The Malice (26 page)

A war rages across the world. On the one side is Massassi and her converts, the growing subjects of a new Empire. On the other, everyone else.

It is hard to know which side will prevail. The numbers are too evenly weighted. While her enemies hole up in their bunkers, secure in rings of steel, she feels precious time ticking away. Because of this, she has made her commanders take risks, pushing forward where caution would be better.

The enemy’s news-feeds describe her as mad, a power-crazed dictator with no plan save her own glorification. Her own describe her as a living god.

Massassi sits in a chair suspended high, projected screens forming a globe of lights around it. The globe is divided into sections, each displaying a different stream of data: news both international and local, business reports, updates on production targets, troop distribution, losses and gains, financial and mortal. She lets them wash over her, the globe rotating, twisting to display fresh information as it arrives.

Her left hand rests over the arm of the chair, index and middle finger straight out. They point at a screen, fixing it in position despite the globe’s movement.

This last screen shows her base in the far south. The place where the Breach lies. Ordinary cameras cannot detect the Breach and so the screen shows only landscape, unremarkable. She watches it anyway, finding the image soothing. Sometimes her charges move into view. Peace-Eleven and Quiet-Five can be seen, chatting idly as they stand watch. Massassi marvels at how tall the children have become. Time moves ever faster, out-pacing her and her plans.

The seat she has taken once belonged to the man that owned her. Or more precisely, the man that owned the parent company of the company that owned the supervisor that owned her. Despite the stresses and troubles she takes a moment to enjoy the reversal of fortunes.

The thought occurs that she could make changes to the current society: lessen restrictions, broaden horizons. Perhaps if her birth and subsequent education had been different, she would have been happier. Perhaps she could change things for the countless souls toiling blind in the factories.

But then she looks at the screen, thinks of the Breach and all other considerations vanish. Let another worry about the shape of the future. Her concern, her only concern is to ensure that humanity has one.

With that in mind she considers her options.

She sees the progress of the war told in a series of numbers. If she could get to their leaders, she could end the fighting in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, the enemy is well aware of the danger she represents even if they do not understand it. Her face is known to every soldier, plastered across HUD’s along with a kill order.

Besides, she is too important to risk. And so she hides like her enemies, sinking to their level, relying on conventional troops and Warmechs to fight her battles.

Some gambles have paid off better than others but overall the numbers are clear that the price is too high to keep paying.

Massassi is not sure how long she has before the Breach erupts, but her estimates suggest anywhere between five and twenty years. Whatever the cost, humanity has to be united before then.

Of course there are always other options, weapons that will be of little use against the coming infernals but devastating to her enemies. Both sides have them but such things are never actually considered, never placed on the menu.

The idea comes and with it the implications, the burdens that will have to be shouldered. Memories of those she has killed surface: her supervisor, her doctor, the ones that came hunting, the supplicants that came to her in good faith, to learn. And then the others, killed on her orders or while following them. Each one burns her a little. She wonders what it will feel like to have whole nations on her conscience.

Massassi clenches her metal fist, calls up the specs of the worst warheads at her disposal. Their designations are surprisingly bland. The RAN Series TK-209. The GANT Series ED-241. Payload, blast radius, fallout range, estimates for soil recovery. Numbers. Just numbers.

When she gives the order, none of her command staff object, none are capable. The missiles are prepped, codes are given by all required and, minutes after the decision is made, confirmation is given of a successful launch.

While she tracks their progress on the screen, the lone figure entering the room goes unnoticed. Under normal circumstances she would sense their intent, read it in the light of their true face. But these are not normal circumstances. She sees neither their face or the gun they carry.

Shocked broadcasts fill the news feeds, all images showing the missiles streaking towards their destinations. The enemy launches countermeasures, and Massassi watches, mesmerised, wondering what the numbers will have to say when it is all over.

The gun is high-powered. A sniper rifle able to punch through tanks from several miles distant. The figure aims it at Massassi. If she were able to see her attacker, she would appreciate how in tune their feelings and actions were, would admire their commitment, would even feel a certain kinship.

The gun fires three times with a pause between each shot for recalibration. Each blast goes through the globe of screens, through the chair, through Massassi’s back and out her front, through the other side of the globe and through the outer wall of the room, out of sight.

Massassi bucks in the chair three times, held in place by the straps. Her shocked eyes remain fixed on the one screen not showing the missiles. As before, there is nothing of note. Unaware they are being watched remotely, Peace-Eleven tells Quiet-Three a joke.

Quiet-Three laughs.

The missiles reach their destination.

Massassi’s eyes close.

Impact.

They take a wide berth around New Horizon, doing their best to stay away from the infernals hunting its perimeter. Vesper often turns her head towards the distant city as they pass by, drawn by the bizarre mix of lights, by the way some flicker and the many shadows they cast.

Jem walks alongside, starved limbs struggling to match her brisk pace. ‘Doesn’t look too bad, does it?’ he says, short of breath. ‘Trust me, it gets uglier the closer you get.’

‘I wanted to see inside.’

‘You don’t. You really don’t.’

‘But I do.’

‘Even after everything I told you?’

‘No, because of what you told me. I feel like I need to see it for myself.’

‘You’re weird.’

She looks at him. ‘I know.’

Scout races past. Scout races back again, alternating between running circles around Samael at the back of the group and rushing ahead. Jem wishes he had an ounce of the Dogspawn’s energy.

It is a small consolation to see that Duet also struggles, though the Harmonised does her best to hide it. Jem takes what small pleasures he can, when he can.

As the last light of the day leaves them, Vesper falls back to walk with Samael, and Jem slows a little too, curious to listen in.

‘Are we still being followed?’

‘Yes.’

Gutterface follows, not running but keeping faster pace than its human prey. It is content to let the chase run long and mortal muscles grow weak before the fight.

It closes in on them over the night, by inches, drawn out, agonising.

Duet stops and leans forward, hands resting on thighs. ‘Enough … We stand here.’

‘Are we far enough from New Horizon?’ asks Vesper.

‘Don’t care … Any further … and I’ll have nothing left to fight with.’

They prepare themselves as best they can. Duet catches her breath, stretches aching muscles, draws her sword. Jem sits on the floor shivering with fear and cold. Vesper wraps a blanket over razor thin shoulders and helps him to drink. Samael just waits, a metal statue, Scout sat by his feet.

With the need for stealth gone, a diamond of light shines from Duet’s visor, allowing the approaching infernal to be seen in all its glory.

It is twelve foot tall, its skin dry and green, curling leather riddled with cracks, held together with dirty staples. Only loosely attached, Gutterface’s skin slides over its frame with each step so that when it turns to the left, it briefly appears to be doing the opposite.

Behind it come a small army of infernals. Countless sparks of spite held in the bodies of mutated birds, rodents and children. They scurry wide, hugging shadows, waiting for a chance to cause mischief.

Samael moves to meet the big infernal head-on, Scout flanking on one side, Duet on the other.

Gutterface comes on, unafraid, on a path that will take it directly through Samael’s position to where Vesper stands.

Duet prepares herself, waiting for an opening.

Scout tenses, ready to leap.

The infernal’s eyes are hidden beneath folds of saggy skin. Its mouth just another of the many creases in what passes for a face. There is no expression there, no acknowledgement of the attackers.

When it steps into range, Samael swings for the head.

Immediately, impossibly fast, arms come up, knocking the blow aside with ease. Gutterface continues to advance, stride unbroken.

A normal man would be unbalanced but Samael is no normal man. His fingers stay firm on the hilt as he steps back, creating room for another attack.

Scout leaps forward this time, jaws closing around an ankle. On the other side, Duet rushes in, swinging for a knee.

Blade and teeth find their mark, slicing through old skin, meeting a wall of thick flesh, sinking in, stopping fast. An abundance of meat clusters around Gutterface’s bones, protective.

Again, Samael attacks, is fended off, gives ground.

Gutterface drives on, dragging a Dogspawn behind it.

Duet grabs her sword in both hands and tries to pull it free but her blade barely moves. Heels fail to dig in and she slides along behind the infernal. Next to her, Scout has a similar struggle, four legs faring little better than two.

And then, with a sudden screech, Gutterface’s children attack, throwing themselves at Duet and Scout.

The Dogspawn reacts first, releasing Gutterface from his jaws and whirling towards the new threats, snapping at them, trying to hold them at bay. Duet is not so lucky. They grab at her, attaching themselves to legs and arms, screeching and clawing, trying to find a way through her armour. Leaving her blade in Gutterface’s flesh, she tries to shrug them off but there are too many. For each one she dislodges, two more jump on and soon the Harmonised is folding under their weight.

As the gap between Gutterface and Vesper closes, Jem tries to stand and falls back with a cry. Fear can only push you so far, and his body is weak, a fever threatening. There is no flight left in him.

The kid more than makes up for his failings, rushing into the night without a backwards glance.

A sick feeling settles in Vesper’s stomach as Samael attacks for a third time. Before his blade can connect, Gutterface sweeps him aside with long arms, launching the half-breed into the air for a brief and ugly flight.

Behind Gutterface, she hears Duet cry out she as she is dragged to the ground. There is a chorus of laughter and then jostling as the tiny infernals swarm over her.

It is tempting to run with the kid. There are many reasons why Vesper should not put herself in harm’s way. She thinks about them as she steps between Jem and Gutterface.

Vesper looks to her shoulder, eyes locking with the sword’s. She sees the usual rage there but something else too, a need. Seemingly of its own accord, her right hand lets go of silver feathers and hovers over the hilt.

It waits for her, glaring, silently imploring to be used. Every instinct warns against making contact. Her father used the sword once and it did something to him. Something terrible. What would it do to her? Her hand begins to shake.

Gutterface looms before her, a silent giant.

She grabs the hilt.

Takes a breath.

And draws the sword.

Free, the sword roars defiance. Vesper tries to sing with it, to give direction but is unprepared for the force of its anger. Her voice is small, untrained, easily drowned out. Sound explodes in all directions, stunning, sparking briefly in the air.

Samael rocks where he lays, as if moved by an invisible hand. Scout cowers away, whining, while the gaggle of lesser infernals cry out, running away as their shells begin to smoke.

For a moment, Gutterface pauses, fundamentally shocked by the waves of rage rippling outward. Instinctively, it retreats deeper into its shell, pulling essence back. But it is only a reflex and one quickly mastered. For alone, the Malice cannot penetrate its defences. Alone its song is not enough to destroy.

Shock marks Vesper’s face, her mouth remains open but makes no noise. Her first encounter with the sword leaving eyes glazed, vacant. The sword continues to vibrate, angry, in her hand.

Meanwhile, Gutterface flows back into its extremities, refilling its vast shell. In total it has only been inactive for a few seconds. Long enough for Duet to get up and move round, leaping at Gutterface feet first.

Together, her boots connect with its kneecap, slapping loose skin against wet meat, forcing the hinge of bone too far the wrong way. There is a dulled crack and Gutterface falls sideways.

Samuel and Scout rise together, though the Dogspawn seems shaken, its head lolling, drunk. Both seem braced against an alien wind.

Vesper comes to her senses. She sheathes the sword, ignoring the reprisal in its eye, and helps Jem to stand. ‘Come on!’ she urges, half lifting, half dragging him away.

Duet pulls her blade free from Gutterface’s knee and jumps back as the broken limb stabs at her. ‘We should finish it now!’

‘No,’ replies Samael. ‘More are coming.’

‘Damn!’ She kicks the stunned infernal once anyway, for good measure, and then runs after the others.

For miles around, the Malice is felt. In the gutters of New Horizon, lesser infernals screech in fear, the Demagogue wobbles uncertainly in its bowl and, on the city’s outskirts, hunters freeze and turn towards the sound. Most find themselves going in the opposite direction.

Not far away, the mob known as Gutterface’s children run until they meet up with reinforcements, doubling numbers. Even so, they continue to wail, intent on fleeing all the way to New Horizon. It is only when the new arrivals direct puzzled looks to the old ones that Gutterface’s children realise the Malice has been silent for some time now. There is an awkward pause, then screams trail off. They exchange looks, guilty, before rushing back to see what has become of their master.

It is already standing when they arrive, though one leg juts out awkwardly, wobbling under the weight.

Before they can shout or climb over Gutterface’s craggy body, it raises an arm, pointing after their prey.

If they can remember their recent fear, it does not show, and, with a delighted whoop, they scurry into the night to hunt.

Samael carries Jem in his arms. He does not like the way the man shakes, or the pale tinge his essence has taken. Rest is needed and good food, taken in small quantities. Instead, there is travel and further exposure to the elements.

Exertions take their toll on Duet as well. She lags behind the others, labouring and angry at herself for not being more. Muttered words make a lash to drive her on.

Vesper catches the odd phrase and bites her lip. On her back, the sword’s hum is constant. No special sensitivity is needed to know why.

Gutterface is coming. Picking up the chase again. Its children screech and laugh and shout, the sounds sailing easily across open ground. A horde of infernals, too many to fight.

They press on, aware that their pursuers are gaining, the noises behind growing in excitement.

The night presses in around them, playing tricks on human eyes. Rocks ambush toes, tripping, holes in the ground catch unwary feet. Vesper holds Duet’s hand, the two wobbling often but staying upright. The kid scampers alongside, mocking them with his grace.

A new smell cuts through the dark, grim, rotten, stirring the stomach.

‘What is that?’ asks Vesper, one arm across her face.

Samael’s voice is quiet, hard to hear against the mob behind them. ‘We are on the outskirts of the Fallen Palace.’

Hard earth becomes moist, squelching underfoot. Quickly, each step sinks down, forcing boots to be pulled free from the sucking, lusty swamp.

Scout begins to growl and immediately Samael stops.

Vesper bumps into his armoured back. ‘What is it?’

‘Put on your light, see for yourself.’

Duet obliges, the beam from her visor illuminating grey mud and finger thick shoots. There are ripples on the surface where shy creatures were but moments ago, and reflected glints, winking where the beam meets a pair of eyes peeking over the surface of the water. As the light travels, it finds more eyes, tucked low within the swamp. Each pair belongs to a half-breed.

As one, the half-breeds rise from their positions, making a fleshy fence that bars the way ahead. The half-breeds are a motley collection, a mix of mutations, of misplaced organs and duplicate limbs. Despite this, three things unite them: none are tall, all have a bright mark on their person, identifying the piece that will be given to their master when they die, and all of them are old by the standards of the Fallen Palace.

By contrast, the single Usurperkin that moves in behind them is huge, a moving tower of rippling muscle. On its shoulders sits the Backwards Child. A girl’s body, perfectly preserved save for the neck which twists round too far, always facing the wrong way. A wave of hair cascades down her front, spilling over bent knees to cover the Usurperkin’s face.

In truth, the Usurperkin is but an extension of the Backwards Child’s shell, the two bodies fused together to make a space big enough to contain the infernal’s essence but most forget, treating the child’s body as the one in charge.

Vesper looks at the forces arrayed in front of her, doesn’t need to look at the forces hot on her heels. She looks at the sword. An eye looks back.

The sword wants to be used. Perhaps together, they would have a chance.

For a moment, she hesitates. What if she tries to use the sword’s power and fails to control it. But what cost is there in doing nothing?

She closes her eyes, commits.

Her hand reaches up to her shoulder.

Silvered wings stretch in anticipation.

And Samael’s voice cuts in, surprisingly close: ‘Hold.’

Vesper blinks, her fingertips tingling less than an inch from the hilt. ‘What?’

‘I will share myself with the Backwards Child. If it is not part of the Demagogue’s alliance, it will wish to know what I know.’

‘And if it is one of the Demagogue’s creatures?’

Samael offers Jem’s body, Vesper and Duet taking him between them. ‘Then you should use the Malice.’

The first of Gutterface’s children arrive. The small infernals are slowed considerably by the fetid terrain, sinking to their chests, but their enthusiasm powers them on, only flagging when they realise Gutterface is still far behind them.

On impulse, Samael takes out his sword and salutes Vesper.

She forces herself to smile, despite the fear. ‘Good luck.’

He nods, moving purposefully towards the Backwards Child and its followers. He sheathes his sword and pulls off his helmet, sliding his long hair carefully through it.

The nearest half-breeds step aside for him and he walks around the Backwards Child until he stands behind it. The girl’s body leans back, head bending towards his, eyes intent.

He rests his hands on the Usurperkin’s shoulder blades and stands on tiptoes.

One leaning on the other, awkward, their heads come close. The Backwards Child opens the girl’s mouth and licks at Samael’s eye.

Essences touch and the physical world drops away.

There is always danger when essences meet, the chance that one will overwhelm the other or that ideas will cross over like infections, or worse, that identities will be altered, becoming watered down versions of each other. Samael has touched the Man-shape’s essence often but this is different. The Man-shape is the epitome of control, able to hold back its true power, to touch delicately. The Backwards Child is alien, poorly understood even by its fellow infernals. Samael feels the strangeness like a vortex, pulling at his weak sense of self.