Peter Newman - The Malice

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?’