The Malice (18 page)

‘I know that. I’m curious, that’s all.’

‘It’s not natural.’

‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

‘It’s not that.’ She pokes at the fire with a headless spoon. ‘I’m not like you. Talking doesn’t come easily to me. And for most of my life I haven’t needed to talk.’

Vesper takes her time, approaching the conversation as she would a scared animal. ‘The other you, what was she like?’

Duet doesn’t answer at first and both take a moment to breathe in the smell of cooking meat. ‘I don’t know. She was me and I was her. So, I’d have to say she was like me.’

‘You were exactly the same?’

‘No. I used to think we were.’ She shakes her head, her tone suddenly bitter. ‘I thought our alignment was perfect. In battle, we moved as one, like extensions of each other. I always knew where she was going to be and she knew the same about me. But we weren’t exactly the same. She was the Primo and I was the Secondo. Maybe it’s the same with all Harmonised but …’

Vesper doesn’t interrupt, letting the crackling of the flames fill the gaps.

‘… there were times when it felt like she was keeping something back … and sometimes I’d worry it was my fault. What if I wasn’t good enough for her to share that last part of herself? What if I was holding us back?’

‘I’m sure it wasn’t like that.’

‘Then why did she drop me for a fucking infernal?’ Duet covers her face.

‘Maybe she messed up. Maybe you were the stronger one.’

‘No. I’m not. You didn’t know her. She was … perfect.’

‘It’s true, I didn’t know her. But she didn’t save me from the First. You did.’

Duet keeps her face hidden. ‘I thought about it … The First’s offer … I didn’t believe in you … I thought we were going to die … I was … tempted.’

‘You didn’t sound tempted.’

‘Because it was an infernal … I thought I was loyal … I thought we would never …’ She tails off, hands pressing roughly against her mouth.

Vesper sighs. ‘It’s okay. I don’t blame you. The truth is, I don’t believe in me either. Since I picked up the sword I’ve been terrified of getting things wrong. My Uncle says that when you don’t know what to do, then it helps to pretend that you’re someone who does.’ A little pride tugs at her lips. ‘I pretend to be my father because he was a knight. He always knew what to do. The thing is, I’m not very good at it.’

‘I never knew my father, or my mother. They were just codes on my record.’

‘Do you know anything about them?’

‘No. The Harmonium Forge made me and the Winged Eye raised me.’

Gently, Vesper takes her hands, rests them in her lap. ‘For what it’s worth, I like you better now the other you isn’t here.’

She looks up, disbelieving. ‘But I’m horrible to you.’

‘Only sometimes.’

She punches Vesper on the arm. ‘I think I’m starting to like you, too.’

‘I thought so.’ Duet punches her again, a little harder this time. ‘Ow! What was that for?’

‘It’s not easy for me, you know. I’m not like you.’

‘Okay.’

‘… Vesper?’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t want to die.’

She squeezes Duet’s hands. ‘No.’

Abruptly, the Harmonised stands up. ‘I don’t want to talk any more. Let’s eat.’

The island is shy, only visible from the shore on a clear day. There has not been a clear day for three centuries now. Mankind makes his own clouds that hang low and heavy, squatting just above the waves, hissing out from rows and rows of metal pipes that sprout like grey grass. Undersea tubes connect the island to the mainland. There are three in total, each divided into two chambers, allowing traffic to flow back and forth. One carries people, another materials. The third is reserved for important items, living or otherwise.

An angry sky flings rain and lightning around the island. Massassi glides through it all, fearless. For her the clouds are easy to read, their bunchings and rollings giving ample warning as to where the next strike will be.

She makes towards the buildings clustered on the island’s crown. Six spires carved along the lines of the natural rock finished with iron and gold. They are well-weathered, hard lines smoothed into something more appealing. Between them is a disc, big enough to land a carrier mech. Scorch marks mar its surface, testament to the long relationship between land and storm.

She tips her glider towards it but the winds are strong, shaking the wings on her back. Three times they grab her as she tries to land, spinning her towards the heavens. But she comes back for a fourth time, ready even for a fifth or a fiftieth, and the elements part for her, overcome.

Jump boots absorb the shock of landing, slipping on wet stone. She leans forward, surfing the momentum, tiny waves spraying up either side of her feet.

Opposite, an oval door groans open. In its light, a man stands, one hand raised against the rain. His eyes widen as he sees the apparition emerging from the darkness.

‘Ah!’ he cries, hopping backwards as she hops inside, wings folding at her back.

They move like dancers, hurried steps matched, legs moving together, until his back meets a wall and Massassi’s palms slap against it, framing his terrified face.

‘Ah!’ he says again.

Her eyes narrow in contempt. ‘You are not one of the masters.’

‘That’s right, I’m not. I just manage the sanitation units. Please don’t hurt me!’

‘Take me to the masters.’

He complies. She does not even need to compel him. As they weave their way deeper into the complex, her small hopes waver. Perhaps these will be just like the others. Perhaps she is alone in all the world. A freak. A queen amid the worms.

She is led to a laboratory where brains float in tubes, arranged by size and then by normality. Electrical pulses wash over them, regular, matched by soft beeps that issue from a monitor. Light from the screen illuminates a man’s face. To Massassi, he looks old and unimpressive.

She pushes her guide out of the way. ‘You are a master of thought?’

The man looks up, blinking surprise. ‘Hmm? What? Who are you?’

Jump boots activate on minimum power, sailing her across the room. ‘You are a master of thought?’

He straightens, chin jutting forward. ‘I am a Neuromaster, yes.’

‘Show me.’

Wrinkles line up on his brow. ‘What?’

‘Show me your power.’

‘Look, I don’t know who you are or how you got in here but it would please me greatly if you used the same means to leave.’ His attention returns to the monitor. ‘And close the door on your way out.’

Massassi raises her silver arm level with the man’s head. White light flashes as the iris in her palm spirals open. ‘Show me or I will make you show me.’

He looks up, more irritated than afraid. ‘Very well. My primary research is around replacing damaged sections of the brain. Specifically, on the communication between the original and synthetic areas. As with many of my colleagues I have of course had to bend my work towards other, more immediate applications.’

A hatch slides open in a nearby wall and two spheres roll from it. Each is formed of multiple metal bands scored with lines that hint towards hidden compartments. They come to a stop by the man’s feet, flanking him. Plates flip down, securing them in place while quivering forks extend from their middle sections, spitting sparks.

‘Is this what you had in mind?’ the Neuromaster asks. ‘I thought as much. You look the type that likes things simple. So let me put it in simple terms. My chip connects me to these drones. With a thought I can manipulate them as easily as I can my own body. If I wish I can turn them on or off, command them to move, or even to kill. So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll lower your hand and leave me in peace.’

‘No.’

Slowly, he shakes his head. ‘You are a strange and savage thing. You really wish to die?’ The light in her palm begins to brighten. ‘So be it.’

The drones tilt, raising their weapons towards Massassi, then past her, turning, pointing them at their master.

Beads of sweat appear on the man’s forehead. ‘No, aim at her!’

The drones ignore him, weapons humming, full of potential. Slowly, the man raises his arms, crossing them over his chest. He stares at his betraying hands, whimpering as they close around his throat.

‘Is this it?’ asks Massassi.

The man begins to choke. ‘Wait!’

‘Why?’

‘I’m only … one master … there are more …’

‘Better than you?’

‘Yes … I can … show you …’

She closes her fist and the man flops forward, head slapping against the monitor, breath rattling in his throat. ‘Take me to them, now.’

In minutes she is bursting into another room. This one is small, dark, its walls ridged foam, shaped to give an organic feel. The floor and ceiling are of similar design. In its centre sits a woman, her eyes closed.

‘Grand Master Heike,’ calls the man over Massassi’s shoulder, ‘you have a visitor and she was most, ah, insistent. I think she merits our full attention.’

The woman takes a slow breath, lets it out. ‘Thank you, Yeorin. You can go now.’

He glances at Massassi, waiting until she waves him away.

‘You are the strongest master here?’

Heike smiles to herself. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘Good. Show me your power.’

The woman takes another breath, slow and soft. ‘Is that a threat?’

‘Yes.’

‘What will you do if I refuse?’

‘I’ll make you show me.’

She makes a noise, something like a chuckle. ‘Really? I don’t think you will.’

‘The other one sneered at me too. He’s not sneering any more.’

‘Oh I’m not sneering. Do you want to sit down? You must have come a long way. You must be tired.’ Massassi nearly growls an insult but the thought interrupts her: what Heike says is true, she has been travelling a long time. And she is tired, right down to the bones. Shrugging, she sits. ‘You see,’ Heike continues, ‘we don’t get many visitors out here and those we do get always want something. I’m sure you didn’t come all this way just to gather slaves, did you?’

‘No.’

‘No, you came here because you’re looking for answers, for people who can help you.’ Massassi straightens. She does want help. ‘And I can give you those answers but only on one condition.’

This is more familiar. ‘What do you want?’

‘If I do all I can to help you and tell you the truth as I see it, you must promise not to punish me for it.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

‘You may not like what I’m going to tell you. Forgive me but you’re very young and very strong. I want your word that you’ll not attack me and then I’ll do all I can for you.’ Massassi nods. After all, the request does seem very reasonable. ‘Good. It seems we have an accord. You may begin.’

‘What?’

‘You may begin. Tell me about yourself. Why you have come here. What you want. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you need and why it is so important.’

And so Massassi does. At first, she is self-conscious, halting but soon she is lost in the telling and time passes easily between them. When she finishes, she feels lighter, almost dizzy. ‘Well? Can you help me?’

There is a pause.

‘I am going to help you, though I suspect you aren’t going to like it.’

Massassi frowns. Is this a trick? She looks at Heike’s true face but sees neither hope nor deception there.

‘I’ve studied the human mind all of my life. I’ve benefited from hundreds of years’ worth of archives and the company of brilliant colleagues but I have never seen or heard of anyone that can do what you can.

‘Massassi, the truth is that you are looking for a master when in fact you should be looking for students. If you want to find others like you, you’re going to have to make them yourself.’

The tainted creature prowls between rock piles. Like many of the inhabitants it is hard to classify, several generations of crossbreeding, coupled with flowering mutations give it a mythical appearance. Two heads, one beaked, one with a wolfish muzzle, a single feathered wing, as useless as it is colourful and two powerful forelegs that drag its thick, muscled trunk along.

There are many like it, variants scattered further south in the Blasted Lands. Lumped together under the name of Mashups, most barely live long enough to breed. This one is near the end of its cycle and carries a bellyful of growing eggs.

The need to survive, blunt and relentless, drives it on. To feed itself, to feed the eggs, to make them swell with life.

As the suns begin to rise, scales shift hue, taking on the greys and browns of terrain, blending.

It is close now.

Scents sharpen, of food and fire and human prey, the trail of them carried on the air. Keeping low, the creature accelerates.

Dawn’s light washes out the dying fire. Vesper leans over the pit, enjoying the last of its heat. Her stomach grumbles.

Duet’s knife is already in her hand. Soon, several strips of meat are cut away and any lingering worries about its safety are banished under a succession of happy groans.

The kid leaves them to it, trotting off to dispense with some morning business.

Duet looks at the remains of the carcass, still mostly intact. Their stomachs, too small from rationed food, have been easily filled. ‘That should be good for a couple of days. Then you’ll need to get us more.’ Vesper nods, warming to the idea of herself as hunter. ‘Where are we going next?’

‘Good question.’ The girl pulls the Navpack out of her pocket and switches it on. Lines of topography sparkle over the dirt, showing settlements and paths of dead rivers and rocky ranges that dissect the land. ‘We’ve still got a long way to go.’

Duet points to the flashing dot in the centre of the image. ‘Is that where we are?’

‘Yep, that’s us.’

‘Damn. I thought we’d be further south. What I wouldn’t give for a sky-ship.’

‘We’ll get there eventually.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

Vesper shrugs. ‘We’ve got this far. But now we have to get past this mountain range. There’s only one road on the Navpack but that takes us through Verdigris.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘Bad.’

‘How do you know?’

‘My Uncle Harm told me about it.’

‘I should have known.’

‘He used to live there. He said it was dangerous.’

‘Do we have any choice?’

‘Well, we might be able to find our own way over the mountains.’

‘And risk getting stuck out there? Falling to our deaths or starving? I’d rather face a threat I can fight.’

‘Verdigris it is then.’ She licks her lips. ‘Before we go, I’m going to have some more.’

‘Good call.’

While Duet carves, the kid returns, scattering stones as he charges past the fire pit, still accelerating until legs lock, solid, and he topples with comic slowness onto one side.

Duet barks out a laugh. ‘That has to be the most useless animal I’ve ever seen.’

‘Something must have scared him. They faint when they’re scared.’

‘Like I said …’

On the ground, by Vesper’s feet, the sword begins to hum, interrupting.

Sentence forgotten, Duet readies her knife, turning slowly while Vesper gathers the sword in her arms. Both of them strain for any sign of trouble.

Seconds pass and the landscape appears as lifeless as ever.

Silvered wings flick open, dramatic, and an eye opens. Vesper follows its gaze, seeing an innocent pile of rock. As she stares, teeth appear within stone, stark-white against the grey. And the outline of a body, sliding, coiling, preparing to spring.

‘Duet! Look out!’

The Harmonised turns in time to see it fly at her, clocking the many threats: teeth, beak, talons, all coming at once. Her hands come up under one set of jaws, slamming them shut before they can reach her throat. Talons scream down her chest plate, six furrows not quite deep enough to touch skin. The beak punches through much more easily, knocking Duet onto her back.

The creature looms over her, roaring.

Duet’s knife is not intimidated, answering with a silent thrust. But thick scales confound the blade, turning it aside with ease. Before beak and jaws can descend again, she throws the knife. It spins towards the canine head which yelps, surprised as the knife bounces off a scaled eyelid.

For a moment the beast is stunned, long enough for the Harmonised to find her feet and draw her sword.

Automatically, Vesper’s hand moves towards her pocket. Only when the pistol is in her grasp does she remember the weapon is spent, useless. In her other hand the sheathed sword rattles in fury, tilting towards the tainted creature.

Duet spins away from a snapping beak, striking out on the creature’s neck and shoulder. She jumps back from another attack, checks to see if the creature is hurt.

Nothing. No change in the way the head moves, no damage to the neck. The scales are not even scratched.

‘Shit.’

There is no time for further strategy. The creature is on her again, harder this time, as if it senses her fading confidence.

She parries and twists, strikes again, trying her luck with its legs. It is like hitting a wall. One of the talons catches her thigh, snagging on her armour, spinning her like an over-enthusiastic dance partner.

Duet falls onto her front.

An eye tears itself from the creature and looks up at the girl.

Vesper meets its gaze, is held by it. The pistol drops unnoticed from her fingers.

The creature’s shadows fall over Duet.

Still dazed, she moves blindly, desperately, anything preferable to staying still. The creature snaps at her rolling body, teeth glancing off her armour.

As if in a dream, Vesper’s empty hand moves towards the sword’s hilt. Wingtips curl, encouraging.

The air becomes tight, holding its breath.

Vesper blinks, looking from her hand to where Duet struggles and back again. Understanding comes, draining the colour from her face. Action is required and the sword is waiting, demanding to be used.

In desperation, Duet scoops up a rock, raising it before her like a shield. The creature snares it in its beak, tossing it over a shoulder.

Unarmed, tired, Duet cries out, a mix of fear and anger.

The creature opens its jaws, opens its beak, rearing back.

A chunk of meat sails past, landing with a wet smack next to the creature’s talons.

It pauses, then snaps up the morsel.

Another soon follows, landing next to it.

‘Back away,’ hisses Vesper. ‘Move very slowly.’

Duet edges back on her elbows.

The creature growls at her, baring its teeth.

Duet stops.

Vesper circles into her field of vision, sheathed sword in one hand, a long strip of flesh in the other. ‘Here we are. No need to fight. There’s plenty to go round.’

The creature watches her warily. It tenses as if to spring but then glances at the sword, pauses.

Vesper lays the meat down. ‘Here it is, all for you.’

As soon as she has circled clear, the creature pounces on it, one head eating, the other watching, warning them off.

They pack with forced calm, Vesper sometimes pausing to throw fresh morsels the creature’s way.

The kid wakes up. Halfway through a mighty yawn he sees the creature. His eyes bulge, his jaw locks and he flops back where he fell.

Vesper collects him and they retreat, slowly, keeping a measured pace, putting good distance between them and the creature.

Then they run.

Over half the rat and the empty pistol are left behind.

*

Jem runs down a filth-crusted street, clutching something small in his fist. He is not alone. Those with homes go inside, slamming doors shut on reflex. The less fortunate beg for sanctuary. A scant few are shown mercy, the rest do what they always do: they run until they can’t run any more, then hide.

Only Jem knows why he is running. The others know that trouble is coming and that is enough; in New Horizon it is proximity rather than guilt that tends to bring punishment.

Behind them, the Demagogue’s forces spread across the tainted city. A mix of infernals and half-breeds, slaves and opportunists, leaking from the palace like a bad smell. Gutterface lumbers out after them, one of the last.

Jem is only a few streets away but already he slows, prolonged malnutrition stamping itself on his health. Thin flanks heave as he bends forward, one hand resting on his knee, the other clenched tight around something small, pressed to his chest.

His heart tremors like a little bird’s, fast and fragile. Thudding alongside its delicate beats come the sound of giant footsteps.

He glances over his shoulder in time to see Gutterface arrive at the far end of the street. It surveys the filthy buildings while its children chitter, swarming over its swollen feet, nestling in fatty folds, all impatient for further entertainment.

It has come for him.

A flabby arm is raised, tree-trunk thick, and the impish creatures sing with delight.

He chokes a sob.

It is pointing at him.

Trembling legs carry him around a corner, temporarily away from the infernal’s sight. He stumbles on, watching his feet flash in front of him as if they belong to somebody else. The ground is slick with unidentified gunk. He slips and lurches forward, grabbing at random passers-by for support.

His hand snags a sleeve. Worn fabric tears, then holds, gaining him an angry look and the time to get his footing. All in all, a fair trade.

In other places he would draw attention, a person in his state, hard features locked in fear, in determination, sweat dripping from the ends of his hair, clearly on the run. In New Horizon he fits right in.

Past crusty-faced beggars and long-toothed merchants he goes, never attracting more than a glance. He thinks he is going south but worries he is not. The city has changed during his incarceration, many of the old landmarks have collapsed to be replaced by simpler, meaner structures.

On he goes, slipping into an alley, forcing feet to take yet more steps, till spots dance before eyes and thoughts wander, taking his mind to other times and places, where life was merely grim.

The respite is brief, reality returning with a slap.

Ahead, the alley is blocked.

He stops, staring at the buildings that have folded on top of each other, a scrum of ruined architecture. If he were stronger he might be able to climb it. But he is not and there is no time.

And now he hears them, twisted childish giggles that draw closer with every breath.

He opens his hand, stares at its contents. The sight turns his stomach but there is nothing inside to evacuate.

Swallowing down the bile, he approaches the rubble, full of nooks and cracks, perfect in its own way. Yes, he thinks, it will have to be here.

Gutterface stops suddenly. It knows Samael must be close, can feel the ghost of his essence, faint fingerprints smeared in the air.

And there it is again, the slightest scent of him. It turns and points down a narrow alley and its children screech, delighted.

The alley appears to hold little of interest. One corner contains a woman wrapped in a plastic net, bruises shining through the holes. Another, a man who tries not to look at them. Both exude fear. A few rats abandon their exploration of the woman’s leg, scurrying away to their holes.

Gutterface’s children rush to take their place, eager to play. One jumps onto the woman’s chest, another sinks its teeth into the man’s ankle. The woman is too weak to scream, the man is not.

Gutterface points again, over the heads of the beleaguered humans, to the rubble opposite. But its children are too busy having fun, pulling at limbs, prodding, mocking the sounds of people suffering.

Essence flashes with anger and the children freeze. Gutterface picks up one of the nearest and throws it down the alley. The others are quick to follow under their own power.

Soon, the man and the remaining rats are gone, leaving the woman to groan out her last.

As the infernals search, pulling apart the rubble, brick by brick, Gutterface feels Samael is almost close enough to touch, and yet, it had expected a stronger flavour. It had expected more. It had expected Samael to fight, not bury himself in the dirt like this. Perhaps he was injured in their previous confrontation or perhaps the spawn of the Usurper’s spawn is weaker than they thought.

Other infernals from the Demagogue’s court arrive before Gutterface’s children find anything. Some join the search while others flex their claws. There is a chirrup of pleasure and a gaggle of its children scurry back to gather at Gutterface’s ankles. A clawed hand tugs at the loose skin of its knee, calling for attention.

Gutterface looks down to see a cluster of faces peering up, hope scrawled on their sharp little features.

They reek of Samael but there is no sign of him. Deep within its shell, Gutterface feels uneasy.

The hand tugs again and it sees they are holding something out, an offering.

A toe, white as marble, capped with half a blackened nail. A hard, dry thing. Within it swirls the merest breath of Samuel’s essence. A single thought, repeating itself over and over.

‘Here! Here! Here! Here!’

*

Three specks trudge, alone. Around them, the land has flattened out, dull and dusty, stretching off towards the horizon and its distant mountains.

Vesper sighs. Muscles normally content to exist in secret have joined the others, aching, complaining, and within her boots, clusters of blisters grow raw with every step. The sword is ever heavier, rubbing skin red where it brushes against her.

Duet is little better. The split metal of her armour has been bent back into rough shape, jagged edges trimmed away. Sweaty bandages peek through holes.

Even the kid’s usual bounciness seems diminished.

A wind blows across them, lacklustre.

Beneath their feet, abandoned goods blend slowly with the landscape. A clothes rack juts out like the arm of a drowning man. A helmet, half-buried and camouflaged with dust catches Vesper’s foot, making her stumble.