by Peter Newman
‘Please stop fighting,’ pleads Vesper.
‘Move!’ shouts the plague victim.
‘I warned you!’
With casual strength, the Usurperkin raises a hand, palm out, and shoves the human away. He flies back with surprising speed, feet moving like a crazed dancer trying to keep balance.
Everyone watches, held rapt as the stumble becomes a trip, then a fall, fast and hard. The crack of skull on pavement is crisp, final.
Vesper cries out and tries to push past, wanting to help the fallen, knowing it is probably too late.
The kid retreats into the hallway.
Already close to losing her temper, the Usurperkin is unprepared for new surprises. She feels Vesper pushing her and reacts on instinct, grabbing at the girl and roaring, lifting her one-handed, lips pulled away from massive teeth.
The crowd’s shock gives way quickly to outrage, then anger. They have never fully trusted the Marshals or their offspring and now their suspicions, nurtured in the dark, dress up as facts. ‘Murderer!’ cries one. ‘They want to keep us locked up!’ shouts another, each one fuelling the fire. And then another: ‘She’s attacking the bearer!’
Duet’s sword is in her hand but Vesper dangles between her and the Usurperkin. She notes the gap beneath Vesper’s feet and the possibility of striking the Usurperkin’s ankles, and prepares herself.
Vesper tries to speak but cannot get the words past her collar, held tight in green fingers.
At her shoulder, an eye opens, angry.
The effect is immediate. The Usurperkin roars and throws Vesper away from her. The girl sails through the air, back into the corridor, and Duet, who just has time to move her blade clear before becoming a human crash mat. For the Harmonised, it is an unpleasant experience. There is a crunch and a clatter, a grunt, a curse, and a brief glint in the kid’s eye.
Too late, recognition dawns on the Usurperkin’s face and rage drains away. ‘Sorry,’ she begins, ‘I didn’t realise it was you.’
Vesper’s reply is only discernible as a wheeze.
And then the crowd grabs at the Usurperkin.
The doorway frames the violence, people jumping at the lone half-breed, kicking, punching, unable to bring her down. From the end of the street, reinforcements come, giant uniformed figures at full sprint. But the crowd continues its attack, and then a knife appears in someone’s hand.
Usurperkin blood flows, darker than untainted blood but just as red.
‘For the Winged Eye!’ shouts a man, holding the knife proudly aloft.
Duet gets to her feet and moves to the door, shutting it and slamming the bolts home. Horrific sights are banished but the noises continue on the other side, relentless.
Finally, Vesper finds her voice: ‘No!’
Duet scoops up her sword with one hand and the girl with another. ‘Let’s find another way out.’
‘No,’ says Vesper. ‘We have to stop them!’
‘They’re past listening,’ she replies, moving deeper into the building. ‘Come on.’
But Vesper doesn’t follow. With frenzied hands, she unbolts the door and jumps outside.
More people have arrived and even the mighty Usurperkin struggle to contain them.
‘Stop!’ shouts Vesper. ‘In the name of The Seven, stop!’
Most don’t hear her over the sounds of melee but a few do, and they add their voices to hers. A ripple of calm spreads out, those on the edges of the crowd kneeling before the watchful eye of the sword. In moments, everyone has stopped, even the Usurperkin, though they do not join the others on the floor.
The air remains tense however, a storm of bloody fists and old hatreds, ready to break.
The moment grows, the pressure with it.
Vesper swallows, licks her dry lips and begins to speak.
A girl’s words drift across a crowded street. Bright yet unpolished, the speech is made fresh by its faltering earnestness. ‘I don’t know you very well. Most of you don’t know me either … My uncle says it’s much easier to hurt people when you don’t know them. My name’s Vesper by the way. I probably should have started with that.’
Like a gravity well, the gathering draws more and more people to it, over half the listeners are kneeling, and of the rest, most at least appear respectful.
‘The sickness in Verdigris is really bad. I mean, of course it is, but what I’m trying to say is that I know that a lot of you are suffering, and I’m doing my best to help. It’s just there’s so many of you and, well, the sword, it’s hard to use. I have to rest sometimes. I get tired.
‘I know you’re tired too. The Usurperkin are tired as well, I think. They’re having to look after the city because they’re the only ones the plague can’t get. Serra – that’s the name of the Usurperkin who was guarding my door – she didn’t mean to attack me or that poor man. She was actually trying to help.
‘She made a mistake … I make mistakes all the time and … well, we have to find a way to make the best of this because, if we don’t, there’ll be more fighting and I won’t be able to get to the people that really need us. I won’t be able to make them better.
‘I know this isn’t fair but please, I don’t want there to be any more blood. I don’t want you to hurt each other any more.’
Heads nod, giving silent assent. The threat of violence remains, however. It hangs in the air, held at bay by the girl and the sword on her back, but not banished, moving through guarded glances and unvoiced thoughts.
Doctor Grains arrives late and is forced to orbit the outer periphery of the crowd. At this distance the girl’s words can be heard but not deciphered.
A man peels away from the shadows to stand next to him. Wrapped in well-worn travelling clothes but carrying no weapons, no baggage. Doctor Grains might think this odd were his eyes not fixated on the speaker and his thoughts full of fervour.
‘That’s a good child there,’ remarks the man.
Grains pretends not to have heard.
‘Makes you wonder why the greenskins attacked her.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Nasty it was. I saw the whole thing. Innocent man went to the bearer looking for help and the greenskins killed him. When the girl tried to intervene, they went for her as well. Would have had her too, if The Seven hadn’t intervened. Bastards, the lot of them, if you ask me.’
‘Tough Call will see justice done.’
‘Nah, they’re as thick as thieves, her and the greenies. She’ll cover it up like she always does. I heard she’s as tainted as they are.’
Doctor Grains rounds on the man, all too aware that Tough Call stands only a few rows in front of them. ‘That’s not true. She cut off her own arm rather than live as a half-breed.’
‘Yeah, but she kept it didn’t she? They say it’s still alive.’
‘True,’ he replies. ‘But you don’t know her, it isn’t your place to judge.’
‘That it ain’t,’ concedes the man, backing away. ‘That it ain’t.’
Grains turns back, his view blocked by Max and Maxi’s hair spikes. He can’t help but notice the way an eye glares, baleful, over the girl’s shoulder, how one could trace a line exactly from it to the place where Tough Call and her giant lieutenants stand. Many thoughts form, most of them unpleasant. If he were to extend the imaginary line, take it past Tough Call, he would find it piercing the man he’d just talked to. But he doesn’t.
The girl’s speech comes to an end and the crowd bow their heads, murmuring a prayer to the Winged Eye and The Seven. Though he does not know what was said, Grains eagerly adds his own voice in appreciation.
One Thousand One Hundred and Two Years Ago
Massassi does not know how to close the Breach. But she knows that invaders are coming, in numbers too large for her to take on alone. She had hoped to find others like her, to teach the rest of humanity to see as she does so that they could work together against the threat.
These hopes are gone.
In their place
is a cold logic. If she cannot find allies, then she can make an army. Even though they could not hurt it, her charges could see the infernal as it seeped into the world. All she needs do now is give them teeth. Weapons to use against the enemy. But normal weapons will do little to beings of pure essence.
And so she makes swords.
Special blades, infused with her own essence and shaped to cut along reality’s lines. Each one is unique, holding a sliver of its creator’s intent, refined over time. She designs simple triggers to unleash their power, activated through specific movements combined with song. Even these are too complex for most of her followers and so she designs other, lesser weapons.
Lances of fire, fuelled by echoes of rage, bullets tuned to the sound of fury. Enough to handle the lesser horrors to come, to trouble the greater ones, perhaps.
Soon, she is forced to expand, her warehouses full of her creations, sparkling silver, humming with potential, deadly. There are many more than her two dozen charges can hope to use.
Leaving them to watch the Breach, Massassi travels once more, jump boots launching her skyward, glider holding her there.
She finds the world much changed and yet the same. The mechs are faster, the factories more numerous. Those unfortunate enough to be outdoors stoop low to avoid the heavy smog. She sees their true faces, shining through the filth, full of the same pettiness.
For a while she circles above, wondering why she bothers and what, exactly, is worth saving.
In answer, visions of the Breach swim up from her memory, clenching her stomach, locking her jaw. She descends to ground level, stepping around cleaner-mechs frantic in their futile efforts to control the ever-growing mess of an ever-growing population.
Buildings line up in height order, where tall equals important, and size struggles to compensate for more profound deficiencies. Massassi strides towards the tallest, a soaring tower of gold and glass, its peak lost in the clouds.
Doors open at her approach and, when the receptionist checks a second time, he finds that he does remember her and that she does have an appointment.
She steps into a transit tube and shoots up, passing floor after floor of automated offices, all absorbed in the completion of micro-objectives, fractions of fractions of bigger projects.
The tube deposits her at the top. Thick windows looks out across the cloudscape, making her shudder. For only she can appreciate the distortions in the skyline, deepening with agonising slowness.
She steps into a grand office, enjoying the surprise of everyone around the virtu-table.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ barks one, imperious.
The journey to this point has given ample time for her to prepare an answer. Half-made speeches come to mind, full of explanations, demonstrations and appeals. Now she is here, she finds she has neither the will nor the patience for any of it.
Of the twelve people attending the meeting, four are physically present. She takes them first, filling their minds with her light, sacrificing some of her new minions’ flexibility in exchange for loyalty, complete and unquestioning.
Eight people disconnect from the meeting in horror, blinking out of view. In time, they will return, sending assassins ahead of their armies, mobilising everything they have against the new threat. For now, though, she has secured a victory.
Four heads bow as one and Massassi sits with them, beginning to plan in earnest, sharing ideas that become actions, actions that spread outward, birthing an empire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Maxi follows Tough Call to the meeting room. While her leader talks, her mind drifts elsewhere, wrestling with guilt, unfamiliar.
‘… Which is worse? Either way, it’s a gamble and I don’t like the odds.’ Tough Call shakes her head. ‘One dead, three others critical. You’d think the plague would be enough for these people.’
They enter the meeting room, both drifting to their habitual places. Maxi feels the urge to run, to fuck, or hit something, anything other than stand in a room doing nothing but feel bad. She begins to twist one of her rings repeatedly.
‘Are you alright?’
‘Huh?’ she looks up, cringing under the scrutiny. ‘Don’t worry about me, boss. I’m good.’
‘Of course you’re not.’ Tough Call reaches up, puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘How’s Serra doing?’
Maxi shivers, relieved that her secret is safe, shocked how little her daughter’s injury occupies her thoughts. ‘They kicked her around a lot. Mostly, little knocks. Grains is with her now. He says he doesn’t think anything vital got speared by the knife.’ She looks down. ‘Lost a lot of blood though.’
‘At least she’s in good hands. We need her to pull through. Any more deaths and there’ll be riots, speeches or no speeches.’
There is a companionable silence, then Maxi adds: ‘I don’t get it boss, we’re on their side. Why can’t they see that?’
‘Because they’re shit scared.’ Tough Call takes her hand off Maxi’s shoulder to gesticulate. ‘You can’t see a plague, you can’t fight it. It kills folk, no matter if they’re good or bad, smart or dumb. It’s unfair, plain and simple. People struggle with that. They’re scared and angry and looking for answers. They see their own families getting sick and you and yours not even breaking a sweat. That isn’t fair either. It’s not your fault, it’s the plague’s. You’re just easier to blame is all. Most people see that.’
‘You really think so, boss? Feels like most people want us to go down, too.’
‘Well, I don’t. Verdigris needs you, Maxi. Always has, always will. Having said that, I can spare you for a few hours. Why don’t you go see Serra, or just get your head down for a bit. Tomorrow’s going to be another long one.’ Maxi nods, trying to mask her relief as she rushes towards the door. ‘We’ll come through this,’ Tough Call adds, ‘even if we have to knock some heads together.’
Maxi stops suddenly, twisting the ring so hard it rubs some skin off her finger. ‘Boss … I think … I think maybe we’ve got another problem.’
‘What’s that?’
She only half turns back, looking at Tough Call from the corner of her eye. ‘Well, I’m not sure. I mean, it might be nothing.’
‘When is it ever nothing, eh? Come on, I can take it.’
‘I heard that the First might have come over the wall.’
‘What? When?’
Maxi takes a step backwards. ‘Maybe last night?’
‘And you tell me now!’ Maxi mumbles an apology but Tough Call is already on her feet. ‘I want the council’s arses around this table in the next thirty minutes, and bring the bearer too. Drag them here if you have to. No excuses!’
Tough Call looks at the faces around the table, all tired, nerves thin and ready to fray. Ezze is attentive, almost eager. A bad sign. Max appears violent, Maxi distressed, and Doctor Grains keeps staring at her when he thinks she isn’t looking. Only Cavain seems pleased, her usually immaculate nails black with fresh soil.
On the other side of the table sits a girl, pale, and her Harmonised shadow. Strangers still, and all the harder to predict because of it.
And these are the people that will fix the city’s problems? She suppresses the urge to laugh and gets started.
‘So, here it is, suns help us: We got a plague that needs a cure, a people that need calming down, and now the First has infiltrated the city.’ She checks in with each of them, making a point of lingering on Maxi a moment longer than the rest. ‘Any other problems anyone’s heard about?’
The assembled shake their heads.
‘Good. Cavain, how are our crop pods?’
‘There are, as you are aware, long-term issues with the sustainability of the …’ She catches the look in Tough Call’s eye, trails off. ‘That is to say, they are functional again. Bug free, thanks to the bearer.’
‘Good. Grains, your only job until I say otherwise is to find a cure. You need anything, people or otherwise, it’s yours.’
‘But,’ says Vesper,
rubbing her eyes. ‘What about me? I can cure them.’
‘I’m sure you could but the First is here, and the longer you stay the worse this is going to get. How soon can you leave?’
Duet looks up. ‘As fast as you can open the gates.’
‘You need anything for your trip?’
‘Already packed.’
‘In that case, we’d better open some gates for you.’
A large crowd escorts Vesper to the gates. Some go out of awe, wishing to show respect for The Seven and their servants, most just wish to enjoy the spectacle.
The First follows, blending easily among the bodies. Only the sword, the Malice, seems bothered by the infernal’s proximity, tracking it through a narrowed lid, unblinking. The First feels the hate directed against it but, while distracting, the emotion is sheathed, muted, unable to truly harm.
More concerning is the way several of the humans move together, united in their love for the girl, their essences marked with echoes of the Malice’s song.
The First resolves to return to the city and stamp out such seeds before they can take root.
At Tough Call’s signal, the great southern gates open and the girl stops to wave to the assembled, smiling at them until her companion takes her arm and guides her out.
The First weaves forward, casual, insinuating itself towards the front of the group.
Well-wishers continue to shout until the three travellers are well clear of the city’s border.
The First watches the gates begin to close, preparing to move. It judges the distance carefully, so that it will pass through just before they bang together. Even if pursued, it will be able to finish the bearer and her withering protector long before any help could come.
It steps clear of the crowd, moving with inhuman speed, legs suddenly blurring, propelling forward.
With a snap, the First’s scarf pulls tight, held horizontal between its neck and Maxi’s green fist locked tight around the other end.
Forward motion is arrested, the body moving backwards, the feet forwards.
But the First is not stunned by pain. It stops, heels balancing at an impossible angle, then spins, grabbing the scarf and hauling Maxi towards it.