Peter Newman - The Malice

‘I want what you want. To get you back on your feet and working as soon as possible. You’re going to need a new arm, and a partial reconstruct of your upper body. The mods you’ll need will be expensive. Now, I’ve looked at your funds and you have a lot saved up. However, with the enquiry costs and the mounting medical bills, I’m afraid there won’t be enough left to restore functionality.

‘But don’t worry, I’ve got a solution. If you admit full responsibility for the incident then we can turn this into a criminal issue. We’ll lower your echelon class and take full ownership of your rights until the debt’s worked off. Heavy, I know, but it will make all the problems go away. I’ve got pre-approval to fund your operation based on your work record. We could have you back on the mechs before year’s end. What do you say?’

She tries to speak, begins to cough.

‘Can we take the tube out now, doctor?’

‘Yes, hold on.’

A command is given and the tube recoils smoothly into the mask, which the doctor removes, equally smooth.

Massassi coughs, then accepts the water offered by the doctor. A genuine frown appears on her face as she looks at the formless sheet covering her body. ‘I’ve still got my arm. I can feel it.’

Supervisor and doctor glance at each other. The doctor clears her throat. ‘I’m afraid that’s a common misconception. Your brain is so convinced the limb is still there, it fabricates sensation.’

‘I can see it.’

‘You want to see it? Well, if you’re sure.’

The doctor pulls back the sheet.

A plastic cap is fixed to her shoulder, running all the way to her right hip. Her left wrist is fixed to the bed. There is no tie for her right wrist. There is nothing there to attach it to. Despite this, she smiles. ‘There it is … what did you do to my arm? It’s … beautiful.’

Another glance is shared. They both retreat to the other side of the room, whispering.

‘Perhaps this was too soon.’

‘I did try and warn you.’

‘We’ll try again the next time she wakes. If her condition persists, it may actually work in our favour. How long before you can certify her?’

‘Normally, a month but, given the circumstances, we can come to an arrangement, I’m sure.’ The doctor returns to the pod. ‘Lie back, you can rest again now. This will get easier, I promise.’

Massassi does not relax. She sees the spark of thought appear in the doctor’s essence, the desire to silence her. ‘I’m not crazy, my arm is right here. Look!’

‘Yes,’ her supervisor says, adopting an expression of polite pity. ‘That’s good, that’s very good. You’ll be back to work soon, I know it.’

Drugs are authorised, dulling pain, dulling sense.

‘No!’ she screams, glaring at the space where her arm once was. At first, they do not see the luminescence, thin as bone, following the line of a lost limb. Then it brightens, thickens, light intensifying, hardening, like silvered diamond. Compared to the light she sees in their faces, her arm glows with a star’s fury.

Now they see it, falling back in their fear, legs scrabbling like a spiders on the slick floor.

With her shining fingers, she tears through the bonds on her left wrist and jumps from the bed. Weak muscles cannot manage the sudden demands and she falls.

For a moment the two adults relax, though they continue to back away.

Massassi extends her arm. One tug is all it takes to slide her over to them. She touches the doctor first. Silver fingers press against flesh, passing through to touch the soft light within. She does not mean to kill, but the action is too quick and anger-fuelled. The bubble of the doctor’s essence bursts, burns and is gone.

Like a doll, the doctor’s body flops over onto the floor.

‘I need immediate assistance in here!’ shrieks the supervisor. Suddenly, he remembers his authority, realises that a single command will shut her down. Before he can give it, however, Massassi reaches out and touches his ankle, and through it, his soul.

In the supervisor’s mind, she finds thoughts, treacherous. She squeezes them between finger and thumb, molds them anew.

Footsteps pound down a corridor. Burly men burst through the door. Inside, they find a dead doctor, a maimed, unconscious girl and a man on his knees, weeping.

‘You called us, sir?’

The supervisor gives a broken nod. ‘I was responsible for the accident. It was my fault. I thought I could bury it. I didn’t know the girl would wake up and tell the doctor the truth. So you see, I had to silence them. I killed the doctor first and I was going to kill the girl but then I wondered, where would it end? I’m sick. Sick in the head! You need to take me away. You need to process me.’

The men are so intent on the supervisor’s ravings that they do not see Massassi’s smile.

Behind its wings, an eye twitches, restless. Vesper watches it, desperate for it to open and give guidance. She feels the group looking at her, expectation pressing down. As tension rises, nerves break out in quiet ways. A foot shuffles. Throats are cleared. Armour creaks.

The pressure to do something, anything, becomes too much.

Vesper stands, the sword cradled in her arms. Heads tilt up, following the motion. All shuffling stops.

The girl walks towards the glowing barrier. As she does so, soldiers and knights and squires kneel. Even the wounded stir themselves, biting back pain to demonstrate proper deference.

She thinks of her father’s sure hands. How they have always carried her, kept her safe. She wishes she had inherited their confidence.

The sniper at the barrier moves aside for her and Vesper looks out over shimmering light. She sees the First waiting, and double takes, sure it would be larger. Beyond the infernal she sees soldiers massing around Crawler Tanks, like waves around rocks, and beyond them she sees the First’s sky-ships.

There are so many of them she cannot believe they could fight and win. All she can think of is the blood that will be shed, the blood that will be on her hands.

She feels movement in her arms. Metal feathers slide over one another as wings part. An eye opens, flicks up at the girl, then fixes itself on the infernal outside, narrowing.

Vesper turns back. The kneeling figures wait, letting heads hang, weary. Many are injured. Together they number less than a third of the forces outside. She looks at Duet, one half of the Harmonised standing watchful, hopeful, the other less so, the holes in her chestplate like the sky punched clean of stars.

The sword tugs towards the First, towards battle. To Vesper’s surprise, the motion drags her with it, till her elbows rest on the barrier. Light fizzes where blade and barrier brush, and the First looks up.

Eyes and eye meet.

The sword begins to hum, soft.

The light barrier quivers and the First tilts as if suddenly struck by a strong wind.

Vesper tries to retreat, feels resistance. Young biceps strain, bobbing under sleeves like a pair of apples, and she steps back.

It seems as if the sword wants to fight and she wonders what that might mean. For a moment eyes squeeze shut. No, she thinks. No more fighting. Unable to bear it, she tests the lie in her mind. It feels wrong but anything is better than more bloodshed. She clears her throat. ‘The sword has spoken to me.’

Beside her, Genner lowers his head. ‘We are yours to command.’

It is hard to tell if the sword vibrates or the girl’s hands shake. ‘Gamma … Gamma of The Seven … does not want you to fight today.’

A few look surprised, most simply accept it.

Slowly, an eye swivels away from the barrier and back to the girl, glaring.