The Way of the Soul

by Stuart Jaffe

  She placed her hand on the door to steady herself. The door opened.

  Remember that one, Reon. Try the door first.

  A hall stretched forward — a strange mix of factory and business office. Utilitarian carpeting covered the floor and the white walls deadened the constant metallic noises coming from elsewhere. At the same time, rusty pipes and caged lighting ran along the ceiling.

  Reon moved down the hall with her ears perked up, listening for any sound of approaching creatures. She walked by several doors before she saw one that stood ajar. If she stayed in this hallway, eventually she would get caught.

  With a quiet knock on the door, she poked her head in. The room was empty. She slipped in.

  The room had a long desk with several levels like floating shelves. They wrapped around the chair almost closing into a circle. Reon pictured the creatures — with four arms, she imagined they could make good use of such a set up. The far wall had two, large-pane windows that overlooked the main factory floor. Reon passed her hand over a small switch to shut the lights off. She stood at the window and peered down upon the main floor.

  At first, it looked like chaotic confusion with hundreds of the little four-legged creatures scurrying about. However, Reon suspected there was an unseen organization to all the movement. There had to be or else a catastrophe would have occurred.

  At the far left end, a four-story vat stood like a religious statue. Seven pipes ended above it while at the floor, numerous creatures monitored bulky equipment that hissed and clicked and clanged. A larger version of the little creatures from the pipe walked up and down the factory floor. They wore long coats and wore the stern expression of middle management.

  An unseen cue had them grouping the smaller creatures. Most commanded with sharp calls. A few slapped the little creatures across the head. They formed the creatures into two rows, having them stand shoulder-to-shoulder, and thus, clearing a wide aisle down the middle of the floor.

  A horn sounded four long pulses.

  Once all were in place, the taller creatures that looked like supervisors handed out staffs with round, golden heads to every other little creature. With that done, the supervisors gazed upward. Reon ducked.

  When she peeked back over the edge, she saw that the supervisors did not look at her. Rather, they concentrated on four catwalks that crossed over the open area. Four people, not creatures but two men and two women, stood on platforms that branched off the catwalks. These four appeared to be in deep concentration. Two of them stared at their tattoo-covered arms.

  The horn blared again. This time, it held one tone for several seconds. With a flurry of activity at the base of the vat — knobs being turned, levers pulled, and supervisors supervising — a wide-mouthed spigot opened near the bottom. A large batch of black goo poured out. It did not flow but rather crawled along the floor like an amoeba.

  Reon knew exactly what it was — do-kha. Pulled up from the swamps, sucked into those pipes, and dumped onto the floor. Yet it looked thicker and heavier than the do-kha she wore. She guessed this might be do-kha in its raw form.

  The men and women above reached out towards the black goo. Bluish lights emanated from their hands and pressed downward to the floor. Reon’s eyes widened — magicians. Of course, she knew of magic. The blending of magic and technology had made her world possible. But those magicians practiced in secret. Extreme secrecy. Even government spy organizations were more visible to the public than the Magician-Tech Union. It was rare for the average person to ever meet a magician other than seeing their PR rep at a press conference. Yet here four magicians stood within her sight.

  The black goo moved close to one wall of the creatures. They lowered their staffs. When the gold-headed tip neared the goo, electricity arced. The goo shuddered back towards the center. Even through the glass, Reon could hear the scratch of the charge as well as a high-pitched whine that she hoped was not a cry of pain.

  The goo tried to break free on the other side only to find more creatures with more gold-tipped rods. They herded it downward toward the far end. As it slid beneath the magicians, it traveled through the thickest section of their curtain of blue magic. Emerging on the other side, the raw do-kha flowed smoother and started to resemble the kind of do-kha Reon wore. Another batch of goo was released from the vat and began to travel the same path.

  When it reached the back wall, several creatures herded the goo down a metal chute. The goo did not need to be prodded. The mere sight of the gold-tipped weapon kept it moving. Not that Reon noticed eyes on the thing, but it certainly reacted as if it could see. In seconds, it took to the metal chute and headed underneath the wall, out of Reon’s sight.

  “Please, please, sorry, sorry.” A voice cried from down the hall.

  Reon pressed her ear against the door and listened.

  “You groyle make me sick.” This voice had a deeper timbre. Reon guessed it belonged to one of the supervisors — and now, at least, she knew what the little creatures were called: groyle. “I don’t have time for your failures. I don’t care how many of you pieces of sludge you need to bring. I want you out there, and I want you to get that pipe running. If you come back here again without that pipeline flowing, don’t come back.”

  “Yes, yes, thank you, thank you. We fix. We fix.”

  From the sound of their footsteps, Reon realized they were coming her way. She was in an office and supervisors needed offices. She had to get out of there.

  She looked around for exits. No other doors. She glanced up. The ceiling consisted of numerous suspended tiles.

  With a graceful step, she stood on the low, stable level of the desk. Reaching up, she slid aside one of the ceiling tiles. They appeared to be attached to a metal grid system.

  Hopping up quietly, she grabbed the nearest metal bar. One hand slipped but the other held tight, pinched at a corner where the vertical and horizontal bars met. Her do-kha crawled over her hand and eased the pain.

  In fact, the pain disappeared entirely. Reon worried the thing had somehow drugged her, but she remained lucid. Her hand did not go numb either. From what she could see and feel, she thought the do-kha had thickened enough to protect her hand and formed a soft cushion on the inside for comfort.

  As amazing as she found this, staring at her do-kha while hanging from the ceiling did not help her situation. She reached up, secured her free hand around another bar, and pulled her way into the ceiling. Lying flat across the grid, her head brushed the hard, metallic roof. She replaced the ceiling tile and sweat dribbled off her nose — not nerves, just the stifling heat pressing in around her.

  As fast as she thought it, the do-kha cooled her skin. She smiled and belly-crawled along the beam, moving in the direction where she had seen the raw do-kha forced down a chute. Light from other offices peeked through the cracks between the ceiling tiles. As far as Reon could see out, bits of light shot up to the roof from endless tiles. Dust coated everything. Breathing it in covered her tongue with an unpleasant taste like stale bread.

  The noise of the factory bounced around her. Partly from the cacophony below her, but also from the pipes that poked up into the ceiling. Some of them ran parallel to her path, creating constant ringing and clanking right above her head.

  She kept moving until the noise lessened. Then she lifted one of the ceiling tiles to peek below. Another factory floor. Only this one had less mayhem and more orchestration.

  Directly below, she saw ten beds with flat, human-shaped molds built into the bedframes. The bedframes were flush with the floor. At the end closest to the wall, a metal chute released the black goo. It flowed along narrow channels carved into the floor. The channels led into the ten molds.

  A magician sporting a long, black beard stood on a platform a few feet above the beds. As each mold filled, he cast a spell. Once the molds were completely filled and properly spelled, two groyles lifted each one of the molds out of the bedframes and rolled in on a gurney-like contraption. They pushed the molds further
down the room. Two other groyles brought in empty molds and placed them in the empty beds.

  At one point, a do-kha slithered out of its mold and headed away from the magician. A groyle guard bolted across the room and stabbed the do-kha with a gold-tipped prod. The do-kha did not yield. It attempted to push onward, away from the molds and the magician, but the guard only intensified its attack. When the sizzling sound and the smell of burnt flesh reached Reon, the do-kha had ceased moving. Another groyle hurried in to clean up the mess and presumably to return the do-kha back to the vat of raw goo.

  Reon replaced the ceiling tile and crawled onward. A new fear had taken hold of her chest. She had survived the encounter with Malja, she had found the factory, she had broken in, and she had witnessed the abuse of the do-kha. The missing part, however, was what exactly Lord Harskill wanted her to do.

  He used a do-kha. He had given her a do-kha. Did he want to see if she could be cold and pragmatic enough to allow this factory to continue its job? Or was she here to stop the whole thing, to destroy the factory? Perhaps he expected her to have worked with Malja instead of fighting. It all swirled around her head.

  When she next lifted a ceiling tile, she gasped. Beneath her was a nursery. In tiny, clear crates, five human babies wriggled and cried. Groyles dressed in orange gowns and surgical masks attended to each baby. Underneath the nursery, she saw three channels flowing with do-khas passing toward the next part of their process.

  All the babies looked and sounded healthy. One even held its foot and giggled. All were female. This would have been odd, but the shock of finding them at all overshadowed this observation.

  Why are they raising babies?

  Reon lowered the panel and moved on. Her stomach tightened. Up ahead she saw where a pipe crossed over and down into a room. She thought that might be a good spot next. When she peeked in, however, her entire life stopped.

  She could hear her breathing. She could feel her hair tickling her neck. Other sounds muted around her. Other sensations lifted away.

  On the floor below were three grown women. Each one stood naked before a transparent cylinder. A do-kha squirmed inside each cylinder. One woman reached out and the do-kha snapped onto her arm. But rather than become her clothing, it covered her body and glowed red. Flames climbed up her neck and smoke seeped out of her hair. She screamed and collapsed.

  Several groyles entered the testing area to attend to the fallen subject. As Reon watched, as she absorbed the horrific idea that these babies were being raised for this purpose, she saw that all the women looked identical. These babies were being grown. They were clones.

  And they all looked exactly like Reon.

  Chapter 9

  Malja

  When Malja received a summons to speak with the Artisoll, she prepared for an earful about Tommy. The Artisoll was his wife, and that made Malja a type of mother-in-law. But when they met in the Castle Gardens, Malja saw at once that Tommy was not the issue.

  She saw it in the Artisoll’s grim but empathetic expression. She saw it in the way the Artisoll patted a spot on the marble bench surrounded by a sea of identical Red Tri-leaf flowers. Most of all, Malja saw the Voice standing behind the Artisoll. If the trouble had centered around Tommy, the Voice would not have been present.

  “Please, sit,” the Artisoll’s Voice said.

  Malja did as asked. Though she knew nothing threatened to jump out of the flowerbeds or attack from the droopy susabel trees, her senses fired off warnings.

  The Artisoll turned a fraction and allowed her lips to rise in a half-smile — a year in the mire of politics had taken its toll. “I’m worried for you,” her Voice said.

  “For me? I’m fine.”

  “No. I’ve sensed something change, and I’ve seen it more lately. You try to hide it — I don’t think Tommy knows — but little escapes me.”

  “It’s probably just the pressure of trying to find Harskill.”

  “I thought so, too, at first. But it’s getting worse and your do-kha does not appear to be helping.”

  Malja blanched. Hearing another speak of what had plagued her mind, especially when the other was the Artisoll, shocked her. She felt like a child being called out by Uncle Gregor for hiding apples under the bed — even after they had rotted.

  The Artisoll placed her hand on the back of the bench — close to Malja without touching. Her Voice said, “If you’ll permit me, I’d like to use my power to inspect you. It won’t hurt you or alter you or do anything to you. Tommy has made it clear to me how your feelings toward magic are complex. This is nothing more than looking closer than my eyes can do. Okay?”

  Malja wanted to deck the Voice, rip apart the flowers, and kick over the bench. Instead, she nodded.

  The Artisoll took a deep breath. “It is done.” To Malja’s surprised face, her Voice added, “It’s rather simple magic.”

  In expectant silence, Malja attempted to glean any information from the Artisoll’s inscrutable face. The longer the silence held, the worse Malja felt. Her mind rattled off a dozen serious illnesses that might cause her symptoms and a dozen more she imagined existed on any of the worlds she had visited. When no answer appeared to be forthcoming, she blurted out, “Well?”

  The Artisoll signaled for more patience. At length, her Voice said, “I apologize for the delay. I am still learning about the do-kha.”

  “Is that the problem? My do-kha’s broken?”

  “Your do-kha lives. You know this. It is not a machine which breaks.”

  “I know. I’m a little nervous.”

  “Fawbry and Tommy would be amazed you admitted that.”

  “Guess I’m maturing.”

  “That is exactly the problem.” The Artisoll left the bench to pass her hands over the flowers. “All things in life follow the natural cycle — birth, growth, reproduction for some, and death for all. Some live in herds, some alone, and some share their lives. You Gate —”

  “I am no Gate.”

  “Of course. My apologies. I’ll say — those of you who wear the do-kha develop a shared experience. From the do-kha, you gain an ally that protects you, heals you, enhances you, comforts and aids you. Have you ever considered what it receives in return? I see in your eyes that you may understand.”

  “Me? It’s doing this to me?”

  “You share your life with it. Giving up years to gain benefit now.”

  “My shaking hands, my sore body, everything — I’m just getting old?”

  “In a way. But you are aging faster than normal. It’s the final price you must pay.”

  Malja shook her head. “You know this from a quick, little spell?”

  “A spell that let me talk directly with your do-kha. She told me everything, and now I have told you. When you leave with my husband, please remember this conversation.”

  “I’m not likely to forget. Or am I? Will I start forgetting things?”

  The Artisoll shrugged. “Aging changes all creatures differently. Just know that you cannot be what you once were. Tommy and Fawbry will expect you to be the same but you are not. Don’t let them die because you have slowed or —”

  “I have not slowed. Not yet. I see why I’m here, now. This is about Tommy.”

  “Of course. He’s my husband.”

  Malja clenched her fists and stormed off. If the Artisoll had been anyone else, Malja would have punched her hard. It wasn’t the information about the do-kha — not entirely. What angered Malja was the assumption that she would be careless with Tommy’s life. Had the Artisoll already forgotten who had saved her life and helped her become Queen?

  Malja stomped through the castle halls until she calmed enough to face Fawbry and Tommy. They waited for her — as did their mission. That’s what mattered now. The rest of it — she would shove it down with all her other darkness.

  “Is there anything dry in this stinking place?” Fawbry swatted swamp water off his pants after he had sat in an unseen puddle on a log.

  Malja walked a
wide circle around Tommy and Fawbry, making sure they were safe from any immediate threat. Jutting her chin toward Tommy, she said, “He seems to be fine.”

  “He probably cast a spell that’s keeping his pants dry.”

  Since the moment they had returned to the swamp, Tommy had sat on the ground, focusing on the tattoos of his right arm. Unlike the other magicians of Corlin, most of Tommy’s tattoos formed and disappeared as needed — though some seemed permanent. Malja wondered how much of his uniqueness came from the trials they had faced over the years. Perhaps she had unleashed all this magic in him by trying to stop that very thing.

  Fawbry slapped a bug on his neck. “How long is this going to take? He can usually locate something a lot faster than this.”

  Malja kept her attention on the shadows of the deep swamp. “It’ll take as long as it takes. He’s not looking for a person or a creature this time. He’s looking for do-khas.”

  “So? A do-kha is kind of a living creature, isn’t it?”

  “Look, that girl I fought wore a do-kha. Only Gate wear do-khas. That makes her Gate. So, if we find the do-kha, we find the girl. It’s that simple.”

  “Why not look for the girl?”

  “Look around you. Everything is teaming with life. It all blends together. This way he can focus on something he knows that has a separate signature from everything else that’s around.”

  “You’re making that up. You have no idea how this works.”

  “Maybe. But that’s probably close to what’s going on. Best I could understand from what he was signing to me. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, does it? We only have to keep him safe so he can do what he does. He’ll cast his spell, he’ll find the girl, we’ll move on.”

  Fawbry flicked a bug off his shoulder. “I hope he finds her soon. I’m really sick of this place.”