The Malice

by Peter Newman

  She sees it all then, and understands.

  So many of them! Drawn by ethereal currents like scum down a plughole, swirling towards the world, poised to pollute, to change, to destroy. And behind them, gaping open, is an incomprehensible dark, ready to drink the silvered light of her true self whole. For a deadly moment it takes her attention, the other monsters fading from sight.

  All becomes empty.

  There is nothing.

  Nothing.

  Noth–

  No.

  She holds the thought. Forms it a second time.

  No.

  She has been to this place before. She will not allow it to take her. She will not.

  Her hand opens, her palm closes and her arm drops away.

  Massassi walks clear, returning to her own solid world. She thinks of all she has seen. Of the multitude that is coming. She has always been alone but for the first time in her life she feels incredibly, painfully lonely.

  *

  Duet tries to count the hunters as she runs.

  Vesper tries not to fall over.

  The kid simply runs.

  Behind them and the hunters come the swarm, and further back, a host of opportunistic beasts and scavengers.

  Vesper sees some higher ground and makes for it. The slope sucks speed from her tired legs but she persists. The hill is covered with stubbly grass. It snaps underfoot, smearing her boots, garish and green.

  At the top she sees the crops stretching for miles in every direction. Endless yellow, waving softly in the wind, sickly. Further south however, the stalks are overshadowed by tall buildings and taller spires. Gravity defying roads spiral around and between them.

  Wonderland.

  It is not as grand as Vesper expected. Her uncle had talked of lights, lights everywhere, with more variety and warmth than the Shining City’s cutting brightness. The only lights she sees now are reflected sunsbeams, red and gold, winking suggestively from the highest towers.

  Even so, it brings hope.

  ‘This way!’ she shouts, running down the other side of the hill, enjoying the sudden burst of speed it gives her.

  The kid struggles to keep up.

  On and on they run, hunters hot on their heels.

  Duet glances back, sees figures flitting between the stalks, details too easy to discern. She sees clothes, old but maintained, and weapons more advanced than sharpened sticks.

  Across the narrowing gap between pursuers and prey, darts begin to spit, thin, spiteful things. Several find their mark. They lack the strength to penetrate Duet’s armour, lodging themselves into the metal, shallow, to become unwanted accessories.

  The Harmonised spreads her arms wide, keeping close behind Vesper.

  Only luck and lack of height protect the kid.

  One punctures the bag on Duet’s back, cracking a small tube within. Soon, tablets weep from the hole, hard and blue.

  Vesper keeps the image of Wonderland in her mind. She tells herself it cannot be far and gradually, the world comes to agree with her. Greys and blues become visible between the stalks.

  ‘We’re nearly there!’ she cries.

  She makes it to the first structure before realising that Duet no longer shadows her. Whirling round, she sees the Harmonised doubled over, clutching at her side. Old wounds have rebelled, fed up of being ignored.

  As she rushes back to help, the fastest of the hunters arrives. A short man, bulked with muscle. He hurdles a treacherous root, winding his dartgun, firing.

  The missile streaks over Duet’s bent back and buries itself in the thick fabric of Vesper’s coat, half an inch from her neck. The girl raises her own weapon. There is not time for hesitation but no desire to pull the trigger.

  She points low, away from the hunter’s body, and squeezes.

  A searing light stabs out, too fast to avoid. It burns a hole through the hunter’s thigh, scorching flesh, then biting into the foliage beyond.

  The man screams and goes down.

  Duet looks up, intent, forcing Vesper to focus on her. ‘Go!’

  Instead, she grabs Duet’s hand. ‘It’s not far, come on!’

  ‘No,’ replies Duet, shaking her head, giving Vesper’s hand a final squeeze. ‘I’m done. I …’

  Before she can finish, the man screams again. This time with words: ‘Help me!’

  Vesper turns back but the man is not where he fell. The swarm has found the injured hunter, crawling under his legs, hooking into his skin, lifting, dragging him away into depths of the yellow forest. The girl just has time to see the man’s face, to register the panic and pleading before he is gone.

  Unaware of their colleague’s fate, more hunters burst through the undergrowth.

  Vesper fires again and figures hurl themselves to the ground, shaking the long grasses with curses. Then she runs, keeping a firm grip on Duet, who adds her own seasoning to the hunter’s words but allows herself to be pulled along.

  Branches tug, vines threaten to trip. Vesper ducks and jumps where she can, pushes through where she can’t. Cuts and stings collect, aching muscles make their presence known but all bow down to the need to live. Adrenaline urges her on and all at once they break clear of the stalks, almost falling into the city.

  Suddenly, the ground is hard, shocking legs, and resonating to the pitter patter of hooves.

  Duet comes to a stop on her knees. ‘I can’t …’

  Vesper points the gun back the way they came. She sees no targets but keeps her guard up and breath held.

  Time passes.

  Nothing comes out of the forest.

  No hunters or wild creatures, not even the hum of a tainted insect. Were it not for the darts protruding from Duet’s shoulder plates and the one still in Vesper’s collar, it would be easy to pretend the hunters were never there.

  Hastily, Vesper pulls out the scope with her free hand and puts it to her eye. Enhanced sight penetrates the shadows, reveals a group pulled far back, arguing. She cannot read their lips but their expressions are clear enough.

  ‘They’re afraid.’

  ‘Of what?’

  Vesper shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Us?’

  Duet’s laugh is bitter. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘At least they aren’t chasing us any more.’

  ‘For now.’

  ‘Good point. Let’s go!’

  The Harmonised holds up a hand. ‘Don’t think I can. My busted side can’t take any more running.’

  Worry lines appear on Vesper, hinting at an older face yet to emerge. ‘Okay.’ She gathers some debris, a faded piece of panelling and a withered half of a water container. She covers the Harmonised with them, concealing everything save the tip of her helm and the toe of her right boot. ‘I’m going to get help. Stay there.’

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘I’ll be back soon, I promise.’ She looks at Duet, moves closer and reaches around the panelling to take her hand, squeezing the gauntlet tight. ‘I promise, okay?’

  ‘You know it’s a crime to lie in the presence of The Seven?’

  Vesper smiles weakly. ‘I know.’

  The medical bag is left by her side, along with the last of their rations. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be but, hopefully, you can last for a few days at least. Not that I’ll be gone that long. I should be back in an hour at the most. Maybe two.’

  ‘Enough talking.’

  ‘Right.’ She turns to go.

  Eyes smile behind the visor, not soft, but softer. ‘And the sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back.’

  Vesper brightens. ‘Right!’

  ‘Right.’

  The girl sets off at a run.

  From a gap in the side of her cover, a small head appears. Dark eyes regard her a moment more than is comfortable, then the kid bounds away.

  Duet mutters to herself, twisting to look through a hole in the panel. The yellow forest remains quiet, mysterious.

  Apparently, she is alone.

  One hand rests on her side, the other on
the hilt of her sword. Both are useless. Another look through the hole reveals an unchanged view. Wincing in pain, Duet takes a blue pill from the bag. It is not enough. She reaches for another, surprised to find the tube broken and empty. Quiet curses fill the air while she investigates the bag more thoroughly. A variety of pills present themselves, several not normally available to citizens of the Winged Eye.

  She weighs them in her palm, knowing she should not use them while cheeks flush red, guilty.

  *

  A fly weaves its way through the Fallen Palace, buzzing past sloping rooftops. The Man-shape waits for it, leaning out of a leaning tower, mouth open. When the fly arrives on tired wings, it does not land as expected, instead zigzagging back and forth over the cavernous split in the infernal’s head.

  For a moment the Man-shape is confused. Then it remembers, summoning its tongue from deep within and draping it over lower teeth.

  Immediately, the fly lands.

  The Man-shape’s head closes like a steel trap. A droplet of blood spurts, and with it, a whisper of essence.

  It digests the message slowly, pondering the contents. Only when the Man-shape steps away from the window does it notice Samael standing in the doorway.

  The Man-shape frowns, trying to adopt an expression of displeasure. However it has met very few humans, and those it has have been in states of extreme distress. As a result, all of its attempts tend towards the comic.

  A wheeze escapes Samael’s lips and his shoulders shake. The half-breed laughs rarely these days, so he makes sure to enjoy the moment.

  The Man-shape turns its back on him. Its usual control seems to weaken. Shoulders slump, arms hang slack.

  Samael steps closer, curious. He hears the infernal drawing in air, manipulating it.

  Within the cave of the Man-shape’s stomach, muscles contort and bones shift, a delicate operation. At last, the air is pushed out, undercut by distant buzzing. ‘I have been practising my speech again. What do you think?’ Samael’s shoulders clank as he raises them. ‘Is that all you can say? Even the master could not speak. Certainly none of the pretenders can manage it. They say the First speaks as the mortals do. Talk with me. I wish to practise.’

  ‘Why?’ Samael hates the sound of his voice. It is too quiet, too full of echoes. Wrong. Since his creator changed him, he has been losing it, a little more every year.

  ‘Because,’ the Man-shape replies, ‘you are all I have.’

  ‘This place is full of half-breeds.’

  ‘Born here. Their shrieks do not interest me.’

  ‘I am ready to let it go. Take it from me if you want.’

  ‘No. Such cuts always bleed and you must remain intact if you are to save the master’s legacy.’

  Samael’s hair brushes his shoulders as he shakes his head. He is bored of these discussions. His impulse is not to rule but to … to what? His steel hill is no longer safe. His desire to watch and defend against the Breach has come to nothing. Next to the Yearning, he is nothing. There is nowhere to go. No purpose to motivate and so he stays. Caught by inertia.

  The Man-shape continues: ‘Do you ever wonder why we are this way?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You do. Of course you do. Like you, I do not remember much of my time before the master. Before I came to this place, I had no form, no function. I have always thought that the master gave me these things but lately I have begun to doubt.

  ‘The master’s will shaped ours. It created everything. Our hierarchy, the displays, all of it stemmed from the master’s wishes. But where did the master draw inspiration?’

  ‘I never knew your master.’

  The Man-shape carries on as if Samael had not spoken. ‘We are unlike the mortals. Superior, and yet we copy them. I think it began when the master forced itself into the shell of our enemy, taking on her shape and, I think, more than a slice of her thoughts. The master believed her shell fully purged before taking residence but something of the foundation must have remained. And then, during our battles to transform this world, the world transformed us.’

  ‘Where is this going?’

  ‘Yes, where is this going? I wonder that often.’

  ‘The Yearning will take us all soon.’

  ‘Will it? My Zero in New Horizon brings news. The Malice has returned. An old tooth in young hands. It sharpens by the day. That is what will end us all.’

  Samael nods, accepting the inevitable, feeling neither joy or sadness.

  ‘Unless,’ the Man-shape adds, ‘it could be controlled.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘I am going to send word to the others and they will hunt the Malice down and find a way to turn it on the Yearning. It is our only chance.’

  ‘Then do it.’

  ‘I will. But first I wanted to tell you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To give you a head start. Whoever succeeds in this will become our new monarch.’

  ‘I am not interested.’

  ‘Then which of them would you rather serve?’

  Samael stops. He wants to say that he does not care but that would be a lie. Without another word, he makes for the door.

  And as his boots ring out on tarnished steps, the Man-shape smiles its inhuman smile.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Long ago, Wonderland was adorned with necrotic pipes and posts, unliving structures bonded with the steel and plastics of the original city. Only stains of their rot remain now, cleared away by rain and a myriad of creatures, happy to feed on old meat.

  Vesper wanders slowly through empty streets, head tilted up to take in the dizzying sights. On the walls of the outermost towers are faded marks: rough warnings repeated on every side. At the base of these towers is a barrier of debris, ten metres high, made from rubbish, mud and yellowing bones. The mud is uniformly grey brown, the bones a maddening variety of animal, human and blends in-between.

  She stops in front of it. The kid stops next to her.

  ‘Do you think this is the sort of wall that keeps people out or that keeps people in?’

  The kid sniffs at the base of the barrier and quickly steps back.

  Vesper takes the hint and squeezes her nose before peering more closely.

  In places, time has decayed the barrier, sections have partially collapsed, making a climb possible. Rain has begun the excavation of a giant’s fleshless forearm. Once the property of a Usurperkin, now a key support in the wall. Vesper marvels at its size for a moment, then eyebrows shoot up, inspired. She extracts an old tube from the wall and pokes it through the gap between radius and ulna. The mottled plastic slides through the mud on the other side, going deeper and deeper until Vesper’s arm is passing through the bone and she is leaning against the barrier, drinking in its stench. Loose bits of matter spill down onto her shoulders, clump in her hair. She tries to push away, her hand sinking in a couple of inches before finding purchase. Wet earth fills the space between her splayed fingers and she feels the edge of something else, a horror yet hidden.

  The girl jumps back, gagging, pale, and vomit rises in her throat, threatening to appear.

  Bemused, the kid watches from a safe distance.

  There is coughing, a distinctly wet burp and the danger passes.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ she says quietly. ‘I can’t.’ But thoughts of Duet haunt her. If the Harmonised dies, it will be her fault and she is already full with guilt. ‘I must do this.’ She repeats it, a mantra: ‘I must do this. I must do this.’

  When breathing has returned to normal, Vesper pulls her top up over her mouth and begins scavenging again. Eventually she finds an aerial, bent in the middle to form a circle, approximately neck-sized. She straightens out the metal, then uses it to unblock the tube that she has placed through the muddy wall. Her tools are imperfect and progress is slow.

  The kid sits down.

  Sometimes the aerial yields before the mud does and Vesper has to straighten it again. She
glances around, then whispers a curse, experimental. Cheeks flush with daring and she swears again, suddenly feeling very grown up.

  At last, the aerial forces out the last of the blockage and Vesper is able to see through the tube to the other side. The view is limited. A courtyard strewn with debris, some of it human, some of it twitching. Handlings scuttle from one shadow to the next, while bald birds with no feathers and sagging bellies line up on a nearby rooftop.

  She looks back to the kid. ‘It’s horrible over there but I think we’ll be okay. Shall we climb over?’

  The kid gives her a sour look.

  ‘Okay,’ she agrees, glad to move away from the barrier’s edge. ‘Let’s try and find another way in. Come on!’

  The kid springs up.

  Vesper wanders around the perimeter and finds the barrier continues in a large square, linking the towers and sealing in the gaps.

  A noise startles them both, a growl, animalistic. It is not clear what makes it and Vesper has no wish to find out. Legs protest at the idea of further running.

  She studies the buildings as the growling draws closer, her eyes alighting on a low window, one of the few to be broken but not boarded. She pulls out the biggest chunks of plasglass from the frame and drapes her coat over the smaller ones.

  It is a simple thing to lift the kid over. A rough tongue laps at her face as she drops the young goat on the other side. Then she pulls herself through.

  Dust cakes the room and its contents, muting colours and blending objects. A single chair takes centre stage, cut from a chunk of LiveFoam and still holding the imprint of its last occupant. The chair is tilted at an angle, perfect for reclining or sleep.

  Vesper draws the kid close and crouches low under the window. The kid sniffs at her ears and she has the ridiculous urge to giggle. ‘Ssh,’ she whispers.

  The growling creature moves by the wall now. She closes her eyes, unable to stop her imagination creating images, vivid, of the monster outside and how she would look hanging from its jaws.

  Outside, the growling stops.

  The kid trembles against her as Vesper holds her breath.