by Peter Newman
Above, the pods decelerate and spend the last of their reserves in fields of energy, dazzling, sparking as they take the impact of landing.
They come down, some in the streets, some punching through walls. Metal rain that destroys noisily.
People run. Unable to tell which way is safest, they go in random directions. Dust plumes around them, lending a gritty mystery to the scene. Gradually, noise settles. Air clears.
A pod sits in a trench of its own making. A rectangle of white fades up along one of its sides. Soon after, there is a popping sound, soft, anticlimactic, and a segment of metal falls away, allowing a man to stumble out. He brings a hand to his forehead. His fingers come away moist, a much darker red than his hair. He wipes them quickly, then pulls a gun free from its holster.
He scans the streets, counting pods, watching them disgorge their contents onto the floor. Aside from his own people, the streets are empty.
They will not stay that way for long.
The man intones his name, not Genner, his real one. In answer, knights clank to attention, drawing swords, saluting. Squires rush to their sides and soldiers come limping, come running, moving as best they can into formation.
Duet does not join them, choosing instead to watch through a hole in a cracked wall. She stands either side of a pale-faced Vesper, fencing her between steel and stone.
The girl straightens, trying to peer through the hole. ‘What’s—’
Duet’s hands find her shoulders, silencing, pushing her back down.
Before the wall cuts the scene from her eyes, shots ring out. A squire catches a bullet with his hip, spinning twice before falling. The bullet continues on its merry way, barely slowed, bouncing off walls, looking for more targets. Knights and soldiers disperse, returning fire.
Behind the wall, Vesper struggles to make sense of the chaos outside. She hears more orders being given. They are under attack. More shots, shouts, the sudden belching of fire and screaming, like pigs being savaged by wolves. Pushing aside Duet, she manages to catch a glimpse of the action. Bodies twisting and tearing, people running, some of them on fire. She does not know who is dying and suddenly it does not matter. Nobody should suffer this way.
Vesper ducks down, unwilling to see further.
But the sounds continue, forcing past hands pressed over ears. Fire rumbles, steady, underscoring the highs and lows of battle, constant against the chatter of guns and screams of the injured. Time stretches, each moment heaping age on Vesper’s shoulders. She weeps, but war cares little for tears or the children that shed them.
Then, twenty-five voices rise together, thrumming along sacred blades, irresistible. And even though their judgement is not directed at her, even though the girl knows that this is the sound of the Seraph Knights joining the fight, she shivers.
In her arms, the sword is heavy and cold.
Hands release their pressure from Vesper’s shoulders but they do not leave. Duet nods, two heads moving as one. ‘It is safe –’
‘– For now.’
Her voices are complementary, not identical but seamless in the way they join their sentences.
Vesper looks from one to the other, quickly wipes her eyes. ‘I don’t understand … they weren’t infernal, they were just people. Like us. All the blood!’ Her mouth twists with horror. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t …’
Duet looks down at her and her sentence dies, unfinished.
‘They are –’
‘– Calling us.’
‘We must –’
‘– Go now.’
Duet guides her around piles of rubble. On the far side of the street, Vesper can make out something charred, smoking. Fascination and horror come hand in hand. For a while she cannot tell which side the body belonged to. No, she thinks, it is not one of theirs. Flecks of magenta in the uniform identify the unfortunate as Sonorous independent military. The realisation brings little relief.
A palm presses in the small of her back, moving her on. There is so much wreckage for such a small skirmish, she cannot take it all in, nor can she stop looking. Limbs, bits of clothing, unrecognisable hunks of meat, still sizzling on the stone. Smells invade nostrils, snake up into the brain to make memories, lasting.
On broken chunks of brick, she sees blood glistening. The sight makes her stop. There are no corpses here, just bricks flecked crimson and a dark puddle spreading between them. The strangeness of it holds her, troubling a traumatised mind.
‘What happened here?’
‘It doesn’t –’
‘– Matter.’
‘But how did the blood get here? Who did it belong to? This doesn’t make any sense.’
‘This is war –’
‘People die. That’s –’
‘– All.’
‘But there has to be more to it than that!’
Duet exchanges an exasperated look with herselves. ‘They are traitors –’
‘– Who side with demons.’
‘It’s them –’
‘– Or us.’
Vesper’s eyes are too wide, staring but not seeing.
‘We have –’
‘– To go.’
She doesn’t hear Duet, doesn’t catch the urgency in the Harmonised’s tone. ‘But who were they?’
‘We have –’
‘– To go.’
‘This was a person once.’
One of Duet tuts, the other sighs heavily, and both take one of Vesper’s arms, dragging her the rest of the way.
As they get closer to the main group, Vesper sees that Sonorous has lost many troops this day. Their own forces have fared better. Only one knight has fallen. Squires attend their dead master, reclaiming armour and sword. Such items are priceless, made by the creator when the Empire of the Winged Eye was born. Stripped of office and dignity, the corpse is placed with the others. There is no time for ceremony, so the soldiers move quickly, levelling their lances, incinerating remains. A knight’s death is regrettable, an untainted corpse left behind for the infernals, unforgivable.
Genner strides over to meet them. ‘You’re unharmed?’
Duet answers for the young girl. ‘The bearer –’
‘– Is unharmed.’
‘Then all is not lost. Help is coming but it will take time to reach us. We’re going to take the forge and hold out for rescue.’
‘This is wrong!’ Vesper exclaims, clutching the fabric of Genner’s uniform in her fists. ‘These people have died because of me! I’m not the bearer. I’m just a stupid girl. You take the sword. Here.’
He leans closer to her ear, lowering his voice. ‘It’s too late for that. You are the bearer, you have to believe that and they –’ he gestures to the troops and squires, patching wounds and forming up behind him ‘– have to believe it too.’
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 p
asses 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!’
CHAPTER FOUR
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.
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 Harmoni
sed. ‘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.’