The Malice (20 page)

Bruise shrugs. ‘Mousespawn or maybe birdspawn. Hard to say.’

For a moment, they all stare at the lizards.

‘I think they’re birdspawn,’ says Vesper, uncertain.

‘Really?’ replies Bruise.

The girl points. ‘I think I can see nubs on the back of the one on the left. Wings could grow from them.’

Duet’s sword slides back into its sheath. ‘I’m not eating that.’

Bruise takes one of the skewers. ‘More for us then.’

They eat in silence, Duet making no effort to disguise her dislike of the situation. Bruise assumes a nonchalant position, careful not to make eye contact.

Silver feathers ripple, restless, as if moved by an unpleasant dream. Vesper watches them, alternately chewing her lip and the unknown meat.

More footsteps approach the door and Bruise is grateful for the distraction. ‘At last,’ he mutters, getting up. Duet moves to one side of the door, the half-breed goes to the other. No love is exchanged between them.

Bruise’s face sours. ‘It isn’t him,’ he hisses. ‘Shit, it sounds like more than one of them. Knowing our luck, it’s marshals, or worse.’

Vesper hugs her knees. ‘What should we do?’

Duet raises her sword but Bruise shakes his head. ‘Do nothing. Say nothing. No noise at all. Got it?’

They all wait, bodies rigid, hardly daring to breathe.

The footsteps get closer, louder.

Right past the door they go, maintaining speed, growing quieter as they move on.

Bruise holds his hand up, counselling further silence.

They are so intent on the door that they do not see the kid reach his decision. Do not see him tense his hind legs.

Bruise lowers his hand and Vesper lets out a huge sigh. Even Duet relaxes a little.

The kid jumps.

The quarry has gone, the workers persuaded to go elsewhere. In its place is a large domed building, squatting next to an innocent patch of rock.

People gather outside it, a mix of men and women of varying ages, all hoping to be accepted. They have travelled from the far reaches of the world, from the Dagger States in the west and the Constructed Isles in the east. A few have been sent straight from the growth tubes, three dozen babies frozen inside square cases, presided over by sweating Genetechts.

All seek the master’s approval.

The gathering is something of an oddity, forcing an unlikely mix of social groups and designations. Conversation is strained by more than just nerves and all are grateful when the door finally opens.

Collectively, the group shows reverence, through inclinations of the head or body, by raising hands together, palms pressing.

The moment is solemn and dignified. A fitting greeting for their new master.

Massassi sticks her head outside and sweeps them all with a look. A single word is muttered, disparaging, and she withdraws again, closing the door with unnecessary violence.

For a moment the group remain as they are, then nervous looks are exchanged. An older man, uncomfortable in his ceremonial robes, scratches at his head. ‘Do you think this is a test?’

Another in the group speaks up, wearing almost identical robes. ‘No.’ It is the first time members of the Severed Nation have spoken civilly in nearly thirty years but both are too stunned to appreciate it.

‘But she said something. I’m sure I saw her lips move.’

The other man sits down on a rock, shaking his head. ‘She said: “Crap.”’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

The first man scratches his head some more. ‘But what do you think it means?’

‘It means,’ replies the second, his voice becoming shrill, ‘that we aren’t good enough.’

The two men sit together, joined in misery.

A young woman in a blue exo-suit strides past them, servos humming. ‘I didn’t come all this way to be turned down.’ Her boots make deep prints in the ground as she stamps her way towards the building.

Her clenched fist clangs impressively against the door.

There is a pause.

‘Open this door!’ she shouts, continuing to hammer.

The rest of the group creep back a few paces, underlining the fact that they do not stand together.

With a sudden jerk, the door opens, so fast that the woman cannot stop her hand rushing down towards Massassi’s head.

There is a flash of movement and a crunch as the blue fist is caught in a silver palm.

Massassi’s and the woman’s eyes meet.

The woman swallows in a throat suddenly dry.

‘I like you,’ says Massassi.

‘Th-thank you.’

‘Come.’

She leads the woman around the side of the building, still holding her hand, and points towards the empty rocks. ‘What do you see?’

‘Dust, rocks. A few hills.’

‘And?’

‘And … Is that a yellowback beetle?’

‘What else?’

Curved shoulder-plates droop. ‘I don’t see anything.’

Massassi lets go of her hand. ‘Didn’t think so.’

‘Wait! What do you see?’

Her eyes are drawn to a space several inches above ground level. ‘I see a micro-fracture in the skin of our world and the storm that’s going to tear it open.’ She begins to tilt forward, as if about to fall then checks herself, planting her feet, forcing her eyes down. ‘And that’s just the beginning.’

‘Can you stop it?’

‘Not alone.’

‘Then –’ she tilts her head, trying to catch Massassi’s eye ‘– let me help you.’

‘You’re not strong enough.’

‘Then teach me.’

‘Some things can’t be taught.’

The woman thinks for a moment. ‘They say you can make people do anything you want. Is that true?’

Massassi nods.

‘Then make me see as you do.’

Massassi frowns, then smiles. The idea had never occurred to her. ‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m ready,’ replies the woman, full of the confidence of youth.

In Massassi’s silver palm, an iris opens, bathing them both in brightness. She rests her hand on the woman’s chest, extending her energies slowly, memories of burst essence still fresh years later. The woman’s essence is stronger than most but even a dazzling firefly can vanish against the radiance of a star.

She wills the woman to be more than she is, charging her spirit, polishing, expanding.

They share a smile, blazing silver, and the light builds between them.

Too late, Massassi hears the screaming. The woman’s other face, the true one is growing, stretching like a picture on a balloon, at first merely increasing in size, but then distorting, pulling apart, burning.

An exo-suit clanks to the ground, smoke pouring from its joints.

Massassi staggers back, staring in horror at her hand. When she finally looks up, she sees the rest of the group are watching her.

Old anger quickly returns, hardening her face again. ‘Who’s next?’ she barks.

Nobody answers, except one young man, who retches noisily.

Her mouth curls in disgust and she takes a step forward.

They run without another word. A headdress and a sandal are left behind, along with thirty-six babies, frozen in square crystal.

Lips pressed together to stop them shaking, she picks up the first of the cryo-cases and carries it inside.

Essence lamps lend the room a green tinge and its occupants a sickly pallor. Tough Call, once rebel leader and now Verdigris’ chief official, hopes it is only a trick of the light. She has lost too many of her people to illness recently.

One by one, the leaders of Verdigris shuffle into the emergency meeting. Marshals Max and Maxi come first and flank her chair. Neither looks happy and she suspects that the fresh scabs on Max’s knuckles are connected. Next comes Ezze, the stripes on his tunic curving around his belly. Cavain joins them soon after, red tattoos looking like bloodstains in the alien light.

Tough Call makes a point of looking around. ‘Where are the others? Where’s Doctor Grains?’

Ezze pulls at his beard. ‘Having more of the fun than we are, yes?’

‘Shut up, Ezze.’

‘If I may,’ begins Cavain, clearing her throat. The woman irritates Tough Call, always seeming polite but never feeling so. ‘Doctor Grains apologises but he cannot attend.’

‘Did he say why?’

‘I’m afraid it’s the plague.’

‘Ha!’ booms Ezze. ‘Even the doctors are sick!’

‘Ezze,’ snaps Tough Call, ‘I refer you to my earlier comment.’

‘Many apologies, great leader.’

‘What about Snare and Galloway?’

Cavain raises a finger. ‘I’m afraid Galloway is sick also. I don’t know about Snare.’

‘Anyone else?’

Max bends down to her ear, his whispers carrying easily across the small chamber. ‘I heard he’s on the prowl tonight, boss.’

‘He’s an architect not a bird of prey. On the prowl for what?’

‘Dunno, boss.’

‘He’s supposed to be here.’

‘You want me to go find him?’

Tough Call brings her remaining fist down on the table. ‘What I want is for people to do their jobs!’ She takes a breath, consciously relaxes her hand. ‘No, I’ll deal with Snare later. What have you got for me, Cavain? Did Doctor Grains find anything useful about the plague before he fell ill?’

‘As you know, our medical supplies are a dwindling resource …’

‘Just the useful bits, Cavain, I’m well aware of how bad things are.’

‘Unfortunately, there has been no definitive progress on how the disease is transmitted and so far, none of the treatments have been effective in slowing or reversing the symptoms. Doctor Grains did note that those with partial tainting survived longer and that there have been no Usurperkin patients so far.’

‘Maxi? All of yours still healthy?’

‘Yes, boss, we’re all good. If it could get us, we’d know by now.’

‘Okay, anyone got any good news?’

But Tough Call notices Cavain has a finger raised, her manner imperious, her face a mask of patience. ‘Yes, what?’

‘Our stockpiles of grain are diminishing …’

‘The useful bits, Cavain.’

‘It happens that the new seeds we brought back from the wallstain are attracting new predators into the city. Some kind of bug. I fear they might have brought this new plague with them.’

‘Find out! Drag Doctor Grains off his deathbed, if you have to. This time tomorrow, I want answers. Now, any good news I can tell our people?’

Only Ezze’s smile lights the room, too-white teeth shining amid a sea of frowning faces. ‘The mother of my children started to cough the other day so perhaps Ezze has hope for new love! No? Too soon?’ His smile continues, undaunted. ‘Then there is only bad news. Trade is the blood of the city, yes? But you have closed the doors, blocked its flow. The people grow restless. It is not for Ezze that I worry, for Ezze is always prepared. But you must understand, great lady, that many live straight from the hand to the mouth. Trade must go on or they will starve.’

‘Get to the point.’

‘Tomorrow, the nomads and the caravans come. We must be letting them in.’

‘And expose them to the plague too? Out of the question.’

‘It is true, some may die. It is a gamble. But Ezze will take bad odds over no odds every time.’

‘No. There has to be another way.’

‘Ezze could arrange for a … ah how to say? A quieter market to be held outside the city. Ezze could buy the goods from our people and trade on their behalf with the others. Then everyone is happy!’

Tough Call has no illusions about Ezze’s motivations but her people need to eat. ‘Alright, make it happen.’

‘Ezze will need the help from those blessed with health and green skin. Perhaps Marshal Max and his many children could help poor Ezze with the lifting and moving?’

‘Maxi will go with you.’

‘Delightful!’ exclaims Ezze, his smile a shade dimmer than before.

‘Now get moving, the lot of you.’

They file out much faster than they arrived. Max pauses by the door, glances back. Tough Call watches the sweat weave its way down the creases in his forehead.

‘Well?’

‘I got some news, boss. Bad news.’

She beckons him closer. ‘Then keep your voice down, for suns’ sake.’

‘Right, boss.’ He squats down on his haunches in front of her but she still has to look up to meet his eyes. ‘My daughter, Jo-lee, opened the gates.’

‘What! When?’

‘Uh, just before I came here.’

‘I take it they’re shut again now.’ Max nods. ‘But?’

‘But she let some people in.’

‘Who?’

‘She don’t know. There were two of them, some kind of soldier and a girl carrying a sword that looked too big for her. Oh and they had a little pet goat with them.’

Tough Call is on her feet. ‘Was the soldier in armour?’

‘I think so. What’s wrong, boss?’

‘It’s the Malice, you idiot! The Malice is in my city and I bet I’m the last one on the council to know it.’

She makes for the door. ‘Meet me downstairs in twenty minutes with everyone you trust.’ Pausing, she turns back to the Usurperkin. ‘And Max, break out the weapons. The big ones.’

Remarkably, the kid is unharmed. He stands in an oasis of calm surrounded by chaos. Cheap crates have cracked easily, spilling their treasures. Fat beetle corpses glint like gemstones as they emerge into the light, a waterfall of insects, shrieking with voices of broken glass.

Bruise swears several times but the exact nature and colour of the oaths are lost in the cacophony. Vesper and Duet join him anyway.

The noise ends abruptly, leaving echoes to ring in their place, ear filling and awful.

Eventually, they too clear, allowing the sounds of the night back in. Girl, Harmonised and half-breed all strain to listen, hoping that the room has contained the worst of the disturbance.

A brief optimistic quiet is broken by the sound of footsteps returning, more careful this time.

Bruise goes a paler shade of purple.

Duet readies herself by the door.

The kid skips easily up the broken crates until he stands on the highest one, triumphant.

Someone knocks from the other side. ‘Open up.’

Vesper pushes one of the crates in front of it.

‘Open up, I say!’

Vesper grabs another but this one is too heavy for her to move alone. ‘Help me,’ she hisses at Bruise.

The half-breed’s face is a picture of incomprehension. ‘What’s the point?’

Duet keeps her eyes on the door. ‘Don’t make me come over there.’

Bruise is no stranger to threats, he assesses this one instantly and sets to work with uncommon vigour.

Knocking turns to pounding and soon the door shakes in its frame. Vesper and Bruise bolster it first with crates, then their own bodies.

The pounding gets stronger, more rhythmic. The strikes of a ram. Each jolt is felt through the door, through the barricade, through their shoulders. And yet, they hold.

The pounding stops. Voices are heard on the other side of the door, the unmistakable sounds of orders being given. A new noise begins, like a helicopter’s engine, high pitched and spinning and fast.

Unnoticed by the others, the sword on Vesper’s back twitches, an eye opening as if nudged awake.

‘Is there another way out?’ yells Vesper.

Bruise just looks at the floor.

‘Could we try talking to them?’ The question elicits a choked noise from the half-breed, part sob, part laugh.

‘Then what are we going to do?’

‘Save your breath,’ replies Duet, ‘for the fighting.’

Tough Call hefts the long tube onto her shoulder. Silvered scroll-work runs its length, beautiful symbols unread for more than a millennium. It has been twelve years since she last held it and unlike her, it hasn’t aged a day.

A squad of young Usurperkin stand with her, weapons appearing normal in their oversized hands. Several of them are smiling.

Max is still sweating and not from the exercise. ‘Bad news, boss.’

‘What now?’

‘I got the weapons like you said but some of them are missing.’

Her knuckles whiten around the launcher’s grip. ‘Someone broke in?’

‘Dunno boss. Nuthin’s broke. But they took some of our big guns.’

Before she has time to retort, they hear the sound of spitting metal, deep and fast.

Tough Call turns towards the sound. ‘That came from the north quarter. Go, go, go!’

Humming slugs of metal punch through the door, a swarm of singing death, shredding it and the crates behind. One goes through Bruise’s shoulder, another through his leg, tossing him across the room. Vesper barely has time to register the blockade disintegrating in front of her. The sword hums angrily on her back, a counter-note to the singing bullets, urging them away. But the sword is sheathed, its voice muffled. Bullets bend but not completely, stinging an ear, grazing a thigh. Vesper throws herself to the floor, arms and legs spread flat.

A few seconds later, the pain kicks in.

The kid wobbles on his collapsing perch, bleating and jumping clear.

Duet stays by the door, crouched low, waiting. Bullets chip away at the wall, inches from her head. She doesn’t move, body clenched in expectation of more injury. This time, she is lucky.

As quickly as it began, the gunfire stops, though the engine continues to whine in the background.

Through the shattered mess of the doorway, people come, hooded and darkly dressed. In their arms they heft guns that are too big for them, long nosed and elegant weapons of another age, meant for better things.

Two clamber over the wreckage, intent on Vesper and the sword at her back. One stays in the doorway, covering them.

Duet kills him first. Her blade flicks out, finding the spot just below his chin. Blood washes over his chest in a sudden gout.

Unaware that their comrade has fallen, the two men close in on the quivering girl. She tries to back away from them but they raise their weapons and she stops, defeated.

From their left comes an angry bleat, followed by the sound of a small head connecting with a knee, the knee buckles with an ugly crack. While one drops, screaming, the other swings round his gun to take revenge on the kid. Instead of a small animal, he is surprised to find Duet there instead, her sword arcing towards his face. Instinct alone saves him as he brings the weapon up.

Sparks fly and her sword lodges deep into the gun, sticking there.

Both try to pull their weapons free. Neither succeed.

The other man on the floor recovers quickly. He realises he has dropped his gun.

Vesper realises this, too.

They both grab for it, both get a hold. Vesper cannot compete with the man’s strength but she grips it tenaciously as the man tries to shake her off. Vesper’s teeth jangle against each other, her arms jerk angrily in their sockets, but she holds on.

The man changes tactic. He releases one hand and punches Vesper in the face.

The girl screeches, her grip loosens.

The man pulls back again but hears an angry bleat to his left. He turns to find the kid glaring at him, head tilted, rushing forward.

At the same moment, Duet’s visor bursts into light, stunning her opponent. He blinks at her, catching brief snapshots of her movements. Her left hand dropping. Blink. Returning, a knife jutting from it. Blink. Stabbing, down, stabbing down. Blink. Mercifully, he feels only the first of the three strikes.

The Harmonised whirls around to find the last man on his back clutching at a broken nose while the kid watches as if daring the man to sit up.

Duet finishes him quickly and returns to the doorway.

Vesper’s breath comes too fast and she begins to shake. She looks left, then right, then again, not really seeing. Finally her eyes settle on Bruise’s foot, flopping sadly out of some wreckage. The girl closes her eyes. She takes another breath, slower this time. She opens her eyes and stands up. Her legs still tremble but they manage to get her across the room.

Bruise is a crumpled mess. Blood oozes from his wounds and veins stand proud on his arms and chest, the juices inside them vibrating. His mouth moves but no words come.

‘Get down,’ shouts Duet. ‘We’ve got more coming.’

Legs suddenly weak, Vesper grabs at the wall for support. ‘How many?’

‘Too many.’

Max sets Tough Call down on the rooftop. She moves to the opposite edge and raises the long tube until the scope is level with her eyes. Through it she sees a cluster of figures fanning out, stalking towards a warehouse. They are hooded, dressed for stealth, unrecognisable. Their weapons however, are all too familiar.

On the opposite side of the street are three more men and a mounted gun, its barrel spinning with soft song. A relic from another age, a treasure.

Her treasure. Hers and Verdigris’, stolen.

‘Have your people ready to go on my signal.’ She makes a few adjustments to her aim, tracking slightly ahead of the group.

Max nods, signalling his marshals crouched in the alley below.

‘We giving them a warning, boss?’

‘No Max. They took our weapons and are using them against our city. We’re not going to give them a warning, we’re going to turn them into one.’ The silvery tube is light and she is strong but even so it is hard to aim steady with only one hand. Luckily for Tough Call, her weapon does not require pinpoint accuracy.

The shell fires, seeming to bulge slightly in the air, as if taking a breath.

It lands a little to the right of the group and slightly in front.