Liberator: The Gaia Machine, #3

By V.M. Andrews

Read the gripping conclusion to Ophelia's story

Convinced she is no longer safe in Spain; Ophelia makes a run for it with a group of activists and an intelligence officer whose intentions are unclear. Join their fight for survival against an army of two-meter-high spider-bots, followed by a perilous return to Paris where they face a fresh set of dangers. Watch them unite with the founders of the resistance and plot the destruction of The Gaia Machine to reveal the power brokers behind the digital curtain. With nothing left to lose, our heroes are more determined than ever to succeed. But success, they learn, is not what they expected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Opal Tree Press
• Release date: May 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739658120

V.M. Andrews

Despite being armed with science and business degrees, V.M. Andrews has always known that her true passion is creative writing. She has often been told this makes her a ‘well-rounded individual’ which she interprets as ‘boring’ so she lives vicariously through her characters. The key themes explored in her books are artificial intelligence, genetic engineering, climate change and reproductive technologies. Her narrative is fast-paced and imaginative with surprising plot twists and character epiphanies.

Book preview

1. Still a fugitive

The mere thought of being interrogated by the Tarragona Police had evoked in Ophelia memories of her abduction and imprisonment at the hands of the Sentinels. It was an experience she simply could not re-live so she knew she had done the right thing by escaping with Liana. The downside had been saying goodbye to Nina but she consoled herself with her belief that Nina was on the road to recovery. And the fact that Nina had made her promise she would take down the evil empire behind the surrogacy trade had suggested the young woman was filled with a passion for revenge which was better than her previously incoherent state.

Sitting in Liana’s archaic vehicle now and listening to the strange sound of the rubber moving across the road, Ophelia felt the exhilaration and terror of being a fugitive on the run. Her heart was pounding, her gut was clenching, her palms were sweating and she felt a desperate need to be as far away from the Tarragona Police as possible. If she could have run faster than the vehicle, she would have jumped out and run. It was not until they were on the highway, and surrounded by mountains, that she started to relax.

‘I need to tell you something,’ said Liana.

‘Yes?’

‘I am part of a small group of people in Tarragona who are connected to a larger network of people just like us,’ said Liana.

She spat out the words as though she had just confessed to a crime she had committed decades ago and had been losing sleep over, ever since.

‘People like us?’ Ophelia echoed. ‘What does that mean?’

‘People who want to put an end to the surrogacy trade,’ Liana replied.

‘Considering you facilitate a support group for the families of traumatized surrogates, I am not surprised,’ said Ophelia.

‘It goes deeper than that,’ Liana said, glancing in the rear-view mirror. ‘There is a smaller group of people who are committed to taking action to dismantle the trade.’

‘Good,’ said Ophelia. ‘Where are these people?’

‘Scattered throughout Spain, Portugal, France and Greece,’ Liana replied. ‘But the entire network is coordinated by a couple in Paris.’

Ophelia felt herself smile as she thought of her Parisian friends, Emilie and Philippe Trudeau. It had only been a few days since she had left their home to accompany Nina to Tarragona, but it felt like so much longer.

‘Do you know the names of these people in Paris?’ she asked.

‘Emilie and Philippe Trudeau,’ Liana replied.

Ophelia sighed with relief.

‘I know them, too,’ she said, smiling. ‘Nina and I stayed with them for a few days before traveling down to Tarragona.’

‘That is wonderful,’ said Liana. ‘I have never met them but have seen recordings of meetings they have held in their home. Every recording fills me with a bit more hope.’

‘When did you last see one?’ Ophelia asked.

‘About two weeks ago,’ Liana replied.

Ophelia knew that was before her time with Emilie and Philippe, which meant Liana would not have seen the recordings that she, herself, had made.

‘We have been feeling concerned about the lack of communication from Emilie and Philippe in recent weeks,’ Liana continued. ‘We decided to travel up to Paris in the hope we can connect with them.’

Ophelia could not imagine how Liana would find Emilie and Philippe without their address. And she could not imagine Emilie and Philippe providing it to anyone outside their immediate circle of trusted friends and accomplices. Which made her wonder if Liana was in Emilie and Philippe’s circle of the trusted few. She had to know for sure.

‘Who do you mean by we?’ she asked.

‘Sorry, I should have explained,’ Liana replied. ‘There is a group of about 30 people from Spain who have been receiving communications from Emilie and Philippe.’

‘Did Emilie and Philippe provide their address to those people?’ Ophelia asked.

‘Not that I am aware of,’ Liana replied.

‘So, among the 1 million people living in Paris, are you expecting to simply bump into Emilie and Philippe?’ Ophelia asked.

Liana’s face flushed and she cleared her throat before responding.

‘We were hoping you would introduce us,’ she said.

Ophelia felt as though she had just stumbled over a tripwire and landed on her face.

‘So, let me get this straight,’ she said. ‘One hour ago you convinced me I was not safe in Tarragona and had to leave immediately. Now you are driving me to your home where you will introduce me to 30 people with whom I will travel to Paris and introduce to Emilie and Philippe - an arrangement that has not been agreed by them or me. Is that correct?’

‘It sounds terrible when you say it like that,’ said Liana.

‘Is there another way for me to say it?’ Ophelia asked.

Liana sighed.

‘We had planned to travel up to Paris tomorrow, regardless, on the slim chance we could tap into a comms signal from Emilie and Philippe,’ Liana explained. ‘It was also a good excuse to get out of Spain for a while.’

‘And you pulled me into the plan at the last minute without my consent?’ Ophelia asked.

Liana gave Ophelia a nervous smile.

‘Please do not be offended,’ she said. ‘When I heard you speak at the meeting yesterday, Ophelia, I knew we needed you with us.’

‘Why didn’t you just ask me?’ Ophelia asked.

Liana sighed.

‘Please do not get the impression that I am dishonest,’ she said. ‘It is just that … oh, how can I say this … living here, amongst all the police brutality, one learns to be quite circumspect about things.’

Ophelia had always shuddered upon hearing the word circumspect. In her experience, it was a behavior that usually led to confusion, mistrust and missed opportunities.

‘The police enjoy any opportunity to interrogate anyone for any reason,’ Liana continued. ‘And they would have plenty of reason to interrogate you, Ophelia, given your status as a fugitive.’

Fugitive was another word that made Ophelia uncomfortable. And if that was not enough to set her on edge, she saw Liana glance in the rear-view mirror again.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ she said. ‘Is someone following us?’

‘What? No!’ Liana replied.

‘Then why do you keep looking in that mirror?’ Ophelia demanded.

‘I’m checking my hair!’

2. Bots and lasers

‘We are entering Montblanc, now,’ said Liana.

Looking down the mountain, Ophelia saw the remains of a forest. It was no more than brown dirt and gray sticks; a stark contrast against the vibrant blue sky. Then she saw a sign for the village of Rojals.

Liana used the stick beside her steering wheel to slow the vehicle; an action Ophelia found bizarre. It was strange enough that these people gripped a steering wheel to control their vehicles, but the stick thing was beyond quirky.

She stared at the rows of rustic sandstone buildings and gray-stone buildings around which the village of Rojals seemed to be built. It was not unlike the Cotswolds, she decided.

‘It’s very pretty,’ she said.

Exiting the village, Liana accelerated again, as though tackling the mountainous incline with defiance. At the peak of the mountain, she veered off the main road then descended a narrow dirt track. Straight ahead, Ophelia could see a strange but beautiful house on a vast property. And as they got closer, she saw several cars parked along the circular driveway.

‘Some of our guests are early,’ said Liana, switching off the engine.

‘I’m not surprised. It’s a lovely place,’ Ophelia said. ‘Is it old?’

‘It was a barn, about 300 years ago,’ Liana replied. ‘But it is our home now.’

When Ophelia stepped inside, she found herself in a huge open space, perhaps 20 times the size of Nina’s apartment. There were no walls separating the kitchen, dining area and lounge area. It was just one big, beautiful, uncluttered space. The opposing wall was glass, from floor to ceiling, drawing Ophelia’s attention to the lush green crops.

‘Is that a vineyard?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Liana replied. ‘We are producing some good grapes, too.’

A bot, about Ophelia’s height, rolled toward them, holding a tray with two glasses of water upon it.

‘Ophelia, this is our w8r,’ said Liana.

‘Welcome, Ophelia,’ said the w8r.

Ophelia took a glass and gulped the fresh, cold water.

‘I’ve never seen so many plants in one place!’ she said. ‘How do you get enough water to irrigate them?’

‘We have a special license to receive desalinated water from the ocean,’ Liana replied, smiling.

‘Wow, that’s incredible.’

‘And expensive!’ Liana said. ‘I will take you on a tour later this evening when it cools down. But for now, let me show you to your room.’

Ophelia followed Liana down a long white hallway with exposed beams the color of over-ripe plums. A strip of glass in the ceiling allowed the sunlight to shine upon the paintings that adorned the walls. Intrigued, Ophelia touched one.

‘No!’ said Liana. ‘It might be wet!’

Ophelia felt like an idiot as soon as she felt the sticky residue on her fingertips.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I had a feeling it might be real, but my curiosity got the better of me.’

‘My husband, Diego, is an oil painter,’ Liana replied.

Ophelia was even more intrigued, now. She had never met anyone who made real art or real music or real literature. Everyone in her circle of friends simply threw bits of data at The Gaia Machine and told it to make them something interesting. The creation of real art, as far as Ophelia was aware,