The Malice (6 page)

The noise outside is louder, closer.

Genner’s face appears at the broken wall; it does not flicker at the sight of the bodies. ‘Report.’

‘The sword –’

‘– And the bearer –’

‘– Are intact.’

Genner nods. ‘And you?’

‘We are –’ There is a beat, barely noticeable as one glances towards her battered counterpart.

‘– We are fine.’

Whatever else Genner might say is superseded by the floor starting to shake. ‘Move!’ he shouts, pointing towards the door opposite. ‘Move now!’

Vesper and her escort run, weaving through houses, forcing doors with boots and cannon, trampling on privacy, bursting onto streets again. Soldiers move in packs around her, protective. Light bombs and smoke canisters are deployed often, signalling location but obscuring individuals.

The roar of the enemy is close now. But the Crawler Tanks cannot reach them easily. Each time the group change direction they gain a little time while tanks force their bulk through too-small gaps. Great cannons fire on them anyway, trying their luck. Shells arc over rooftops, decimating homes, obliterating a pair of unlucky squires. New holes appear in the roads, some so deep that water breaks through in hissing streams.

Tanks stop and men and women, armed for war, spring from their metal bellies. On fresh legs they give chase, magenta shapes cutting stark through swirling grey.

Vesper runs in the eye of the storm, surrounded by guardians arrayed in concentric circles. Soldiers form the outermost, followed by squires, then knights and, finally, Duet, who orbits her like a pair of angry bees. Her wide eyes cannot see far and her brain doesn’t bother trying to process the madness. Thoughts recede, tucked away under a blanket of adrenaline.

Sometimes Duet is close, pulling her unpredictably, sometimes the Harmonised abandons her for a few frightening seconds, swords dancing over and around one another, spearing smoke, snipping the legs from would-be assailants. They pause by a cluster of bins, crouching, then running, turning, turning again. Perspective and direction are lost, abandoned with the bodies of the fallen.

Up ahead, the enemy cobbles together a barricade. Portable generators power panels of solid light, springing up across the street. But such relics grow rare and there are not enough to seal the way on. More low-tech means are used to make up the shortfall, chairs and cabinets thrown on their faces and piled into the gaps.

Genner raises his hand and, immediately, his forces pause. Sub-vocalised orders come through to every ear. ‘They’re trying to funnel us towards the Tradeway and those Crawlers. Attack! Punch through the barrier.’

Soldiers comply without question, surging forward into open ground.

The enemy have inferior weapons and nobody with knightly training, but there are more of them and they are not in a rush.

Using the last of their grenades, Genner’s forces rush across the space. For such a short distance the tax is high, paid in bravery and blood.

Bullets spray, continuous. In the open, skill and experience mean little, knights and squires falling alike.

Vesper sees the people thinning around her, sheared away one by one. She has time to think that she may die, to marvel that she lives, to be certain the next step is her last.

And then they reach the barricade.

Swords sing, metal sparking on barriers, song penetrating. Generators overload and a panel of light vanishes. With it goes the courage of the defenders. Most run, making targets of their backs. A few, more foolish, surrender. While the knights decimate what’s left, opportunistic squires swipe portable defences. Two minutes later, the group moves again.

Behind, tanks continue to threaten and foot-soldiers harry, but ahead, the way is clear. High rocks loom ever higher until, at last, they reach the natural border of the island. Huge power generators nestle into the rock, taking energy from the sea and passing it to the Harmonium Forge, housed in a great block of silver. Genner leads his people to the wall it makes, taking cover between the humming metal pillars.

‘Set up a barrier,’ he orders. ‘Let’s hope their power supply is more important to them than killing us.’

Squires comply, using the stolen Light Shields to create a curving fourth wall.

Two hundred metres away, a building falls over and four tanks lumber into view. Squads of soldiers march alongside.

Collectively, Genner’s troops hold their breath.

There is a pause, filled by heartbeats, fast, excitable.

The roar of the Crawler’s engines becomes a grumble. Cannons power down.

Collectively, the troops exhale.

Genner quickly gives orders. Shifts are divided. Some take watch, some tend to the injured. The lucky ones rest.

Satisfied, he turns his attention to Vesper. She appears somewhere between shock and despair. Duet stands close by, one of her standing next to the girl while the other lies back, allowing a field medic to attend to her injuries. The medic holds a magnet over her chest and Genner watches as metal shards leap up from her wounds, one by one, like tinkling rain.

‘Vesper, we’re at a crossroads here. It may be that support will arrive in time, it may be that it doesn’t. I want to know if Gamma has any commands for us. Has the sword spoken to you?’

Vesper blinks, comes back to the world.

‘I said, has the sword spoken to you?’

‘Once, I think. Back at home. It called me and it … it’s hard to put into words.’

‘Do you think you could speak to it again, now?’

She looks down at her hands, mesmerised by their trembling. ‘No.’

Genner turns his attention to the Harmonised. ‘Did you stim her?’

From the ground, Duet speaks: ‘We were interrupted.’

Then from Vesper’s side she adds, ‘And we thought –’

‘– Purity would –’

‘– Be better –’

‘In the presence of –’

‘– The Seven.’

Heat rises in Genner’s cheeks. ‘At this point we don’t have anything to lose. Stim her now. I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.’ He looks pointedly into Vesper’s eyes. ‘Hurry, we don’t have long.’ The girl nods, her face white under the dirt. Genner glances back to Duet. ‘And just so we’re clear: if we survive this, your inability to follow simple orders is going to be a special feature of my report.’

Duet salutes. She waits until his back is turned to glare. Without ceremony, she produces a needle and punches it into Vesper’s arm.

‘Ow!’

The noise causes several heads to snap round in her direction.

‘Sorry.’

Powerful drugs suppress shock, bringing the makeshift camp into sudden focus. Vesper looks at the field medic applying a new layer of Skyn to Duet’s injury. She looks at the soldiers lying on the ground and the eyes that flick away when she tries to meet them. ‘I … I need some privacy.’

‘This is –’

‘– As good –’

‘– As it gets.’

‘Okay. Can you at least turn away?’

Duet complies, one of her sighing pointedly.

Vesper nods and unwraps the sword, lays it down carefully and takes a deep breath. ‘Winged Eye save us, protect us, deliver us.’ The sword is as still as it ever was. Vesper bends over it, until her lips are inches away. Fine hairs stand up on her neck and arms. ‘Hello,’ she whispers. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should never have taken you and I know you didn’t ask for any of this, but we really, really need you. Please. I don’t want any more people to get hurt. I don’t want any more blood.’ A memory brings a sudden shudder with it. ‘If they attack again, we’ll all die and there won’t be anybody to …’ She trails off, unsure. ‘To take you to the Breach.’

She waits, intent on the sword, and time seems to stretch. She stares so hard she forgets to blink. Vision blurs, suggesting movement where there is none. But then, finally, there is something. Not the wings, but something beneath them, as if the eye behind were moving beneath the lid, restless.

The girl dares not speak. She sees a second movement: something is disturbing the sword.

Genner’s voice, suddenly close, makes Vesper jump. ‘How’s she doing?’

‘Nothing yet –’

‘– But she is getting there –’

‘– Slowly.’

‘Well, she’d better get a move on for all our sakes. We’ve got incoming sky-ships, known hostiles. The First is on its way.’

*

Three sky-ships spiral into Sonorous. Engines rotate as they glide to a halt in the air, hovering outside the great watchtower.

Worried faces peer out from windows, nobody daring to move until the ships have finished their leisurely descent.

Thirty feet above the Tradeway, a door in the lead sky-ship’s side opens and figures tip out. A line of black dominoes, blank, spotless, falling.

Loose fabric ripples in the wind like water, flowing from outstretched arms.

A pause, not quite two seconds, then stones crack under boots, armoured and black. A cloak settles.

The First straightens, steps forward.

A second later, not quite two, another figure, identically dressed, lands behind it. Gestures are copied, they land, straighten, step forward, following their leader as the next one lands.

Fourteen times, the sequence repeats, exact, as if time was stuttering, caught in a loop. With each one, the cracks in the stones expand.

They walk together through empty streets, following the trail of destruction.

The First stops by an ash pile, slowly scattering in the breeze. It shakes its head, the others behind mirroring the gesture, then moves on.

Above them, three sky-ships wait.

None of the figures carry weapons, though all wear protective clothing, covered from head to toe in lightweight armour, featureless. This adds to the illusion that they are identical. However, there are differences in height, weight, gender and age. In other circumstances they would dress differently too, perhaps favouring the clothes and mannerisms of their original selves. But when the First calls them, awakening the sleeping essence in their bodies, their masks of humanity fall away, irrelevant.

Several times they pause on their journey, distracted by the shape of a broken building, or a bed half hanging through a ceiling. Sometimes the First stops by a body to close its eyes, sometimes it stops to open them. For not everyone has died in the combat: a few hover, hearts fluttering on the brink. On these occasions one of the group comes, scooping up wounded soldiers as if they were dolls made of leaves. Prizes in hand, they fall back, returning to the sky-ships.

When the First reaches the Crawler Tanks, only three of the group still follow empty-handed.

The Sonorous military back away long before the First arrives, allowing it to pass by unimpeded. An officer awaits the infernal, trying hard to hide his nerves, unaware that such deception is impossibe. The First reads souls rather than tone of voice or facial expressions. All of the officer’s feelings are laid bare before the First’s gaze.

‘Welcome to Sonorous. I’m Captain Ujim, and, on behalf of the council, I want to thank-you for your quick response. I’ve been authorised to give you every support. The enemy is well armed and well trained.’ He is suddenly aware how small he appears, reflected in the First’s faceplate. His throat dries, his voice shrinks. ‘They used the terrain against us, so we haven’t been able to bring our Tanks to bear. And they have knights, at least fifty of them by our reckoning.

‘Still, now that you’re here, our combined strength should be more than enough. We’re ready to attack on your order.’

The First stares into the captain. Behind it, three heads shake. ‘In my dealings with your … people over the years, I am always surprised how eager you are to kill each other.’

The First moves past the captain, leaving the protection of the Crawler Tanks behind.

‘Wait,’ stammers the captain as the identical figures walk by in single file. ‘What are you going to do? What are our orders?’

The fourth figure pauses as it passes. ‘I am going to do what you should have done from the beginning … I am going to make them an offer.’

‘Someone’s coming out, sir. Is that him? Is that the First?’

Genner squints through the spyhole in the makeshift shelter. ‘It’s not a him, private, it’s an infernal. And, yes, it’s the First.’

‘I’ve got him, it, in my sights now. Should I take the shot?’

‘Not yet. Keep ready but no-one fires until I say so.’ Genner turns to his troops. He sees fear in them, mixed with eagerness. Many of the knights have lost sisters and brothers to the First, many of the squires have grown up on bitter stories. ‘If we get the chance to rid the world of the First, we’ll take it. But remember, our primary mission is to protect the bearer, keep the sword safe, and take it to the Breach. We cannot let it fall into enemy hands. I want options.’ He points as he talks. ‘You two, see if we can climb the wall behind the cover of these generators. Demolitions, see if there’s any way you could punch through to the sea from here and, if you can—’

‘Sir, I think it’s about to do something.’

Genner spins back to look through the gap. ‘Shit!’

The First stops, midway between the tanks and the bunker. It raises its hands, palms open, then removes its helmet. A face is revealed. A young woman, hairless, pockmarks on her cheeks. ‘I am the First and I am not here to destroy you. Not unless you … invite me.’ The First walks closer, face slack as it thinks. ‘I do not … enjoy the idea of fighting. Something offered is so much more valuable than something taken. This body was given to me. The woman that wore it was sick. Not through contact with my kind. This was an infection native to your world, though no less … deadly for it. I am told such a condition used to be treatable but your science is in retreat, your medicine rare and costly. The woman had neither the friends nor the resources to get the treatment she needed. And her … community was afraid. Could she be infectious? Would her sickness spread? They did not know. The knowledge was lost to them. And so, she came to me. And though your kind would consider her rotten, to me she was … pure.

‘A part of her lives on within my essence. Not in any way that you would understand, but be assured that she does. She had no illusions about what she would become. I tell you this because in taking on this form I made an observation that I would like to share with you.’ The First pauses, seeming to stare through the wall of light to the many eyes on the other side. ‘Humans are desperate to live. Given the choice between an existence of any sort and death, she chose life. Once against the disease, carrying on despite the knowledge that it would kill her, and then once again when she met me.

‘Soon you will have to make that same choice. To die here and now or to continue a little longer. In the heat of the moment, it is easy to court death. But we are not yet at that moment. Wait. Think. Listen to what I have to say. I do not speak to your leaders alone, I speak to every one of you. If you wish to live, it is simple. Shatter your swords and swear yourselves to peace, and to me. I cannot allow the knights to leave but I promise that I will treat them fairly. The rest of you may do as you please. Stay, go, or come with me. Above all else, the Malice must be destroyed. Do these things, these … simple things and not only will I spare your lives, I will see to it that you can return home, or start anew. Whatever you wish.’