The Way of the Soul Page 7

  Malja agreed. Not only was the swamp sticky, humid, and awful smelling, but the longer Tommy took, the more time Malja had to think. The more she thought, the more she questioned bringing Tommy in the first place. Maybe the Artisoll had been right to worry.

  Malja just couldn’t let him go.

  She wanted to. She wanted him to be happy. But whenever she looked upon him, part of her saw the little boy chained to the battery of a rusting cargo ship. He had been an abused slave, forced to create magic energy to power the boat. She had saved him from that. She had killed for him. In doing so, she had built a connection that refused to be severed.

  She thought of Uncle Gregor. When she was only ten, the old man had saved her from living feral in the woods. He took her in, educated her, protected her — just as she had done for Tommy. Which brought up a vital question: Had Uncle Gregor lived long enough, would he have let her go? Or would she still be living in that small shack in the woods of Corlin? His murder had set her free.

  It was a stupid question because she knew the answer. Of course, Uncle Gregor would have let her go. He would have pushed her out the door. As much as he wanted her to stay, as much as he loved her, he knew that all people had to grow up and continue on.

  She could hear him lecturing as he cooked up some eggs. “The mother bird pushes the baby out of the nest, forcing the baby bird to learn to fly. We all must do it. And some day, my little one, you too will have to learn to fly.”

  The memory struck her hard. She had never realized he had said all of that, but he had. All along, he had been preparing her to take on her own role.

  Malja glanced at Tommy. She had let him grow up. She had watched him get married. By Kryssta, she encouraged the relationship. While she had called him back for this mission, she had tried to dissuade him — sort of. But the last year had been spent apart. So, why did she feel as if she had yet to push him out of the nest?

  Tommy’s eyes snapped open. He rose to his feet and nodded.

  “About time,” Fawbry said. The sun had set a while ago, and the temperature continued to drop.

  Malja gestured all around. “I don’t know where to go. Lead the way.”

  With a wink, Tommy pushed aside a hanging vine and headed west. They traveled for a short time before entering an area dominated by a large, metal pipe. This one ended in a pool of black liquid. Tommy pointed to the pool.

  “What is this?” Fawbry asked.

  Malja crouched at the pool’s edge. “I think this is what do-khas are made out of.”

  Fawbry looked closer. “Does that mean when we were here before that I nearly drowned in a pool of do-kha?”

  “Maybe.”

  He shuddered. “How do you wear that thing? Look at that pool. You’re basically wearing a suit made of swamp muck. Maybe that’s why Harskill wanted you to come here. He wants you to know how disgusting do-khas really are.”

  “I wish you were right.”

  “Of course, I’m right.”

  Malja shook her head. “Harskill’s gathering people, and if that woman is to be believed, he’s giving them do-khas. If this stuff really is do-kha and Harskill gets control of it, he could give them to anyone he wanted. He could turn anybody into Gate.”

  Fawbry pushed back his wiry hair. “That’s not good.”

  Tommy patted his hand against the stained metal and pointed off into the swamp.

  Malja nodded. “He’s right. Let’s follow the pipe.”

  Thrusting his hands in the air, Fawbry said, “Of course, let’s go to where the danger probably is. That makes perfect Malja-sense.”

  They trudged off. The pipe seemed to stretch on forever; however, since they could only see a short way ahead, distances were difficult to determine. When they arrived at the factory, Malja halted the group at the edge of the foliage.

  Her eyes roved over the layout, catching every detail of the high-walled, fortress-like structure. She pointed out the flying surveillance. After a moment, she turned back to the group with a devilish smile on her face.

  “Those cameras are flying in a definite pattern. It’ll be easy to avoid them and get close up to the wall. From there we’ll have to find a way inside. Once inside, we look around, try to figure out how Harskill plans to take over the place.”

  “Wait. We don’t know that’s what he intends to do. For that matter, maybe he already runs the place. Maybe it’s his factory.”

  “If this belonged to him, it would be protected far better. But we do know he wants to control it because that pipe started back in a pool of do-kha and ended here. What do you think goes on in there?”

  “Maybe they’re dumping waste into that pool. Maybe that’s what a do-kha really is — toxic sludge from some factory.”

  “Well, there’s only one way to be sure. We go in, we find out what’s really going on in there, and we learn why or if Harskill wants to take it over.”

  Fawbry knew better than to keep arguing. “Once we’ve done all that, then what?”

  “Then we do what we have to do to fight off Harskill.”

  Malja turned her eyes on the sky and waited. She hoped for other answers, too — answers about the do-kha. Locking her lips tight, she closed off those thoughts. She knew they would seep back in eventually, but she tried hard to keep them closed off anyway. Better to focus on the moment by concentrating on the flying surveillance. Once she saw the two cameras bank away from each other, she counted to three, and ran.

  Halfway across the open field, alarms broke the still air with incessant shrieks.

  “Keep running!” If they made it to the wall, they would be able to get inside before any security forces stopped them. However, the flying surveillance immediately turned back, breaking from its patterns, and zeroed in on them. Search lights popped on, cutting through the darkness, and found them quickly.

  Ten groyles scurried in, each one holding a long staff with a gold ball at the end. One groyle stepped forward. “Down, down. You no belong. You trespass.”

  Malja raised her hands. “I’m sorry. We didn’t realize. We weren’t trying —”

  “Down on ground. You under arrest.”

  Malja stepped closer. She had no doubt that she could take down all ten — especially with the help of Fawbry and Tommy. And those sticks had no sharpness. She had seen warriors use a plain staff quite effectively, but she knew how to fight against that. Assuming her body would hold out.

  “If I could simply talk with whoever is in charge, I’m sure we can —”

  The groyle thrust the gold tip at her. A charge arced off and struck her do-kha. All parts of the do-kha hardened. Malja felt as if she wore a metal suit with no hinges. She couldn’t move.

  The groyle then pushed her over. She fell backwards, hitting the ground with a wet thud. “You under arrest,” it said. Then it looked at Fawbry. “You, too.”

  Fawbry thrust his hands straight up. “Okay. Whatever you say.”

  Five groyles lifted Malja as if she were a fallen log. Two more escorted Fawbry, one on each side. Malja noticed, however, that nobody went after Tommy — they had not found him. Malja smiled. He hadn’t lost his touch.

  Chapter 10

  Reon

  She did not move. She remained stretched out on a beam above the ceiling tiles, disgust and confusion wrapping together to form a painful ball in her gut. How could any of this be possible? Reon had seen where the clones were grown — right here, in this factory, on this world. How could they look exactly like her?

  She had been born on another world in another universe to two loving, though odd, parents. She had never left her world, never been kidnapped by aliens, never had her DNA stolen by little eight-limbed groyles. But she also rejected the possibility that she could share the likeness of these clones by mere coincidence. That had to be statistically improbable, if not impossible.

  So what am I?

  Alarms rang in the distance. Reon clenched the beam and thought over her entire path — she couldn’t see where she had
tripped any alarms, but clearly somebody had found out. She shoved her cloning concerns away and focused on surviving the moment.

  Scurrying further along the metal beams, she counted twenty panels before she stopped, lifted one, and looked in. Below she saw a harried groyle — one of the supervisor types. Based on its physical curves and bust, Reon assumed this one was female.

  The groyle rushed around her desk, throwing together stacks of paper while filing others. She kept pausing, turning her head towards the alarm, and then returning to her work with greater urgency. Reon didn’t think she would get a better chance.

  She dropped down to the desk and kicked the groyle hard in the head. The groyle fell back, too dazed to scream, and before it could react further, Reon leaped upon her back. She wrapped her arm around the groyle’s neck and locked on tight until lack of oxygen put the supervisor to sleep.

  A young woman screamed. Reon whirled around. She saw nobody but the screaming continued.

  Flush on the desk, she noticed three screens showing different angles of the room with the adult clones. A do-kha had spiraled around one of the clones, constricting her bones. The clone screamed as blood spurted out of her limbs. The sound of cracking bones made it through the office speakers. When the clone’s head lulled forward, the guards in the room approached with their gold-tipped prods to force the do-kha back.

  Reon looked at her own do-kha. “Don’t do that to me. I promise I won’t hurt you.” She swore she felt a flicker of warmth along her body, but perhaps it had only been her imagination.

  Numerous feet clumped along the hallway. Reon opened the door a crack and peeked out. A wall of groyles marched down followed by Malja and Fawbry — the two she had fought only earlier that day. They had been the ones causing the alarm. And they had been caught, too.

  Reon closed the door and stepped back to the desk. She checked the screens again — the dead clone had been removed and a new one had taken its place.

  Is this the real test? Was Reon being asked to choose between learning about these clones — and thus, possibly, herself — or serving Lord Harskill by proving her worth in finishing the fight with Malja? Lord Harskill had brought her to this world, clearly wanted her to see this factory, which meant he wanted her to know about the clones and possibly their relationship to her. And yet, he also brought in the other contender — Malja. The answer struck Reon hard, and though she didn’t like it, she knew it was right.

  She slipped down the hall and followed the procession leading Malja away. Lord Harskill wanted an able warrior by his side. Someone to help with his great tasks. If this was the test, she had to show that she devoted all her being to him and his goals, not to her personal issues or curiosities. Clone or no clone — whatever she was didn’t matter. Only serving Lord Harskill meant anything.

  Malja and Fawbry were escorted into a room as large as the factory floor. However, instead of pipes and workers, vats and grease, lights and noise, this room contained carved pillars, spotless floors, and beautiful furs. Off to the side, three female groyles plucked stringed-instruments to make a gentle, soothing music. At the far end of the room, two rows of desks were occupied by busy supervisor groyles. Behind them, on a raised platform, sat a groyle wearing a full business suit that even covered its multiple legs. His chair looked less like a throne and more like a university professor’s office chair. On either side stood a wooden table. A small computer sat on the table to his right. A large, golden ball about the size of his head sat on his left.

  Keeping to the shadows and hiding behind pillars, Reon crept close enough to hear what transpired.

  “Sir Ket?” the groyle on the throne said. He had white whiskers that hung as low as the tie around his neck, and the hairs puffed outward whenever he spoke.

  A supervisor wearing a green vest stood. “Yes, Mr. Chairman. This Gate and her companion were caught trespassing by the southeast pipeline. They were apprehended and brought before you for sentencing.” The supervisor sat and returned to work.

  “Very well.” He looked at his prisoners. “I am Chairman Kup. Who are you?”

  Malja stepped forward, but the guards quickly hit the back of her knees, sending her to the ground. She glared upward and through gritted teeth said, “My name is Malja. This is Fawbry.”

  “Look at the spirit in her eyes. Feisty. Well, Ms. Malja, with friend, Fawbry, why are you trying to sneak into my factory? Why are Gate spying on us?”

  Fawbry went to his knees next to Malja. “Oh, your Highness, you misjudge us. We were not spying. We were —”

  A guard smacked him in the back of the head, stopping him from talking more. Reon wanted to thank the guard. She couldn’t stand the sound of that man’s blubbering. Besides, she wanted to hear what Malja had to say.

  Chairman Kup placed all four hands on all four knees and tapped his fingers as he thought. “I’m sitting here wondering to what purpose Gate are treating me this way. Are you not pleased with the do-kha I’m providing? I don’t think so. Your kind have been coming to my kind for generations. We’ve had a mutually beneficial relationship. So, no — that does not make sense.”

  “We are not spies,” Malja said. “If anything, we’re here to stop a spy.”

  “Then there are spies to be stopped? Which makes you a spy against the spies.” Chairman Kup rubbed his temple while rolling his eyes. “You Gate. You can never make anything simple. Always backstabbing and playing little games with each other. You know you would do far better if you would only spend time together, work together, instead of this ridiculous idea of trying to rule all the worlds. Just take one world for yourselves and be done with it.”

  “I completely agree.”

  “Yet here you are sneaking around my facility instead of coming through the front like a normal customer. You want to tell me that you’re here to stop another spy, yet you didn’t come to me. I would’ve personally met with you. That’s what you would normally do, if you weren’t trying to steal something yourself. You would have come in through the front, asked to speak with me, and you would have warned me of this problem, so that we could work together to solve it. That’s the troubling flaw in your story. Now I wonder, since you were here to spy or steal, what is it you would want? Certainly not do-kha. We provide those easily enough. Unless you wanted to control the entire flow of do-kha. But you would need more than just yourself to take over this factory.”

  Reon’s attention lasered in on the Chairman. Could that be what this was all about? Did Lord Harskill want control of the do-kha?

  “Enough games.” Chairman Kup stood and with two hands, he lifted the large, gold ball. “Admit it, this is what you sought — to steal the Soul of the Sun. The factory? No. That could come and go. You could destroy this whole place and rebuild a new one. But the Soul of the Sun, well, that’s a different matter. You Gate have no concept of where this came from. But I know. You all want it for yourself, yet you don’t know where to get one. So, you want this one. The Soul of the Sun — control over all do-kha.”

  “No, Chairman, you misunderstand.”

  With a flick of Chairman Kup’s head, two guards thrust their prods at Malja’s chest. Her do-kha jolted straight and once again, hardened around her, locking her to the ground.

  Chairman Kup paced behind his chair. As he spoke, he stroked the gold ball as if comforting a favored pet. “Everyone pay attention, for here you will learn exactly why I run this company. Our prisoners were brought in and they refused to cooperate. They refused to speak the truth. Yet, through steady, deliberate deduction, I have sussed out the truth. And what is that truth? We have a Gate here who did not approach us in a business-like manner, but instead attempted to break into our facility. Why? Because she wants to steal the Soul of the Sun. Because as I have spoken for the last ten years — Gate cannot be trusted. We must branch out to serve do-kha beyond one client.”

  A groyle supervisor stood on the far right of the desks. “With all respect, Chairman, you can keep repeating that idea o
ver and over, but it will not change the fact that we have run this business the same way for generation upon generation. We have suffered through times of unjust Gate, and we have benefited during times of benevolent Gate. It does not matter. We hold the key — they need these do-kha. It is the source of what gives our entire culture its life and income. We are not going to bite that hand on the whim that maybe we can get others interested in this unique property.”

  The groyle sat and a little more than half of the other supervisors pounded their tables in agreement.

  The Chairman placed the Soul of the Sun back on the table with a firm, controlling thump. “Thank you, Sir Cacksle, for once again spouting your familiar, if not tiresome, party line. But the fact is that while you keep spouting that line, you threaten to spout us right into the grave. Yes, our relationship with Gate has provided us with stability, culture, and income for generations. But just because something has always been done does not make it right nor does it mean it will always continue to be done. Here before us is evidence that Gate are plotting against us. If we do not act soon, they will act upon us. Are we to sit back and wait for that day to happen? That is the question we hold before us. That is the issue. The real issue.”

  Another supervisor, this one wearing a forest green coat over loose, wrinkly skin, said, “Chairman, there’s been no consensus to support you. Until that day comes, we must continue on the path we have always been on. Your prisoners certainly give some of us evidence to consider, and perhaps a decision in your favor will occur ... when it is time.”

  “When it is time. I know what that means. You want to wait another generation, maybe two, before there’s enough consensus. But if we don’t act soon, we’ll suffer for it. Look at her. She has come here to steal the Soul of the Sun and you do nothing.” As he passed by the Soul, he scooped it up in his hands and held it above his head. “I may not have the authority to alter the business practices of our entire world, but I do have the authority to use the Soul of the Sun. I assure you, Ms. Malja the Innocent Gate, that I can force your do-kha to hurt you terribly. I can make it shrink and shrink and shrink until every bone you have has cracked. Your lungs will be punctured and blood will be all you breathe. You will die a painful, slow, agonizing death, drowning within yourself.”