to his position at the elevator.
Laurel didn’t want to eat with him observing her, and she almost wished Gabriel was here, but she took the two cups and slid as close to the wall as possible back to her room, not taking her eyes off Lien.
Laurel wrinkled up her nose at the food. God knows what Lien had conjured up for her. Nothing else had proved poisonous, but this probably was, so she set the beakers on the table.
“You’re not going anywhere tonight,” she counselled herself, but it occurred to her Lien must sleep from time to time, and if the door wasn’t going to be locked, she had to keep her wits about her.
Chapter 36
Laurel’s life as a captive took on a pattern. Gabriel visited most days, often staying for hours. He liked to talk of Earth, the politics of his world, the government on hers, and he gained a fascination with the concept of movies and television. Laurel took care to bury her thoughts about the exit, speculating that it being left unlocked might be an error or possibly a trap, and she didn’t want to lose her chance of escape. And each day, she checked the door. Lien always stood there, glowering; that said, she didn’t starve, because she checked i
t several times every day.
“May I teach you the language of my mother?” Gabriel said one morning. He was sitting on her bed, leaning against the pillows, more as if he were an invited friend rather than her jailer. He’d taken to wearing more informal clothing, much like the ones he’d given her to wear; as if seeking to narrow the distance between captor and captive.
“Why?” there seemed little point to Laurel. “I’ll be dead when the Duke gives the order.”
“You are welcome to sit here reciting poetry to your heart’s content,” he smiled. “Or you can enrich the life you have left and pass the hours productively. At least relieve any tedium.”
He had a point. “Very well,” Laurel turned to the VI and Gabriel, as he always did when they used the VI, took his position, kneeling or sitting on the floor beside her.
Gabriel possessed unceasing patience. Laurel was sure her Fobel node had not yet broken down, and she had no problems understanding him. She’d picked up a few phrases during her time in France, but with Gabriel’s teaching, she gained a new respect for the language. Staggeringly, after three days, she could conduct a cohesive conversation with him, not always with perfect fluency, but near enough.
“You have a natural aptitude for languages, Laurel,” he said with genuine admiration. “It surprised me how well you spoke Seera when we first met.”
“I’ve always been interested in ancient languages,” Laurel said. “Hebrew, Greek, Latin, languages with their roots in Earth’s distant past. Don’t forget I still have the language node the League inserted. I’m sure that helped.”
Gabriel bit his lip against a grin. “Laurel, it’s gone. The MedAid removed it with your spit ring. You don’t have any hardware in your body at all. You did this yourself.”
The Soul Monger Page 32
