Peculiar Soul - Chapter 45: Compound

Chapter 45: Compound

Each newly-ensouled individual must face a choice: given the power they now have, how best shall they make use of it? Most pursue a trade, some seek glory, and still others prefer to withdraw into obscurity.

A handful of people come to me for counsel on this matter each year, usually those who have received a particularly powerful or troublesome soul. Regardless of their circumstance, I tell each one the same thing: that if they wish to pursue real change, to effect substantial good in the world, then they should lend their talents to research, study and science.

Consider: an augmens may cause a certain amount of growth on a certain number of farms, which is a fine and productive use of that soul. But the augmens is still only a man, with the limitations of a man. He may only be in one place at a time, must take time from his day for eating, sleeping, et-cetera. Though he might work himself ragged every day, there is a firm limit to the amount of change he may effect.

Consider, then, a second augmens. Rather than visiting farms and fields each day, he studies botany and biology. He understands how plants breed and change with each generation. With dedication and effort, he produces strains of common crops that resist pests, thrive in poor soil and bear greater bounty than before.

The number of farmers in the world, souled or unsouled, outstrips the count of augmentes by far. By using his soul to empower them, the second augmens will do a greater good than the first could achieve in a thousand lifetimes.

There is a force in this world greater than the soul, the mind, or whatever nebulous concept of the human spirit one may wish to conjure. This force is mathematics. It is merciless, fair and invincible, the greatest foe for those who seek to oppose it and the greatest ally of those who seek to understand its workings. I give this advice so that the newly ensouled do not waste their lives walking behind an ox when they might have hitched their plow to an exponent instead.

– Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 683.

Michael walked slowly down the garden path, watching the orchard’s trees slide in and out of alignment with each step. Each time he was afforded a brief glimpse of a transient, leafy hall bedecked with fruit and foliage. Apples, pears and peaches lent their aroma to the breeze; Michael inhaled deeply – and paused, frowning.

There were other scents carried on the wind, bright flashes hidden in the depths of the orchard. One tree gleamed with shifting, shining fruits that held no true shape, another bore fleshy lumps that oozed an unsettling crimson juice. He stopped walking in front of one that held orbs of smoldering coal amid its branches, low and smoky flames dancing amid the greenery.

“This isn’t real,” Michael murmured. “I’m dreaming again.”

A quiet laugh came from behind him. “Good that you’re starting to recognize it,” Jeorg said. “Less good that you’ve had so much practice. Should try to avoid exerting yourself to the point of senselessness.”

Michael turned to look at the old man, taking in his weathered face. “It’s not as though I’m trying,” he grumbled. “The soldier came out of nowhere. He shot Sobriquet.” His hand came up to trace over his chest, fingers hovering over the twinned flames burning within. “I saw it, and Clair burned so brightly. After that, everything just – happened.”

Jeorg snorted. “Clair is dead,” he said. “She didn’t do anything to force your actions.”

“You’re dead too,” Michael pointed out. “And yet here we are.”

“Jeorg is dead,” Jeorg agreed, walking slowly over to one of the trees and laying his hand on its bark. “But I’m not Jeorg. I’m you, the part of you that knows Jeorg – the empty space in you that still holds his shape.” He withdrew his hand and looked at Michael, his eyes glinting with reflected light. “More than a few of those voids in you, now, with Clair and Vincent stronger than most. But – still only you. Still your own mind remembering their shape.”

Michael pressed his lips together. “That doesn’t sound right,” he said. “When Clair’s fire burns I can feel her. Sobriquet can feel her. It’s more than just a memory.”

“It is,” Jeorg agreed. “But still ultimately a part of you. Still yours to control, in the end.” He leaned closer to Michael, his eyes narrowing. “If the hound attacks, who bears the blame?”

“The master.” Michael’s mouth felt suddenly dry. “But I don’t know how to control the flames.”

“Of course you don’t,” Jeorg retorted. “You made something new, tread paths yet to be traveled. There is risk inherent in that; you decided that you didn’t care. Now you have to deal with the consequences; learn to control them before you do something that you’ll regret.” He paused, and his face softened. “Because it will be you, when it happens. Not these flames you bear. Always and forever, your burden.”

Michael nodded slowly; he felt a slow weight settling into his body. “I don’t even know where to start,” he said dully.

Jeorg smiled at him, baring his teeth. “Then ask,” he said. He stretched his hand out to touch the tree beside him again; the trunk shot outward in a broad canopy of overlapping branches. Michael cried out in shock but it was too late – they twined around his arms and legs, covered his face, dragged him down, down-

Michael’s eyes snapped open. He was drenched with sweat, chest heaving; he took a few moments to breathe as he looked around. He was lying on a small but comfortable bed. The room he was in had little else beside his bed, there was a lone chair in the corner and a metal rack with a bag of fluid suspended from it. A tube trailed from the bag down to his elbow, where it was taped to his skin – no, inserted into his arm. He stilled his immediate thoughts of panic, carefully lifting the tape before sliding the needle free.

A small bead of blood welled up; he rubbed it away and looked around the room again. The door was bare metal, windowless, with a flat steel handle. The single light was a well-made electric bulb that cast a soft, even light over the walls of the room, bare save for an arrangement of curved, dark glass set into the wall beside the door.

Michael swung his feet from the bed to the floor. A thin blanket had covered him; as it slid away he saw that he was wearing a plain shirt and trousers cut from the same grey fabric. A feeling of unease settled over him as his mind began to draw parallels between his current state and his time on Spark’s island. He walked over to test the door and found that it was locked from the outside.

He was trapped in the room, at least for the moment. The restriction sent his suspicions flaring, and with them came Vincent’s flame; it, too, rankled at the confinement. It would be a simple thing to call upon Stanza and destroy the door’s mechanism-

But, no. Michael grit his teeth and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths until the flame died down. When his heart was beating slow and steady, he let his sight drift outward. Past the door, there was only a long, bare hall; the far door was beyond the limit of his sight.

“Hello?” he called out. “Can anyone hear me?”

No response came. He pondered shouting louder still, but decided to wait; he was in no immediate peril that he could ascertain, and Vincent’s surging call to action had made him wary of trusting his impulses. He sat on the bed – and popped immediately back to his feet as Sobriquet’s avatar materialized in the room.

“You’re finally up,” she said, the apparition’s buzzing tones not enough to mask the relief in her voice. “You were asleep for most of a day.”

“I feel like it,” Michael grumbled. “What is this place? I take it we’re in Mendian, but – is this a hospital?”

“We should be so lucky,” Sobriquet said. “No, you’re in – well, the polite term is isolation. Someone got it into their head that you might be dangerous.”

Michael tilted his head at her deadpan statement. “Did they,” he said. “How did they come to that conclusion?”

“On their own, surprisingly enough,” Sobriquet sighed. “About five minutes after we handed you over to their physicians everyone turned very quiet and serious. I don’t think you’re at any risk of immediate harm, though – they’re just very meticulous in their precautions.” The avatar looked off to the side, a brief shiver of light skating around it. “Leire said she wanted to talk with you before letting you out, so I’m going to make sure she knows you’re awake.”

A chill spidered through Michael at the name. “Leire – Gabarain?” he asked. “You’ve been able to speak to her?”

“More than she’d prefer, I’d say,” Sobriquet chuckled. “We were taken rather directly to her estate, or – fortified offices, perhaps.” She shook her head. “There will be time to catch up once you’re out. I’ll urge her to contact you at once.”

There was a pause, and Sobriquet floated closer to where he stood. “Don’t lie to her,” she said. “She’s no verifex, but she knows a lot more than she lets on.”

Sobriquet was gone an eyeblink later, leaving Michael standing alone in the room once more. He frowned and slowly sat back down on the bed, shifting his sight around to take in his hopefully-temporary prison. Minutes passed. His thoughts turned to Jeorg, and his happy recollection of his time with Leire. He wondered if Jeorg, too, had been taken here, when he first arrived.

A flash of light and a high-pitched noise jolted him from his idle contemplation of the walls. Startled, he looked up to find that a section of the curved glass had turned to a rapidly-shifting field of grey dots. A low, muffled hiss came from it, growing steadily louder until the dots vanished. They were replaced by the image of an older woman, rendered in slightly-blurry tones of grey. Even so, her eyes were bright and piercing.

“Your incredibly-persistent friend has informed me that you’re awake,” the woman said. Her voice was distorted and tinny in a way that reminded him of phonographs, although clear enough for Michael to hear the crisp, distinct sounds of her speech. Small, bright dots danced periodically across the image.

Michael blinked and stood up, walking over to the lit glass. The high-pitched noise was quiet, but constant; he could feel the faint prickle of static when he held his hand close to it. “Hello?” he said, tentatively. “How are you doing this? Can you hear me?”

The woman gave a rasping sigh. “Please don’t focus on the viewscreen, it’s not relevant. It’s a device that allows us to speak safely.” She leaned back in her chair, her brow furrowing. “For now, converse normally; I can both see and hear you.”

“Okay,” Michael said, nodding; strange as this device was, he supposed it was no more outlandish than Sobriquet’s apparition – and much more pleasant to look at. “Can I assume that you’re Leire Gabarain?”

There was a pause; the woman sighed. “I suppose some questions are natural,” she said. “In brief: yes, I am Leire Gabarain. You are in my home outside of Goitxea.” She held up a hand before Michael could open his mouth. “Your companions are here as well. They are all safe and healthy, and they’ve given me a summary of your purpose in traveling here.”

Michael nodded slowly, his mind brushing away the last of his lingering fatigue as her words settled in; this was Jeorg’s friend and perhaps mentor, the woman he had died trying to reach. An unexpected swell of emotion bloomed in his chest. He clenched his fists and took another steadying breath before returning his eyes to the viewscreen. “I’d like to see them,” he said.

Leire leaned forward. “All in good time,” she said. “I have some questions for you first. You bear Jeorg Dreschner’s soul and stated his passcode at the border. How did you come by these things?”

She looked expectantly at him; Michael paused to find the right words before speaking. “I knew Jeorg,” he said. “I had to flee Calmharbor and go into hiding, and he was the one who hid me. I stayed on his farm this past summer, but we were discovered and forced to leave.” He looked at the screen. “We booked passage on a ship to Arenga, with the intent of visiting you.”

He paused, seeing for a moment the mirrored surface of an ocean gone suddenly still, the gentle glow of morning – and blood, spattered over a bare deck. “We didn’t make it,” Michael said. “Our ship was intercepted by Spark. Jeorg was shot, and I was captured. He gave me the passcode a few moments prior, and when he – died, his soul came to me.”

Leire’s expression changed, though the screen made it hard to see precisely how. Michael had grown used to Spark’s insight into the emotions of others; its sudden lack made him aware of how much he had come to rely on it. A cold, sharp thought came a moment later: perhaps that was Leire’s intent in using the screen. He was reasonably certain none of the others would have mentioned Spark’s soul to her, but if they had said too much…

“Poetry even in his death,” Leire said, her voice quieter than before. “The damn fool.” She shook her head and returned her attention to Michael. “Another question: what is the nature of your soul?”

Michael’s heart pounded; he hoped that whatever vision Leire had of him was as blurry and indistinct as his, because he was certain that he had not hidden his reaction to the question well. One part of his mind reminded him that Jeorg had almost certainly intended to tell Leire of his soul; another screamed incoherently with the disorientation and fear of her sudden, piercing inquiry. “Ah,” he said, splitting the difference. “I bear Stanza, as you said.”

She peered at him for a moment, then sighed and looked away. “Let me phrase my question otherwise,” she said. “So that we share an understanding. Our intelligence reports indicate that you bear Stanza, your companions were kind enough to confirm this after some gentle encouragement. Stanza, the Caller, the Gardener – it is an apex soul aligned with Order and Mind.”

“Mind?” Michael asked.

“Don’t interrupt me, boy,” Leire said. “Yes, Mind – Life, in Institute terms, but that’s a discussion for another time. The salient point is that we know this soul very well. It has been documented, measured. When Jeorg was here last, we took the opportunity to measure its absolute magnitude. Four-point-seven-one, if you’d like to know – among the highest of the many souls we’ve measured.”

She steepled her fingers in front of her, her eyes sharpening. “A soul’s magnitude remains constant between bearers, a firm measure of the soul’s potential leverage over the mundane world. As part of our standard assessment, we measured yours. Would you like to know what result we received?”

Michael’s mouth had gone very dry. “I’m going to assume it wasn’t four-point-seven-one.”

Leire’s mouth curved into a small, hard smile. “The cooperative that makes our animetry equipment was forward-thinking; their designs can account for readings double that of anything we’ve ever seen, up to an observed magnitude of ten.” She tapped a finger on her cheek. “Your soul appears to fall very far outside of this range.”

There was nothing that seemed appropriate to say, so Michael nodded slowly.

She leaned forward. “Furthermore, what communications we’ve intercepted from the Institute and the Ardan military have been – hyperbolic, shall we say, in their coverage of you. Fantastical in their claims.” Now that Leire’s face was closer to the camera, Michael could better see her humorless smile drawn across her craggy features.

“So,” she said. “So. The data accrues, and I am left with the distinct impression that you are a rather incredible individual, Michael Baumgart – which is why you find yourself in that room. Prove to me that you are credible, however, and you may get to walk out.”

Michael looked at her through the odd screen, at her inscrutable, smiling face. Jeorg had trusted Leire, yes, but he had also misjudged Vera and Sofia. It was difficult to take the old man’s assessment on faith. Sobriquet’s admonishment not to lie to her rang softly from the corners of his mind; he turned it over for a moment, examining the statement. She had not shared his secret with Leire – but, as a general rule, Sobriquet did not share secrets.

After a moment, he let out a slow breath. He could examine and second-guess all day, as he had little else to do in the cramped room. It wouldn’t get him any closer to the answer he sought. He did need Leire’s help, as did Sobriquet.

Then ask, Jeorg’s voice echoed. Jeorg’s voice, but his own words.

Michael sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry for dissembling,” he said. “Secrecy has become something of a habit.” He took a breath and looked at the screen once more. “I bear multiple souls.”

Leire’s expression did not change. “This is something that science holds to be impossible,” she said. “But let us entertain the notion. How many souls do you have rattling around within you, and what are they?”

“I’m not sure I fully know the nature of my original soul,” Michael said, “save that it permits me to acquire others. I believe answering that question was part of Jeorg’s purpose in trying to bring me to you. As for the others, I have a durens, spector and calorigens soul within me. There is also Stanza, as you know.” He took a breath. “And Spark.”

A moment of silence drew out until it had become thin and brittle. Leire’s hands unfolded, then folded once more. “Ah,” she said. “A few things begin to make more sense.” She reached to the side, her hand coming back into view with a small cup of something. There was another pause while she sipped at it.

“Jeorg thought to bring you to me?” she asked. “Did he say why?”

“He said that you helped him to understand his soul,” Michael replied. “At the time, we didn’t know anything about my soul save that I had a reaction to death. When Jeorg died, that was – how I learned the rest.”

She took another sip of her drink, then slowly set the cup back down on the saucer. “And the other souls?” she asked. Her voice had dropped to a low monotone. “How did you come by those?”

Michael indulged in a deep breath before answering, trying to let the cavalcade of memories that her question provoked pass him by. “Two killed by Spark,” he said. “He guessed the purpose of my soul and wanted to – to feed it.” He pressed his lips together; Leire made no comment. “After the second death, I was able to break free. Spark tried to stop me; I killed him.”

Another pause, another wordless stare from Leire. Michael continued. “The last, the calorigens – that was Vincent Waldeck, an Ardan. He was killed a few days ago by Sustain, in Siad.”

“I see,” Leire murmured. “What soul were you hoping to acquire next?”

Michael blinked. “Pardon?” he asked.

“What sort of soul did you want next?” Leire asked. “Surely you’ve thought about it. Perhaps another Form soul, to make you proof against bullets? Being a verifex might be useful as well.”

He stared at Leire’s image on the screen, her words not penetrating the disbelief blanketing his mind. Michael saw Spark’s sly smile, his promise to make Michael a man that history could not help but enshrine at its center.

“Is that your intent?” he asked. “To fatten me up, as Spark would have?”

Leire laughed. “Souls exist to be used,” she said. “And yours is a marvelous one, if you’re not lying through your teeth. You want to do good in the world, to help your Daressan friends? It can happen. You are already a force to be reckoned with, we can make you one beyond reckoning.”

Michael stared at the screen for a long moment, then stepped closer. “I have realized, over time, that I did not know Jeorg as well as I thought I did. I’ve often wished that there had been more time for me to learn about his past, and that we could have come here together.”

He took another step toward the screen, leaning down so it was at his eye level. “But now I’m glad he has the peace of oblivion rather than having to hear what you just said. He respected you, held you in esteem.” Michael’s voice caught; he glared at the screen with more than a little mirror-light flashing in his eyes.

“I will take no more souls, and if you attempt to force more upon me you will see the fullness of the ones I already bear.” He jabbed a finger at the screen. “Never. Do you hear me? Never.”

Leire regarded him through the screen for a long moment, then nodded her head. “I believe you,” she said, reaching her hand out of view once more. There was a buzz from the door, then a click; it drifted slowly open.

“What?” Michael asked, confusion intruding on his anger. “Just like that?”

A smile crept over her face once more. “I presume you were educated,” she said. “That you had your sums and the various intricacies of finance pressed upon you.”

Michael nodded cautiously at the non-sequitur, his eyes still tracking the door as it swung wide. “I did,” he said. “What of it?”

She leaned back. “You are the only person in the world who may use his soul to acquire more souls,” she said. “And like any learned person, I have a healthy fear of compound interest. Growth that fuels itself is dangerous no matter where it occurs. If you must halt such a process, it is best to do so early – before the cost becomes ruinous.”

Her meaning slid into Michael’s gut, chill and deadly. “So you mean to kill me,” he said.

“I would have,” she said, “if you had entertained my offer for even a moment. Since you did not, we will continue to speak on the subject. Tell me: does your ability require your will, a touch or a certain proximity to work?”

“None of those,” Michael replied, feeling somewhat lightheaded. Her rapid change in tone had done nothing to still the sudden pounding of his heart. “It only needs affinity.”

This time, Michael saw the expression on Leire’s face for what it was; surprise, then a carefully-schooled neutrality. When she spoke again, however, her voice was softer. “Ah,” she said. “I begin to understand your reticence.”

She leaned heavily on the desk, resting her chin on her hands – then shook her head. “It’s good to remember that all souls carry trials and power in equal measure,” she sighed. “I suppose even I can lose sight of that, from time to time.” She brought her gaze up to the screen once more. “Walk down the hall, and wait in the room beyond the door. Someone will bring you to your companions.”

She reached a hand over, then paused. “Don’t prove me wrong, Michael,” she said. “A few moments ago I had the chance to save the world. I’d like to think that I took it.” Her eyes crinkled in a small, rueful smile – then she moved her arm and the screen went dark once more.

Michael was left staring at his own reflection in the glass, a disheveled young man with untidy hair and a ragged scruff of beard. It was a far cry from the spectacle of Leire standing on her airship, beams of light lancing outward to lay waste to the Safid forces in the bay.

Yet – if they had spoken face-to-face, Michael was sure that he would have felt fear pulsing from Leire, as it did from everyone else no matter how they pushed it aside or papered it over with trust and friendship. Some animal recess of their minds knew Michael for what he was.

He wished his own mind was as perceptive.