by Peter Newman
‘Ssh,’ says her uncle.
Vesper freezes, panic gripped until she realises that the voice is not directed at her.
‘It was just a dream. I’m right here. Vesper’s asleep next door. We’re all okay … Ssh … Go back to sleep.’
Against all reason, Vesper risks a glance inside. Uncle Harm lies beside her father, propped up on an elbow, stroking his brow. Her father’s eyes are closed and Vesper relaxes a little.
As her father drifts back into sleep, tension falls away, making him appear suddenly younger. Not young, Vesper decides, but not as old as he looks in the day.
She doesn’t stop to wonder if her uncle is lying or simply unaware, and moves quickly downstairs, determined to do something to help.
Since her previous visit to the storeroom, boxes have been stacked in front of the door, blocking it. Young arms struggle with the weight and she is forced to place them heavily. She winces as each one clunks against the floor, waiting for the tell-tale sounds of her father or uncle being disturbed.
But upstairs, all is quiet.
Sweating, she removes the last obstacle and goes inside. The room is small, more a glorified cupboard than living space. Junk is stacked messily on top of boxes. Vesper begins to pull things down. She is often distracted. An old rubber lung catches her eye. She squeezes it and it sighs for her. The sound is comforting. She sniffs it, enjoying the faint tang. There are other things, half-finished carvings that her father has abandoned. One is of a smiling knight with bulging muscles. Most are of a woman, vague shapes never fully realised.
When she lifts the first box clear the humming gets fractionally louder.
Excitement and youth make quick work of the pile. Boxes are dumped behind her, scattering across the kitchen floor, haphazard. Without them, the storeroom looks spacious.
Vesper frowns, listens again. She searches the corners, now accessible, finding only dust-heavy webs, long vacated.
Nothing. The storeroom is empty.
As quickly as it came, excitement vanishes. Vesper hangs her head. But humming persists, not imagined, invisible. She feels it through her feet. With a vengeance, excitement returns. Vesper presses her cheek flat on the floor and sees a board not quite aligned with the others. Fingers work the edge, teasing it up until purchase can be found. She lifts the board and sees space underneath. She lifts two more, revealing a shallow hole lined in trembling plastic. She dares to touch it, feels the humming through her fingers.
More carefully now, reverent, she pulls it back to reveal a long dusty box and a pair of old boots. The boots release a heady musk, mixing damp, old sweat, and other less savoury things. Vesper pulls them on anyway. She tries walking in them, imagining herself as a mysterious traveller. But boots soon fall from little feet, one thump, then another. They remain upright, stiff from experience.
The box is heavy and Vesper struggles to lift it out. Twice it slips out of her fingers, sliding back into the hole at an angle. She does not try a third time, instead leaning into the hole and flipping the catch. The lid creaks as it opens, protesting. A cloud of dust puffs out, demanding its tribute of coughs. Vesper obliges, once, twice, thrice.
An old coat has been used to pack the box. Vesper takes it out. The fabric is worn but tough, reassuring. The coat has been stitched together in places. Lower down, scorch marks and bite marks decorate, left by tainted dogs and unearthly fires. She puts the coat on. It is too big for her, almost a robe. The reality of how she looks in it makes no impact on Vesper’s imagination and she keeps it on, grinning.
Only then does she look down.
The humming has quietened, softening into contentment. At the bottom of the box lies a sword. Sheathed. Silvered wings wrapping the hilt unfurl, reach up to her. Open, they reveal an eye set in the crosspiece, staring, waiting.
One Thousand, One Hundred and Thirty-Seven Years Ago
In a storm of purple lighting where clouds look like egg sacs and the sky like a cavernous throat, a baby is born. Only the baby can see the storm, however. To the others the sky appears as it always does, a haze of light pollution and smog.
They wonder why the newborn is showing signs of distress. Experts circle her glassy pod, examining. She seems healthy, a good strong set of lungs, a decent heart. All limbs appear in working order. The experts shake their heads, concluding it is just a temperamental issue, merely emotional. They dose the baby with calming drugs and, as expected, it settles down.
Years pass and the baby is given a name, a gender and a social class. The baby becomes a girl, Massassi, and she is put into the lower middle echelons. Her supervisor is warned of her predisposition to irrational outbursts and authorised to medicate where necessary.
The girl becomes an apprentice mechanic and proves skilful. At the tender age of eight, she is assigned work on the great construction mechs, crawling into nooks and crannies, repairing. It is dangerous work. The mechs are automated and held to rigid schedules. They pause rarely and never for very long. The girl must be quick or dead. She darts between pistons, removing blockages, replacing worn parts, squeezing into spaces too tight for adult bodies. For the first year, she is quick enough.
Perhaps it is a mark of respect that she is trusted with such deadly work, or perhaps it is because she does not get on with her peers or her supervisor, or anyone else. Massassi is a brooding, angry girl. Too clever for her age but not clever enough, not yet.
She enjoys the thrill of her work, finds the thought-invading anger that haunts her nights is sated by daily brushes with death.
There is no time off, no holiday to take, but all workers have enforced downtime, carefully scheduled activity changes to maximise efficiency. More than anything else, she dreads the mandatory social gatherings. One day, after three consecutive events, the anger grows so strong that she starts to break things. Immediately, an alarm sounds on her supervisor’s HUD and he whispers an order.
Implanted dispensers in Massassi’s spine go to work and anger fades, humbled.
She remembers little of these times but doesn’t complain, even prefers it that way. When she requests dangerous levels of overtime, her supervisor doesn’t check too closely.
Massassi is ten when she has the accident.
Her thoughts are elsewhere, cloudy with free-floating emotion. She is supposed to be fixing the shoulder motors of Superior Class Harvester 4879-84/14 but all she wants to do is tear them apart. For the first time, she wonders why she is different, and if perhaps everyone else is not at fault after all.
Preoccupation, however slight, is dangerous. Massassi combines hers with fatigue and a self-destructive streak. Too late, she realises the Harvester is reactivating. Massassi tries to throw herself clear but her sleeve catches on a piece of wiring, wiring she would normally have secured.
She cannot free her arm.
Engines roar with power, blades spin, lights flash.
The Harvester moves.
Massassi screams.
Blood smears between metal plates, bones grind to chalky powder.
On her supervisor’s HUD, an alarm sounds.
CHAPTER TWO
Thoughts come like the tide from a distant shore. They get closer, louder, more insistent. Gradually, they gain form, lifting through the fog, breaking the spell.
As awareness returns, Vesper finds herself leaning into the hole, hands hovering inches from a feathered hilt, perfectly aligned with the upturned wings, like partners before a dance.
The girl blinks, the sword does not.
It glares at her for a few moments, judgemental, then the eye closes with sudden disinterest. Apparently, she is not the one it wants.
She thinks of her father, standing in the same spot earlier that day, and she begins to understand why he was afraid.
It is tempting to repack the room and turn her back on it but she knows that won’t work. The sword will keep calling and wearing her father down. He is already tired, it will only be matter of time before he succumbs.
Something must be done.
She swallows, realising that she has come to a decision.
The sword has to go. She resolves to take it to Genner and let him deal with it. There are many knights after all. They will find one and give the sword to them. Afterwards she will come home and it will be safe again. Her father will be free.
She removes the sword from the storeroom to the kitchen and returns its box to the hole, covering it with floorboards. Then she replaces all of the boxes, trying her best to match their original positions. Finished, she shuts the door and blocks it as her father had earlier.
With luck, she thinks, he’ll never know what’s happened.
Only after she’s finished does she realise she’s still wearing the old coat. She gives a shrug, happy, deciding to keep it.
Vesper creeps back to her room and dresses in silence, quickly. She collects the sword last, wrapping it in an old plastic sheet. Scared it might wake again, she tries to make as little contact with it as possible, being especially careful to avoid the hilt and the eye twitching within.
When she opens the door a cold breeze touches her cheeks. She shivers and sets off, not noticing the small body curled by the front door. At the sound of her passing, the kid blinks awake, springing up. He looks round, sleep forgotten at the sight of his good mother, and follows.
Both forms are quickly swallowed by the night.
The sword is lighter than it looks, but still heavy for a young girl to carry. In the dark, familiar ground becomes strange, and Vesper stumbles down the hill, jolting her legs, the bundle bouncing in her arms. Despite plastic wrapping, its edge digs into forearms, painful.
She pauses halfway down, looks at the sword again, sure that under the four layers of plastic, it is looking back. She swallows, sniffs. Dust tickles nostrils and she wipes her nose on her sleeve, only to discover her new coat is filthy. Sneezes come.
Paranoia makes her look back towards the house. But instead of her father, watching from a window, she finds the kid at her heels.
Shifting the weight of the sword onto one arm, she points back up the hill with the other. ‘Go, off you go. You can’t come with me. Go home.’
A warm head butts against her hand.
‘No. You need to go back. You need to …’ Vesper trails off, finds herself stroking the kid. ‘I suppose we won’t be gone long, are you sure you want to come?’
The kid looks at her, eyes full of love, mouth full of hunger.
She sighs, returning to the house to grab a bottle of milk from the kitchen before hurrying back. ‘Come on then.’
Together, they continue, picking their way across uneven ground. More than once, she trips in the dark. ‘Stupid! Should’ve packed a torch.’
The kid bleats, hoping for food.
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll find our way.’
As if in answer a light winks into existence at the bottom of the hill, illuminating a man in dark uniform, the only decoration a badge of the winged eye at the collar. As girl and goat approach, the figure resolves into a familiar shape: Genner. He shines his light on them. ‘Vesper? What …? His light travels to the sword and back up to Vesper’s face. ‘What are you doing with a relic of The Seven?’
‘I’m sorry!’ she blurts. ‘I had to, I—’
Genner’s frown smoothes suddenly. ‘It chose you!’ he exclaims. ‘We expected it to call your father … but it’s you! You … you are the new bearer.’
Caught between trouble and truth, she nods, her eyes darting back towards the house with the lie.
He goes down on one knee, lowering his head. Ginger hair refuses to be sombre, springing from its tie like an angry bush. Words are intoned, soft, musical, their meaning lost on Vesper. Genner looks up. ‘Thank The Seven. Bearer, we must—’
‘Me?’ She stifles a laugh. ‘I’m not … I just thought, well, if my father doesn’t want to use the sword, I should take it to someone who did.’
‘Vesper, you don’t understand. The sword lets you carry it. It has chosen you.’
She remembers the way it looked at her and doesn’t believe him. ‘I suppose so.’ Vesper looks warily over her shoulder.
Behind Genner, the air shimmers as if struck by the summer suns. A beat later, the space is filled by a sky-ship. Vesper’s eyes widen, taking in the stars reflected in its surface, and the tapering wings where twin engines spin, murmuring.
Genner smirks. ‘That’s exactly what I said when I first saw one.’
The kid is less impressed, diving for cover behind Vesper’s legs.
‘Are you ready, bearer?’
On the side of the sky-ship a door opens, swinging upward on a hinge. ‘This way,’ Genner says, gesturing to the door. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’
Vesper allows herself to be led aboard, hesitating briefly as thoughts of her parents flare, worried faces, words of disappointment, and that frown.
The kid panics. Before he can make a decision, the girl and the man have climbed inside. With a cry, the kid dashes after them.
The door shuts before he gets there.
The kid cries out again.
The engines spin faster, light building, taking the weight of the sky-ship, preparing to leap towards heaven.
The door opens again and Vesper’s head appears. ‘Come on then!’
This time the kid doesn’t hesitate.
As soon as he has leapt inside, the door closes again. Light pulses, pushing down, and grass sprays outward. The frame of the vehicle trembles, the air around it becoming opaque.
A moment later, the sky-ship is gone.
The first of the suns begins to rise, charging the air gold. Its light picks up a house on top of a hill. The house is quiet, full of tension. The door opens and a man steps out. He limps quickly across to the smaller house and looks inside.
Dark eyes glare at him.
He ignores them and goes back into the other house. Minutes pass and he appears again, this time with a hand-carved staff. The wood is worn with use, much like the man that carries it. He sets out quickly, wincing as he goes, amber eyes hunting the grasses.
Harm steps out soon after, moving slowly. He also carries a stick but, rather than leaning on it, he lets it brush the earth by his feet, bouncing lightly, testing for bumps.
‘Any sign of her?’
Vesper’s father doesn’t answer, continuing his study of the ground.
Irregular footprints are easily found in the dirt. Nodding grimly, he follows.
The red glow of the second sun tints the clouds as he reaches the bottom of the hill.
He stops, frowning at the carnage inflicted on the ground. Powerful forces have churned earth here, eating the trail. His frown deepens. No tracks appear on the other side.
He looks up, shielding his eyes from the light.
Nothing.
Eventually, Harm’s hand finds his shoulder. He allows himself to be turned round, takes a breath to speak but, instead of words, tears fall.
For a long time they stand, two men joined in sadness, their shadows circling, the suns slow-dancing across the sky.
*
Away from the hustle and bustle of the imperial port, three figures haggle. Waves lap the rocks. Gossip and insults fly back and forth, changing hands faster than goods. Underneath gruff exteriors a strange affection lies. Each has survived long enough to weather the distaste of the other. Each has a secret.
One is a woman who fled from the south years ago. As her companions fell around her, she found the strength to move forward, fuelled by their failure. Sometimes she dreams of those days, waking with the taste of raw meat on her lips.
One is a man who steals goods from others, passing them off as his own.
One is neither woman nor man. Appearing to mortal eyes they appear as a woman of middling years. Perhaps her hair is a little lank, her skin a little pale, but this is hardly uncommon for those forced to live beyond the Shining City’s border.
The three hide their true natures, ke
eping well clear of the Winged Eye’s agents, skulking in the fringes.
As they continue their haggling and grumblings, a sky-ship passes overhead, quick, invisible.
Two of the figures do not notice. The third looks up sharply, as if a wasp has stung her on the crown.
‘You alright there, Nell?’
She pauses. The others cannot see the essence flow around her. Normally, the First keeps each of its fragments buried deep within mortal shells, to protect them from the rage of the world. However, a link between them remains, faint, a spiderweb drawn in watercolour, more memory than substance, an echo. And while each is distinct, evolved slightly away from the original, they can, for a moment, become one again.
The First takes the moment. Experiences jar together, jumbling, confusing, multiple timelines jostling, arranging themselves, finding order. Briefly, the First breathes easily, unconstrained.
Then the burning starts and it is over.
Lines of essence fade and consciousness divides, shrinking down.
In total, the pause is little more than the heartbeat of a hummingbird, but that is all it takes for the information to pass unseen across the ocean.
Such exertions cause the First terrible pain but impulses are easily controlled. In a dozen different places, faces twitch, stammer and reset to normal.
‘Can’t complain, Jacky,’ replies Nell. ‘Reckon we might be havin’ a storm soon though.’
‘You reckon?’
Nell looks up at the apparently empty sky and scratches at her belly, making the action appear spontaneous. ‘Feel it in my bones so I do. It’s a storm alright. A big one.’
CHAPTER THREE
Samael walks the last mile to the Fallen Palace. He does not need to slow down. Muscles can be forced beyond human limits and fatigue is a stranger to him, a person passed by in another life, no longer relevant. He walks to appear more powerful. He walks because, despite the growing threat behind him, it feels like the right thing to do.
Mud clings to his boots, to his shins, reaching up to his knees like a desperate lover. Flies buzz in close orbit, circling, never landing, both drawn to and repelled by his rotting body.