by Peter Newman
Samael speaks at length about their usage. Though enthusiastic, his voice is hard to hear, forcing Vesper’s knights to lean forward.
‘… And that is all. Who wishes to try them first?’
The knights lean back. Covert glances are exchanged. One of the knights in the front row wrinkles his nose.
Vesper’s tut is audible. ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘Forgive us,’ says one of the older knights. ‘But aren’t these swords tainted?’
‘No,’ says Samael. ‘The essence is inert. I have stripped the infernal from it.’
‘Then why is it called a Necro-blade?’
‘Because it was made from the essence of the dead and the skills involved are those refined by the Necroneers of Wonderland.’
The knights lean back a little further.
‘Oh for goodness sake!’ snaps Vesper. ‘This is a great gift. I’ve looked at them myself and there is nothing to fear.’
Shamed, the older knight steps forward and picks one up. He tests the weight, and after getting a nod from Samael, gives a few practice swings.
‘Now, try singing,’ the half-breed urges, pointing to a wooden target.
The knight sings, and the essence within the blade is charged by it, setting the weapon to humming. When he attacks, the enhanced edge cuts through the wood, clean.
‘It has no song of its own,’ Samael explains, ‘but it can empower yours.’
The old knight takes it in, thinks, then: ‘I have one question.’
‘Yes?’
‘Can I have another go?’
One Thousand and Thirty-One Years Ago
Sometimes, Massassi wishes she could not read essences. It would make the concern of others easier to ignore. She is sitting in her room, turning a bolt over in her hands. She is sure the idea for a new project is lurking just round the corner, and that if she is quiet for a while, it will come.
Peace-Fifteen stands nearby, wringing her hands.
‘What do you want?’ Massassi snaps. It is a cruel question as Massassi knows what the girl wants, why she wants it, why it’s important, just as she knows that she is doing what’s right. Massassi is cruel anyway. More and more, she takes pleasure in little acts of spite.
‘It is time for your medication.’
‘Is it? Haven’t I had enough for one lifetime? Maybe I just want to be left alone.’
Peace-Fifteen makes a show of checking the time. ‘Yes, it is definitely time. May I connect you?’
‘What if I said I didn’t want it?’
‘Then I would do nothing.’ There is a pause but Massassi can see she has not won yet. ‘Of course, I would remind you that a delay in treatment can cause discomfort, increased risk of clotting, put a strain on your heart, negatively impact on digestion, impair sleep—’
‘No more,’ cuts in Massassi, letting the girl experience a moment of heightened panic before adding, ‘No more of your arguments. I’ll take the thrice-damned medication and all the side effects it brings.’
Peace-Fifteen knows better than to say anything, getting straight to work. The valve in Massassi’s side is connected to a thin med-tube. Dosages are measured within the wall, fed through machinery directly into her body. Peace-Fifteen presides over every stage of the procedure, an extra measure of security, unnecessary. Massassi cannot help but be moved by her care, cannot help but hate herself for having turned into such a strange and bitter thing.
Overwhelmed by a rare touch of remorse, she keeps her complaints to a minimum, only a slight groan slipping out as Peace-Fifteen disconnects the med-tube.
Good intentions soon fade, however. ‘Why are you still here?’ she grumbles.
‘I thought it would be good for us to go for a walk,’ ven-tures Peace-Fifteen.
‘Why?’
‘To get some air.’
‘No, I don’t want to.’
‘You haven’t been outside for three days now.’
‘No.’
‘But you hate sitting around.’
‘No.’
Peace-Fifteen thinks for a moment. ‘We could go and see how Alpha, Beta and Gamma are doing. They love it when you visit.’
‘Gamma doesn’t.’
‘Of course She does. Only yesterday, She was asking where you were.’
Massassi looks at the bolt in her palm. It has come from another machine and is weathered from use. A piece of junk, as likely to ruin something it was put into as to fix it. Scrap. She tries to ignore the fact that Peace-Fifteen is still there, looking at her. Massassi hates that look! She is used to fear and reverence, but she finds reverence coupled with worry unbearable.
‘Go away.’ Massassi is aiming for a brusque command but, to her horror, achieves something more akin to a plea.
Peace-Fifteen bows, unable to hide the hurt from Massassi’s eyes, and walks away.
Alone, she takes in her surroundings. A tank for her daily immersions, a slab for sleeping badly on and very little else. She hates this room. It is empty and cold and is not made to sit around in. Stimulation is needed, something to engage her mind and distract her from the vague feeling of guilt that is becoming far too common in her life.
A fit of coughing takes her, requiring all of her attention. Fragile bones are shaken until her chest aches and the breath turns thin in her throat.
The bolt slips from her fingers, landing with a clang and rolling out of reach.
Massassi watches it, wheezing curses and making angry hand gestures, until warning lights begin to display on her monitors and Peace-Fifteen hurries back in.
The girl bows quickly. ‘Is everything alright?’
‘I’ve … decided,’ gasps Massassi, ‘that I want … to go … for a walk.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
A sky-ship flies low across the ocean, twin plumes of light streaming from the wings. Cables run from its underside at a forty-five degree angle, taut, linking it to a small sea-shuttle, towing it over wave-tops.
The Vagrant stands at the prow, a smile on his face. Jem and Reela stand with him, while Delta remains flat on the deck, still covered by the Vagrant’s old coat.
Every so often, the Vagrant glances at Jem, until the other man exclaims: ‘Alright! I admit it. This was a good idea.’
The Vagrant raises his chin slightly, catching Jem’s eye before bringing it down, a grand nod.
Because they only have one able pilot, they are forced to stop at night, the sky-ship putting down on open water. There has been a natural segregation during the day, Reela, Jem and the Vagrant staying on the sea-shuttle while the lieutenant and the other soldiers keep to the sky-ship.
At night, Jem crosses that line, going and sitting with the lieutenant as she tends to the one conscious soldier and the two unconscious ones.
‘How are they doing?’
‘They’re alive,’ replies the lieutenant, matter of factly. ‘For now.’
‘How about him,’ he points to the conscious soldier, the one with the dent in his helmet.
‘Not so good. He’s barely talking and not accepting any food.’
To his surprise, the soldier they’re discussing has already fallen into a light, unhappy sleep.
‘How about you?’
‘I’m able. Tired from the flying and …’ she trails off for a moment. ‘I’ll be ready to pick up again in the morning.’
‘Good. My name is Jem by the way, what’s yours?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
Jem starts to smile, then puts a hand to his mouth, self-conscious. ‘Because a very wise person once told me that it’s harder to be angry with someone when you know who they are.’
She doesn’t look convinced by his argument but replies anyway. ‘Lieutenant Mazar. No, just Mazar. They’ve probably already stripped me of rank and condemned me for this.’
‘Do they know what’s happened?’
‘They know enough,’ she says. ‘It’s obvious that we failed. Details don’t matter.’
Jem bra
vely tries to save the conversation. ‘Good to meet you anyway. Hungry?’
‘We have rations.’
‘Oh.’
There is moment, awkward, then Mazar says, ‘I have to rest.’
Defeated, Jem returns to the sea-shuttle.
Mazar waits to be sure that Jem has gone before slumping with relief. She was sure he suspected. Why else would he come with questions?
She doesn’t know what to make of the man, hasn’t known what to make of anything since Delta destroyed her world. Only two things are clear. She cannot live with Delta’s dis-pleasure and she cannot die until she has found some way to atone.
Whenever she closes her eyes, Delta’s stare back, twin windows to another world of storm and shade. There will be no rest tonight, sleep more of a threat to her now than a comfort.
Her soldiers have broken under the pressure. Unable to reconcile their duty with Delta’s judgement, unable to live with themselves, unable to act, they retreat to a place of twilight, paralysed.
Nobody should have to suffer this way, she thinks. Nobody.
She gets up, checks that Jem really has gone and isn’t hiding nearby. No one lurks on the other side of the hatch and no one clings to the wing outside. A light plays on the sea-shuttle opposite, highlighting chattering faces. To Mazar, their happiness is alien, a thing to be studied at a remove, no longer understood.
The hatch is re-sealed and she returns to her seat. For a while the display on the inside of the cockpit entertains. Repeated warnings flash that comms and navigation have failed, jarring next to the serene state of the primary systems.
Soundproofing keeps the noise of the waves at bay, and she turns off audio output. In the quiet, it is easy to hear the sounds of her companions breathing. Steady, slow, save for the occasional gasp as some new dream-terror presents itself.
Mazar nearly breaks into a litany to ask forgiveness but catches herself. She does not expect to be forgiven for this, would not take it even if offered.
They are calming now, the three soldiers settling into a deeper, more natural sleep. Their breath seems to find a rhythm, not quite in time but complementary, three waves whispering on neighbouring shores.
Mazar takes off her helmet. Her attempt to stow it in the nearby shelf fails. Preoccupied fingers fumble and it falls, hitting the floor, sounding sharp, angry, bouncing twice, rolling before coming to a scraping stop.
Her hands move quickly, covering her crumpling face. Tears come and shoulders shake, wretched, while one set of breathing slows nearby, hushing, hushing, to a final sigh.
She catches herself, wipes at tears and strains to listen. Only two sets of breathing remain, softer now, a pair of divers leading each other to the unexplored deep. Slowly, they fade, taken by the poison she administered. In the dark it is as if they are moving further away, wandering together, leaving Mazar alone.
In the morning the sky-ship resumes its journey. There are no communications active, the link to the network completely severed. This has several effects: the sky-ship cannot communicate or update navigation data, and it cannot be interfered with remotely, blissfully ignorant of any shut-down orders coming from the Knight Commander.
On the sea-shuttle, Reela plonks herself down next to Delta. She fusses, tucking a corner of the coat back under the immortal’s shoulder. Such is Delta’s size that the coat cannot cover her completely. Reela has given up worrying about feet or lower legs. However, one of Delta’s arms sticks out, elbow, wrist and hand exposed. Reela looks at it for a while, trying to decide what to do.
Neither Jem nor the Vagrant have noticed, one talking, worried, the other, equally worried, listening.
Reela works her fingers under Delta’s wrist, first one hand, then the other. It isn’t easy and by the time she has managed it, small cheeks are flushed with effort. Setting her shoulders, Reela tries to lift Delta’s arm onto her lap. With a grunt she gets it off the floor but can’t raise it over her knee. The arm flops down again, Reela dragged with it, hair leaping forward to ambush her face.
Hands trapped under a metal arm, Reela can only blow irritably at her hair. Eventually, it flops aside, releasing the left side of her face.
Reela begins to rock back and forth on her bottom, gaining speed. Twice, three times she goes, pulling lightly on Delta’s arm. On the fourth attempt, she throws herself back, adding momentum and body weight to childish strength.
Her labours bear fruit. When she is settled again in a sitting position, Delta’s hand is in her lap.
She puts her hand against the immortal’s, comparing them. Her fingertips barely cross the silver expanse of palm. This observation leads to a more in-depth exploration. A lack of lines is noted, the skin smooth, flawless, unlike the craggy surface of her own. Perhaps it is the smoothness, perhaps it is the surprising warmth, but Delta’s hand feels almost soft.
Reela leans down, planting a kiss in the centre of the palm, then turns her head, nuzzling, making a bed for her cheek.
Hunched over, the girl should be anything but comfortable. Childish biology triumphs however, and sleep comes soon after.
The Vagrant patrols the front rail of the sea-shuttle, checking each cable is secure. Eyebrows raise as his gaze falls on the horizon, where sunslight breaks the sea’s illusion of infinity, picking out cliffs and making cove shaped shadows.
Above them, the sky-ship alters its course, pulling them towards one of the many darknesses that eventually reveals itself to be a beach.
The sea-shuttle is eased onto the stones, and the Vagrant begins detaching cables even as the sky-ship comes down to land.
Jem comes over. ‘I think we have a problem.’
The Vagrant pauses, looks up at him.
‘It’s Reela.’
Whirling round, the Vagrant finds Reela sleeping at Delta’s side, both of them covered by his coat. He moves closer, frowning at the way the girl is so well tucked in.
‘I just found them like that.’ At the Vagrant’s shake of the head, he adds, hastily: ‘I’d only turned away for a second and she knew not to go near Delta. I’d told her lots of times. It isn’t my fault!’
Amber eyes glare and Jem takes a step back, involuntary.
The Vagrant bends down over the prostrate pair. Though Delta’s eyes are open, they stare straight up, unfocused. He reaches out very slowly, very carefully, pausing at the slightest twitch or sound, until he has a good grip on the coat’s collar.
Behind them the sky-ship settles onto the beach, hatch springing open, allowing Mazar to jump down and begin jogging towards them. She is armoured for battle, a rifle slung over her shoulder. As soon as she sees what the Vagrant is doing, she accelerates. ‘Don’t do it!’ she cries.
The Vagrant flinches in surprise and Jem ducks.
Mazar clears the last of the distance between them, hauling herself onto the sea-shuttle. ‘Don’t,’ she pleads, ‘don’t disturb Her.’
The Vagrant points at Reela and raises his hands, ex-asperated.
‘You can’t help the girl now.’
The Vagrant shakes his head, continues with his work. Further attempts to persuade him are ignored and both Mazar and Jem back away.
He eases the corner of his coat from under Reela and slowly peels it back until she is uncovered. Eyes flutter open, meeting his.
The Vagrant puts a finger to his lips and Reela does the same. Nodding, the Vagrant supports her weight as Reela slips her arm from Delta’s.
Silver fingers curl, eclipsing Reela’s hand, holding it tight.
Feeling the resistance, the Vagrant freezes.
Mazar swings off the side of the sea-shuttle and Jem ducks, both moving out of sight.
Reela’s arms have become a slope that run from Delta up to the Vagrant. While the Vagrant holds very still, Reela tugs harder.
Delta blinks.
Reela tugs again and Delta’s head turns to look at her.
There is a moment where nobody moves.
Then Reela smiles and nods towards the
sky-ship. The Vagrant also nods, beckoning her with a finger, offering her a hand.
Delta’s surprise strikes them both like a strong breeze. She takes the Vagrant’s hand, though she needs neither man nor girl to help her up, and stands in a single fluid movement.
The coat falls in the space between them, making a worn puddle of fabric at their feet.
Delta looks down at it and the Vagrant finds he has been released. He crouches down and picks up the coat, offering it up to Delta, who accepts without comment.
At another tug from Reela, Delta allows herself to be guided towards the sky-ship.
The Vagrant goes to follow but a plaintive hum from the deck stops him. The source is Delta’s sword, lying abandoned, staring at the space where recently there was a winged back, forlorn.
He gets up, walks over to it, and the eye swivels towards him, plaintive.
Sighing, he picks it up, hurrying to join the others.
Soon, they have all climbed into the sky-ship. No longer tied down, it rises easily into the air, leaving the sea-shuttle to the mercy of the waves.
Mazar keeps the sky-ship low, making regular adjustments to accommodate uneven scenery. Cliffs are left behind, replaced with sodden marshland and deep lakes. Tower tops and antennae, rusted, break the surface in places, giving hints of buried civilization.
These too give way to watery fields, long grasses sprouting in clumps, wild patches on the head of a balding man.
The Vagrant leans forward, pointing at the transparent panels by their feet.
Mazar slows the sky-ship and looks down. She sees a long caravan, strung out, meat runners transporting their trade. A variety of animals are with them; even from a distance they are sad and scrawny specimens. The caravan’s passage is clear, its progress ploughed through soft earth. However something is wrong, one of the heavy waggons leans, its wheel sunk too low. Beasts are brought forward, the humans working quickly to try and pull the wheel free. It is quite a show.
It is not what the Vagrant is pointing at.
Things are pulling themselves from the ground nearby. They move like worms but are too big to be worms, each about the size of a large dog. Mazar guesses there are at least a dozen of them.