The Malice

by Peter Newman

  ‘No. The Man-shape does not fight. It offers the throne to whoever defeats the Yearning; but if the Demagogue unites enough of the infernals behind it, the Man-shape will have to concede to its power.’

  ‘And you’re a threat to the Demagogue?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They walk for a while as Vesper thinks, taking it all in. So many ideas, so much to understand.

  ‘Can I ask you something else?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you save Jem?’

  ‘He called to me and … and I wanted to help him. I had to.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had to.’

  ‘Do you remember much of your life before?’

  ‘Only little pieces. Some of the pieces don’t feel like mine. I have some of my creator’s memories inside too and others, absorbed by him and passed on to me.’

  ‘What do you remember? Can you tell me?’

  He pauses, a strange expression forming underneath his helmet. ‘The smell of the sea. The feel of being in a boat, riding the waves. That I wanted a dog.’

  ‘Do you think this Man-shape would talk with me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Samael, Jem says you’re a knight. Is that true?’

  He thinks for a while, then hangs his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Would you like to be?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then help me. Take me to the Man-shape. Protect us. Will you do that?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Swear it. Swear it to the sword in the name of the Winged Eye.’

  He looks at the sword, the sword looks back, a study in hatred. ‘But the Malice wants to unmake me.’

  ‘The Malice is angry but not at you. Trust me. Swear it.’

  Samael looks at the girl, trying to read her essence past the sword’s interference. To his half-breed eyes, she is just a shape, a tiny shadow in the light of a sun. But small as she is, her shape is distinct, enduring. He moves in front of her and kneels. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I swear it, in the name of the Winged Eye, I will do as you ask.’

  The suns set and stars ease their way into the sky, soft sparkles against darkening blue. None can be seen above New Horizon however. The city is covered in a patchwork of lights, dirty decorations that bleed orange into the air above.

  Samael watches the city, Scout sat next to him. The Dogspawn senses the unease, seeks reassurance from its master, transmitting the desire through their essence link.

  A moment later, a gauntleted hand pets Scout’s head.

  Jem joins them. ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t want to go back there.’

  ‘No.’

  He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. ‘They’re arguing again. About us.’ He glances back at the two figures, makes sure they’re not too close. ‘That Duet is mental. I don’t trust her. And even if we do manage to get past New Horizon, what’s going to happen then? How are you going to protect me? I’m not sure you can protect yourself.’

  Scout whines softly and Samael turns towards him. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, I don’t see how you can protect me if we go south.’

  ‘Before that.’

  ‘Before that I said, that they were arguing and that I don’t trust Duet not to stick a knife in our backs.’

  ‘You said she was mental. Why?’

  ‘For a start, she hates us. For another thing, she talks to herself. Isn’t that enough?’

  Samael leaves the conversation, walking back towards the two arguing figures. They stop when he approaches. He is not concerned by the way they look at him. All of his attention goes to Duet, his half-breed eyes tuning into the play of essence around the Harmonised. The proximity of the Malice makes things more difficult, it’s bright essence burning, uncomfortable. ‘Duet, can I speak to you, alone?’

  He does not need to read her essence to recognise the distrust in her eyes. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’

  ‘Yes. But can I speak to you?’

  ‘It’s feeding time anyway,’ says Vesper, backing away.

  ‘Go on then,’ snaps the Harmonised. ‘Say your piece.’

  Away from the Malice’s glare, it is easier for Samael to perceive details. Duet’s essence ripples in ethereal currents. In places, the original shape has been lost, like a torn flag, edges fraying. Tiny tendrils of it swirl away, leaking. He looks closer, can just make out the faint after image of what was another being, mirroring, joined, now gone. Her essence reaches out to that other self but cannot find it, stretching until its edges thin and fade.

  ‘If you have something to say. Say it!’

  ‘You are dying.’

  ‘We’re all dying.’

  ‘Yes. But not like you.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I can see it.’

  Her eyes widen behind her visor, vulnerable. Despite her armour, she is exposed. ‘I know what’s happening to me.’ She looks away. ‘And I don’t want to talk about it. And even if I did, it wouldn’t be with you.’

  ‘I think I can help you.’ Her head snaps back up and he continues. ‘My creator left understanding in me. Memories. Ideas. I can see your essence bleeding. It needs to be joined to something, completed again or it will collapse. The understanding to do that is in me.’

  Horrified, Duet shakes her head. ‘Join me? To what? No, I don’t want to know. And no, I don’t want your help. I’d rather die than become like you.’

  She walks away, leaving Samael to think. Is death ever preferable to life? He has often despaired at his own metamorphosis. Struggled to comprehend what he is becoming, wished to be something else. And yet, whenever the chance to stop presents itself, he veers from it. Is this cowardice? Is it courage? He wonders which of these motivates Duet to turn down his offer. He could probably find out, pluck the secret from her essence but an instinct stops him. It feels wrong to find out that way.

  Scout howls a warning and Samael allows himself to see through his Dogspawn’s eyes.

  Infernals spill from New Horizon’s ever open gates. Most are aimless, setting off in random directions but one makes towards them directly, getting faster as its confidence in having found its prey grows.

  Swift plans are made. ‘It is following me,’ declares Samael. ‘I could lead it away from you.’

  ‘No,’ replies Vesper. ‘We need you with us.’

  ‘It’s only one,’ says Duet. ‘Let’s fight it.’

  Jem shakes his head. ‘If we fight it, the others will notice. We can’t fight them all.’

  ‘Then let’s not fight,’ says Vesper, picking up the kid. ‘Let’s run.’

  One Thousand and Ninety-Seven Years Ago

  A war rages across the world. On the one side is Massassi and her converts, the growing subjects of a new Empire. On the other, everyone else.

  It is hard to know which side will prevail. The numbers are too evenly weighted. While her enemies hole up in their bunkers, secure in rings of steel, she feels precious time ticking away. Because of this, she has made her commanders take risks, pushing forward where caution would be better.

  The enemy’s news-feeds describe her as mad, a power-crazed dictator with no plan save her own glorification. Her own describe her as a living god.

  Massassi sits in a chair suspended high, projected screens forming a globe of lights around it. The globe is divided into sections, each displaying a different stream of data: news both international and local, business reports, updates on production targets, troop distribution, losses and gains, financial and mortal. She lets them wash over her, the globe rotating, twisting to display fresh information as it arrives.

  Her left hand rests over the arm of the chair, index and middle finger straight out. They point at a screen, fixing it in position despite the globe’s movement.

  This last screen shows her base in the far south. The place where the Breach lies. Ordinary cameras cannot detect the Breach and so the screen shows only la
ndscape, unremarkable. She watches it anyway, finding the image soothing. Sometimes her charges move into view. Peace-Eleven and Quiet-Five can be seen, chatting idly as they stand watch. Massassi marvels at how tall the children have become. Time moves ever faster, out-pacing her and her plans.

  The seat she has taken once belonged to the man that owned her. Or more precisely, the man that owned the parent company of the company that owned the supervisor that owned her. Despite the stresses and troubles she takes a moment to enjoy the reversal of fortunes.

  The thought occurs that she could make changes to the current society: lessen restrictions, broaden horizons. Perhaps if her birth and subsequent education had been different, she would have been happier. Perhaps she could change things for the countless souls toiling blind in the factories.

  But then she looks at the screen, thinks of the Breach and all other considerations vanish. Let another worry about the shape of the future. Her concern, her only concern is to ensure that humanity has one.

  With that in mind she considers her options.

  She sees the progress of the war told in a series of numbers. If she could get to their leaders, she could end the fighting in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, the enemy is well aware of the danger she represents even if they do not understand it. Her face is known to every soldier, plastered across HUD’s along with a kill order.

  Besides, she is too important to risk. And so she hides like her enemies, sinking to their level, relying on conventional troops and Warmechs to fight her battles.

  Some gambles have paid off better than others but overall the numbers are clear that the price is too high to keep paying.

  Massassi is not sure how long she has before the Breach erupts, but her estimates suggest anywhere between five and twenty years. Whatever the cost, humanity has to be united before then.

  Of course there are always other options, weapons that will be of little use against the coming infernals but devastating to her enemies. Both sides have them but such things are never actually considered, never placed on the menu.

  The idea comes and with it the implications, the burdens that will have to be shouldered. Memories of those she has killed surface: her supervisor, her doctor, the ones that came hunting, the supplicants that came to her in good faith, to learn. And then the others, killed on her orders or while following them. Each one burns her a little. She wonders what it will feel like to have whole nations on her conscience.

  Massassi clenches her metal fist, calls up the specs of the worst warheads at her disposal. Their designations are surprisingly bland. The RAN Series TK-209. The GANT Series ED-241. Payload, blast radius, fallout range, estimates for soil recovery. Numbers. Just numbers.

  When she gives the order, none of her command staff object, none are capable. The missiles are prepped, codes are given by all required and, minutes after the decision is made, confirmation is given of a successful launch.

  While she tracks their progress on the screen, the lone figure entering the room goes unnoticed. Under normal circumstances she would sense their intent, read it in the light of their true face. But these are not normal circumstances. She sees neither their face or the gun they carry.

  Shocked broadcasts fill the news feeds, all images showing the missiles streaking towards their destinations. The enemy launches countermeasures, and Massassi watches, mesmerised, wondering what the numbers will have to say when it is all over.

  The gun is high-powered. A sniper rifle able to punch through tanks from several miles distant. The figure aims it at Massassi. If she were able to see her attacker, she would appreciate how in tune their feelings and actions were, would admire their commitment, would even feel a certain kinship.

  The gun fires three times with a pause between each shot for recalibration. Each blast goes through the globe of screens, through the chair, through Massassi’s back and out her front, through the other side of the globe and through the outer wall of the room, out of sight.

  Massassi bucks in the chair three times, held in place by the straps. Her shocked eyes remain fixed on the one screen not showing the missiles. As before, there is nothing of note. Unaware they are being watched remotely, Peace-Eleven tells Quiet-Three a joke.

  Quiet-Three laughs.

  The missiles reach their destination.

  Massassi’s eyes close.

  Impact.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  They take a wide berth around New Horizon, doing their best to stay away from the infernals hunting its perimeter. Vesper often turns her head towards the distant city as they pass by, drawn by the bizarre mix of lights, by the way some flicker and the many shadows they cast.

  Jem walks alongside, starved limbs struggling to match her brisk pace. ‘Doesn’t look too bad, does it?’ he says, short of breath. ‘Trust me, it gets uglier the closer you get.’

  ‘I wanted to see inside.’

  ‘You don’t. You really don’t.’

  ‘But I do.’

  ‘Even after everything I told you?’

  ‘No, because of what you told me. I feel like I need to see it for myself.’

  ‘You’re weird.’

  She looks at him. ‘I know.’

  Scout races past. Scout races back again, alternating between running circles around Samael at the back of the group and rushing ahead. Jem wishes he had an ounce of the Dogspawn’s energy.

  It is a small consolation to see that Duet also struggles, though the Harmonised does her best to hide it. Jem takes what small pleasures he can, when he can.

  As the last light of the day leaves them, Vesper falls back to walk with Samael, and Jem slows a little too, curious to listen in.

  ‘Are we still being followed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gutterface follows, not running but keeping faster pace than its human prey. It is content to let the chase run long and mortal muscles grow weak before the fight.

  It closes in on them over the night, by inches, drawn out, agonising.

  Duet stops and leans forward, hands resting on thighs. ‘Enough … We stand here.’

  ‘Are we far enough from New Horizon?’ asks Vesper.

  ‘Don’t care … Any further … and I’ll have nothing left to fight with.’

  They prepare themselves as best they can. Duet catches her breath, stretches aching muscles, draws her sword. Jem sits on the floor shivering with fear and cold. Vesper wraps a blanket over razor thin shoulders and helps him to drink. Samael just waits, a metal statue, Scout sat by his feet.

  With the need for stealth gone, a diamond of light shines from Duet’s visor, allowing the approaching infernal to be seen in all its glory.

  It is twelve foot tall, its skin dry and green, curling leather riddled with cracks, held together with dirty staples. Only loosely attached, Gutterface’s skin slides over its frame with each step so that when it turns to the left, it briefly appears to be doing the opposite.

  Behind it come a small army of infernals. Countless sparks of spite held in the bodies of mutated birds, rodents and children. They scurry wide, hugging shadows, waiting for a chance to cause mischief.

  Samael moves to meet the big infernal head-on, Scout flanking on one side, Duet on the other.

  Gutterface comes on, unafraid, on a path that will take it directly through Samael’s position to where Vesper stands.

  Duet prepares herself, waiting for an opening.

  Scout tenses, ready to leap.

  The infernal’s eyes are hidden beneath folds of saggy skin. Its mouth just another of the many creases in what passes for a face. There is no expression there, no acknowledgement of the attackers.

  When it steps into range, Samael swings for the head.

  Immediately, impossibly fast, arms come up, knocking the blow aside with ease. Gutterface continues to advance, stride unbroken.

  A normal man would be unbalanced but Samael is no normal man. His fingers stay firm on the hilt as he steps back, creating room for another attack.

&n
bsp; Scout leaps forward this time, jaws closing around an ankle. On the other side, Duet rushes in, swinging for a knee.

  Blade and teeth find their mark, slicing through old skin, meeting a wall of thick flesh, sinking in, stopping fast. An abundance of meat clusters around Gutterface’s bones, protective.

  Again, Samael attacks, is fended off, gives ground.

  Gutterface drives on, dragging a Dogspawn behind it.

  Duet grabs her sword in both hands and tries to pull it free but her blade barely moves. Heels fail to dig in and she slides along behind the infernal. Next to her, Scout has a similar struggle, four legs faring little better than two.

  And then, with a sudden screech, Gutterface’s children attack, throwing themselves at Duet and Scout.

  The Dogspawn reacts first, releasing Gutterface from his jaws and whirling towards the new threats, snapping at them, trying to hold them at bay. Duet is not so lucky. They grab at her, attaching themselves to legs and arms, screeching and clawing, trying to find a way through her armour. Leaving her blade in Gutterface’s flesh, she tries to shrug them off but there are too many. For each one she dislodges, two more jump on and soon the Harmonised is folding under their weight.

  As the gap between Gutterface and Vesper closes, Jem tries to stand and falls back with a cry. Fear can only push you so far, and his body is weak, a fever threatening. There is no flight left in him.

  The kid more than makes up for his failings, rushing into the night without a backwards glance.

  A sick feeling settles in Vesper’s stomach as Samael attacks for a third time. Before his blade can connect, Gutterface sweeps him aside with long arms, launching the half-breed into the air for a brief and ugly flight.

  Behind Gutterface, she hears Duet cry out she as she is dragged to the ground. There is a chorus of laughter and then jostling as the tiny infernals swarm over her.

  It is tempting to run with the kid. There are many reasons why Vesper should not put herself in harm’s way. She thinks about them as she steps between Jem and Gutterface.