Peter Newman - The Malice

Tears stream down cheeks, mixing with snot on her top lip.

Genner turns to the Harmonised. ‘She’s in shock. Get her some stims and keep her under cover until we’re ready to move.’

There is a pause that threatens to become a protest but Genner kills it in its infancy. ‘Step to it!’

Duet salutes and escorts Vesper back towards the wall. One of her hands is firmer on the girl’s shoulder. Vesper grits her teeth, stifling complaint.

They climb through a dusty hole into a washroom. Vacuum pipes coil untouched in transparent cases. A crashed pod covers most of the space, spearing the cleaning booth, like a dart in a board. Duet releases Vesper in a corner, then turns, wrenching the door from the booth and placing it across the hole.

Vesper’s thoughts are a jumble, she doesn’t know what to do or say or think. To her surprise, she sneezes.

She blinks. A moment later, she sneezes again.

Dust is tickling her nose. She looks up, sees a trickle coming from a crack in the ceiling in bursts, uneven.

In seconds, Duet is by her side.

Through the silence, footsteps can be heard, multiple and fast, each one sending a fresh spray of dust as it passes overhead.

From outside, a new noise invades: a rumbling, heavy and distant, heralding the coming of metal beasts.

Duet moves either side of the door and raises her swords, ready.

‘What should I do?’ asks Vesper.

‘Hide –’

‘– In there,’ replies Duet, pointing to the booth.

Before she can go further, invisible forces hammer the door, wrenching it half from housings to swing drunkenly open. Vesper’s mouth mirrors the spirit of the movement.

A metal ball the size of a baby’s fist rolls into the room.

It stops, clicks.

Instinctively, Vesper leans back.

And Duet is moving, breaking harmony. One throws herself at the girl, trying to push her clear, trying to put herself in harm’s way. The other’s sword sweeps down, flicking the ball back the way it came. The move is quick, sure, too late.

Halfway out of the room the ball explodes, filling the air with corkscrew slivers, burning hot. They carve through Duet’s chestplate, biting a hundred times into flesh beneath.

She takes two paces back, then two more, sword slipping from her fingers. She sways like a reed in the breeze before following her blade, a graceful slide onto her knees. While one woman goes down, the other leaps up, eyes intent on the doorway.

Bullets come first, fired wild to clear the way. Figures follow, vaulting into the space at angles, making room for more behind. Even hurrying, they are stealthy, magenta battle suits muted to shadow grey. They see the injured woman and the young figure curled in the corner. They see the other woman flying at them, sword glinting as it falls.

They do not see the gun in the injured woman’s hand.

Lights and sharpened steel flash, strobing the room.

Vesper watches the silhouettes on the ceiling, making their jerky way towards death.

When it is over, a dozen bodies lie contorted in a thin puddle of blood.

Duet reunites. Worried hands rest on shoulders, move to take off a battered helmet.

They are pushed away. The gesture is not hard but it sends one half reeling, uncertain.

Alone, the injured woman opens a panel on her bracer. From it she pulls a tiny needle and injects it under the strap of her helm. Alone, she stands.

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.