The Malice (22 page)

Few people come to the old quarry now, and those that do come for the wrong reasons. She warns them to go home but they insist on staying, eager to master the power she possesses. Massassi kills them, one by one. She doesn’t mean to. Doesn’t even want to. Each time she hopes she will get it right, that her enhancements will be stable. They aren’t. Essence disintegrates beneath her silver fingers, leaving empty skin and fresh nightmares.

Meanwhile, the babies grow.

Motherhood does not come naturally to Massassi. She resents their neediness, their noise, their stupidity. It is tempting to alter them, to enforce their obedience, but she worries that such an intervention would weaken their spirits and prevent future growth.

Instead, she resorts to reason and raising her voice, more the latter than the former. Every day, she takes them to the place where the world distorts and tests them for sensitivity. Every day, they fail.

Her own studies verge on the obsessive. When away from the distortion, she worries some critical change will be missed. Checking the anomaly three times a day quickly becomes four, then five, and worrying constantly in the times between. If there is ever an odd noise, an unexpected change in the weather, even a little indigestion, she immediately rushes outside. Soon, the visits become ritualised. They begin with a cursory study, followed by a detailed examination involving careful measurements, painstakingly noted. A third check of both the site and the notes is done to minimise the chance of error, followed by a final check, just to be sure.

If at any point in the process she loses concentration, she forces herself to start the whole thing again.

Over time the anomaly shifts, growing in almost imperceptible increments, shrinking some days, expanding others, an alien tide wearing on her shores, on her mind.

By their tenth year, the children are studious, focused, and very careful not to upset their carer. Despite their best efforts they cannot make Massassi smile, for they are fundamentally disappointing.

Though they try, they cannot understand even half of what she talks about and are of little use to her.

Sleep becomes a stranger to Massassi, brushing past at odd times in the day, leaving before any true rest can be had. She moves a chair outside, spends increasing amounts of her time sitting in it.

Fatigue jumbles memory, sending her back and forth from the anomaly. Often she drifts off partway through a check, restarting and restarting until despairing tears roll down her cheeks.

A hand pulls her from her dreams, gently tugging at her sleeve. She looks up, recognises one of her charges, Peace-Eleven, looking excited. ‘What?’

‘I sheen it.’

‘Seen what?’

Peace-Eleven can barely contain herself, jumping up and clapping hands against thighs. ‘Shmoke.’

Massassi sits up, frowning. ‘Where?’

‘In the shpecial plache.’

She runs outside to find the other children there, clustered around the worn earth, clustered around the anomaly. Pushing past them she sees it, a thin wisp, pale enough to see through, probing into the world. The light of the sun burns at it, shrinking its potential but still it comes on, fighting to push fully through into the world. Staring at it is uncomfortable, the intruder paradoxical, both alien and familiar, repellent yet mesmerising.

For the first time it becomes aware of the onlookers, stretching towards the nearest, Quiet-Three. The boy gasps as the wisp draws nearer, not realising that opening his mouth, opening anything, is a fatal mistake.

Massassi knows. She can read the wisp as easily as she reads everyone else. Stepping towards it, her fingers spread and the iris in her palm opens.

Quiet-Three giggles as the wisp touches his upper lip. The sensation is hot-cold-sweet-pain and the boy inhales sharply, drawing the wisp inside in one quick gulp.

Essences mix badly within Quiet-Three, the slower moving human essence discolouring and cracking, the wisp of alienness boiling around it, burning itself out.

Massassi clamps her hand over Quiet-Three’s mouth, letting her essence reach within. She wraps the writhing energies in bands of glowing silver, one after another, spinning a net around the whole sorry mess. When every inch has been covered, the seal perfect, she squeezes, burning and crushing until nothing is left.

The body of Quiet-Three falls to the floor, reminiscent of so many others.

While the children back away, Massassi turns to what was an anomaly, what is now a breach, a tiny perforation in the fabric of reality. She wraps her hand around it, squeezing it tight, sealing it with fire and will. The Breach pushes against her, fed by forces from another place. It is like a mouth, keen to open, hungry after its first taste of food. Around it, Massassi forms a muzzle, burning it into place.

Sweating, weak, she steps back to survey her work.

The fix is quick and dirty. A temporary solution.

But for the first time in a long time, she feels a kind of peace. The waiting is over and now she sees the problem in a new light. It is time to go back to her roots. She forgets trying to be a master or a mother and focuses on what she knows, becoming an engineer once more.

She turns towards the children, who stare at her with frightened eyes. ‘You saw it?’

They don’t need to say anything, she sees the answer fear-written in their true faces.

‘Good. Then you will be my eyes and you will watch for more while I work.’

Peace-Eleven raises a shaky hand. ‘What about him?’

The girl indicates the body of Quiet-Three. Massassi takes a shuddering breath. She had already blanked his death from her memory. The sudden reminder brings back the others, a collage of slack faces superimposed over her vision of the present.

She sways under their weight, then swallows them down with a flash of anger. ‘Put him with the rest. Get Quiet-Five to help you.’ She looks away, forcing her attention to the present. ‘Control-Ten, get my kit and meet me in the workshop. The rest of you stay here. I don’t care when you sleep, so long as there are always eyes on the Breach.’

She walks away, designs already forming in her mind. The Breach is re-framed. Not a thing to be feared, not an enemy to be fought.

Just another problem to be solved.

The kid sleeps next to Vesper on the bed. Both flop, completely relaxed, full bellies poking up the sheets. Next to them, the sword rests, equally peaceful.

Although the room is designed for one, its opulence is such that they all fit easily. Duet sits by the door, alternately looking from the small yellow pill in one hand to her visor in the other. Her lips move from time to time, shaping half a conversation. The quiet hours are always the hardest.

She lifts the pill to her mouth, drawing out the moment. Despite rationing, they are running out. The pill’s outer shell yields between her teeth and she chews, wishing for the thousandth time that they still had the medgun.

‘What?’ she says to the visor.

The visor says nothing.

‘It’s for the pain. I have to stay focused for the mission.’

The visor says nothing.

‘I wouldn’t need them if you … if I was …’ She stops, tilting her head to listen.

Yes, there is definitely someone outside the door.

Duet puts on her visor and inches her sword free, moving slowly to minimise the sound. Once ready, she raises the weapon and tears the door open.

A man kneels in the doorway, head down exposing a neck covered in curly grey hairs. Behind him are a dozen or so others, also kneeling. Their voices whisper, uncertain, feeling their way around the strange words.

Duet recognises them at once: the litany of the Winged Eye. She halts her blade above the man’s neck, twists the edge away and sheathes it. ‘Too close,’ she mutters.

The man looks up, unaware of how near he has come to death. ‘I’m sorry if we disturbed you. I’m Garth Grains, senior doctor of Verdigris, remember?’

‘I remember.’

‘We were waiting for the bearer to wake up. We wanted to thank her and the Winged Eye. Actually, I was hoping to talk to her.’

‘Hasn’t she done enough for one night?’

‘Oh yes, most certainly she has. We’re happy to wait.’

‘She’s asleep.’

‘Yes, I can imagine. As I said, we’re happy to wait.’

‘Good for you.’ She shuts the door and sits back down. Comfort isn’t easy to find however, the soft voices on the other side of the door hard to shut out completely.

A long and winding yawn comes from the bed, followed by a voice heavy with sleep. ‘What was that?’

‘Nothing. Go back to sleep.’

‘Were you talking?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who with?’

‘Nobody.’

‘You were talking to yourself again?’

Duet scowls. ‘What do you mean again?’

‘You do that sometimes.’

‘No, I don’t.’

Vesper props herself up on her elbows. ‘Yes you do. You did it at Wonderland and you did it on the way here.’

‘You’re imagining things.’

‘No, I’m not!’

‘If you must know I was talking to that doctor you cured.’

‘You were?’

‘Yes. He wants to see you but I told him you were asleep.’

‘Is that him outside?’

She tilts her head again, waits, then nods.

‘Okay, we’d better hear him out.’

‘But you need your rest.’

‘I’m awake now and anyway, I won’t be able to sleep because I’m wondering what he’s going to say.’

Duet mutters something, then opens the door. ‘Just you,’ she says to the surprised doctor. ‘The rest have to wait outside.’

He comes in quickly, expressing repeated gratitude, and kneels by the bed.

‘Hello,’ says Vesper.

‘Yes,’ he replies, head bobbing, unsure whether he should look at Vesper directly. ‘What you and the Winged Eye have done for us tonight goes beyond our ability to express. But I wish to try.’ He clears his throat. ‘On behalf of myself and my fellow victims, we want to offer our gratitude and our loyalty.’

Vesper’s smile is natural. ‘Thank you.’

‘The thing is, well, I don’t wish to sound irreverent but there are many others in the city who are sick – the plague seems to spread regardless of our quarantine – but they are just as deserving of care as I was.’ He looks at the sword, resting in the corner and swallows. ‘Please don’t mistake my request for irreverence. I know my place and am entirely at your mercy.’

‘How many people are there?’

‘In truth, I’m not sure. A few hundred at least. Of course, some of them may be dead by now and there are new cases reported all the time. It’s hard to keep track.’

Before Vesper can answer, Duet steps in. ‘We’re not planning to stay.’

‘Of course. I understand.’ Doctor Grains allows himself to be escorted out but manages to give one last pleading look over Duet’s shoulder before the door shuts him firmly out of sight.

Vesper flops onto her back and Duet flops back into her chair.

The kid snores.

Duet rests her head against the wall. The pill has taken the edge off her cravings, smoothing tension from her shoulders. It also gives her the urge to giggle. Attempts to restrain it result in a noise somewhere between cough and snort. When it has passed, she closes her eyes, inviting sleep to come at last.

The moment is ruined by Vesper’s voice. ‘I think we should stay another day.’ She ignores Duet’s groan and continues. ‘I can’t forget what I’ve seen. These people, they’re dying. We might be their only chance.’

‘What about the First? You can’t help anyone if you’re dead.’

‘I know it’s a risk but we can’t just turn our backs on a whole city.’

‘We have a mission, remember. We are here to serve The Seven.’

‘But maybe this is the mission!’ In her sudden enthusiasm, Vesper is carried onto her feet, disturbing the kid, who kicks out randomly, punishing empty air. ‘This is the first time since I picked up the sword that I’ve felt like I’m doing the right thing.’

‘Our mission objective is at the Breach.’

‘That’s what Genner said but he didn’t know, not for sure.’

‘Nor do you.’

‘No.’ Her fists clench at her sides. ‘But there are things going on, right here, that we have to do something about. We have to.’

‘This place is beyond saving. Look at it! They have mutants as marshals, there are tainted creatures in the gutters. No wonder there’s a plague. We should get out of here while we can.’

‘I don’t like it here either. Those Handlings are horrible and the Usurperkin scare me. But they need me and I can’t just abandon them. I can’t. Look, if the sword wants us to move on, then we can go. But I have to at least try. Just one more day, I promise.’

‘If you do this, Tough Call won’t be able to cover it up. Everyone will know you’re here.’

‘That’s why I’ll need you to protect me.’

Duet raises her visor to rub at tired eyes. ‘This is a mistake.’

Vesper starts pulling on her clothes. ‘Thanks Duet. I couldn’t do this without you.’ She grabs her coat and the sword, lifting it carefully by the strap.

‘You’re going now?’

‘You heard what Doctor Grains said, people are dying. What choice do we have?’

Duet has some ideas but she keeps them to herself, closing her visor and following the young girl out of the room.

The kid watches them go, snorts in irritation and then goes back to sleep.

*

Samael marches across the Blasted Lands, wobbling slightly with every other step. He carries Jem in his arms, a shrunken, shivering thing. He considers him as he travels, leaving Scout to watch the barren landscape for him. Why does the man shiver so? He knows there was a time when his body did such things though the sensations are increasingly hard to remember.

Perhaps Jem is dying. The thought bothers him. It is a vicious cycle. The more he thinks, the more troubled he becomes and the more troubled he becomes, the more he thinks.

Perhaps Jem is cold or hungry. Perhaps he is afraid. Can people be afraid in their sleep? Samael thinks so, sure that he has experienced such things long ago, in his other life.

Whatever the cause, he is sure the man will die if not tended to. He sends Scout off in search of food and sits by a trio of weather-scarred monoliths. Jem has little in the way of clothing or fat to keep him warm and yet heat radiates from a swollen ankle, the veins throbbing around a set of bite marks, black and scabbing over.

Samael touches the injury and Jem jolts, agitated, but does not wake.

Through the contact he is able to learn more. A slight infernal essence spreads slowly through Jem’s system, reminiscent of Gutterface. There is no sentience there, just a weak and spiteful poison, corrupting some cells, killing others. He makes a drawing motion with his hand, pulling it free from the skin and catching something ephemeral with his fingertips. Inside Jem’s body, the foreign essence becomes sluggish, pauses, then, slowly at first, it begins to be pulled back towards the wound. The tail of it stretches from the man’s ankle to spin beneath Samael’s palm, faster and faster, reeling itself into a tight black ball of spite.

Samael closes his hand, squeezing until his fist shakes. When he opens his hand again, it is empty.

Not long after, Scout returns, happy jaws holding a fresh kill. Bright blood splashes as the Dogspawn sets down its prize and begins to eat.

With a groan, Jem wakes. Eyelids snap back revealing eyes rolled right up in their sockets. They close and open several times before sense catches up. He takes in the lack of sights and fixates quickly on the fresh meat.

Scout has already torn open the victim’s colourful pelt, snout buried in the juicy innards.

Jem approaches carefully on hands and knees, skinny and unsteady, swaying like a newborn calf. As he pulls at a string of meat, Scout growls and he yelps, falling back onto his bottom.

Samael lets his displeasure flow through their link and the growls turn quickly to sorry whimpers. He issues a silent command and Scout’s head emerges from the gore, tail dropping. Samael nods and Scout whines one last time, tearing off a chunk and approaching Jem on his belly.

Jem stays very still as Scout leans to drop the meat in his lap. Never taking his eyes off the Dogspawn, he snatches up the offering and begins nibbing at it with small, sharp teeth.

Satisfied, Samael releases Scout to return to his own feast.

When they are done, Scout settles next to Jem and closes his eyes. At first the proximity of the Dogspawn makes him rigid with fear but a combination of exhaustion and warmth lull him swiftly into a deep sleep.

For a time, Samael sits, vicariously enjoying the sensations of a full belly. Periodically, he checks the road behind them, seeing nothing but the native spawns going about their daily business.

He does not understand this new turn of events or where they might lead but for the first time since his creator’s death, he is content.

Clouds hang heavy in a breathless sky, creating an illusion of peace as the suns continue their swirling dance overhead.

With surprise, he realises Jem is awake and watching him. It occurs to him that he should probably speak but old resistances die hard. There is nothing he wants to say. Perhaps, he hopes, Jem prefers silence as well.

‘Where are we?’

Perhaps not. ‘The Blasted Lands.’

Questions come quickly on the heels of his answers. ‘Where are you going?’

‘North.’

‘Why?’

‘To find the Malice.’

‘What’s the Malice? What’s going to happen to me?’

‘Part of The Seven.’

‘And what’s going to happen to me?’

‘I don’t know.’

There is a brief pause in the flurry, then: ‘Are there more of you? Are the knights coming to save New Horizon?’

‘No. I don’t know.’

‘How come you have a Dogspawn for a pet? I thought only Handlers could control them.’

‘I d—’

‘And don’t say you don’t know!’

‘I … wanted it.’

Jem looks at Samael, evaluating. ‘Are you going to take me north too?’

‘Yes … Unless you want to go home.’

‘I haven’t got a home.’ His voice becomes flat. ‘I haven’t got anything.’

‘I understand.’

A sudden thought makes him pale. ‘Those demons, the Demagogue, are they still coming after us?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that trick, with your toe. Did it work?’

‘Yes.’

‘But they’re still coming aren’t they?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then, we need to go, right now!’ He stands up and immediately regrets it, a wave of nausea returning him to the ground. ‘Damn.’

Samael gets up, towering over the man. ‘I can carry you.’

‘I think you’ll have to.’

Jem is light in his arms, barely more than a skeleton. Scout wakes with a yawn and joins them, tail waving from side to side as they set off.

‘What happens when we find the Malice?’

‘We make it help us.’

‘Are all the knights like you?’

‘No.’

‘I believe you. I think you’re one of the good ones.’ Samael does not know what to say to that. ‘I can see you’re different,’ Jem continues. ‘You may not look exactly like the knights in the stories my mother used to tell but at least you act like one. That’s enough for me. Will you tell me your name?’

‘Samael.’

He reaches out, grabbing the half-breed by his upper arm.

‘Thank you for saving me, Sir Samael.’

*

A new flag flies from one of Vedigris’ towers, fresh and colourful against worn stone. The design is simple: a circle with a dot in its centre, with a stylised wing on either side. The Empire’s sign has not been seen in the city for many years, abandoned during the time of the Usurper and the Uncivil, and never missed.

Until now.

Alone it flutters, clashing with the more populous symbols of Verdigris’ independence.

Max frowns up at it as he escorts Vesper to the outer doors of the council chambers. The girl’s shoulders droop with fatigue, their curve a mirror for the smile, still strong, on her face. Duet stays close, a physical barrier between Vesper and the growing troupe of people following them.

Led by Doctor Grains, the group comprises a wide variety of citizens, united in health and a sudden love of the Empire, their demeanours full of awe and reverence, except when they turn towards Max. When that happens, pupils contract and whispers are exchanged, suspicious and charged with menace.

Usurperkin have always struggled for acceptance here, and every service they have done for the city is weighed against a host of accidents and past mistakes. That Max and his kin are unaffected by the plague is just one more reason to bear a grudge.