by Peter Newman
An eye at Vesper’s shoulder studies its surroundings, seeing hidden depths. Shortly after, the sword hums soft, purifying. Silvered wings stretch and a gentle wind swirls around Vesper, shrouding her in a bubble of normalcy.
‘Those lights, are they coming from the Breach?’ she asks, pointing past the Fallen Palace.
Samael nods, speaking for the first time since his communion with the Backwards Child. ‘You can see them?’
‘Yes.’
‘How could you miss them?’ adds Jem.
‘The lights you see are made by the Yearning. It is growing.’
Vesper’s eyes widen. ‘How big is it?’
‘I lack the words. It is like an ocean.’
‘I thought it was just a really big demon, not … this.’
‘It is bigger and it does not seem to need a shell.’
Jem shakes his head. ‘You can’t fight that.’ Nobody argues and he continues. ‘We should go north, leave this behind us. Live our lives.’
‘Coward!’ spits Duet. ‘Gamma sent us here to end this demon. It is a sacred duty.’
The young man glances at the sword and lowers his voice. ‘Gamma was defeated by the Usurper and that was when she was whole. And from what I heard even the Usurper wasn’t as big as an ocean.’
‘We must trust in The Seven.’
‘Why? Why must we?’
‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand.’
‘Yeah? Well I wouldn’t expect you to—’
Vesper holds up a hand. ‘Please don’t. Don’t fight.’ She stops walking and the others do the same. ‘We can’t go back to our lives, not now we’ve seen this. I’m sorry, Jem. If we don’t do something now, then things are going to get even worse. In time, the Yearning would catch us up. And then there’ll be nowhere to run.’
‘A few years is better than nothing.’
‘Is it? How could you live knowing what’s coming? I couldn’t. The sword can’t. It’s up to us, we have to find a way. There’s nobody else. Everyone’s afraid of it, even the other demons. Even The Seven.’ She sighs. ‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want. But I think I have to go on.’
Duet nods along as Vesper speaks, the gesture unconscious.
‘What do you say, will you come?’
‘It’s a poor choice, you know? Die here or somewhere else.’ He shrugs. ‘But I never thought I’d trust anyone again. For the longest time I thought I’d die alone.’ He looks at Samael, then at Vesper. ‘That thought, the thought of having nobody, still scares me even more than all of this.’ He shrugs again. ‘I’ll come.’
Vesper’s smile is both tired and bright. ‘Good.’
They help each other out of the swamp and onto the angled floor of the Fallen Palace. There is no sign of anyone, the usual denizens of the Palace scared away by the presence of the Malice and so the group pauses. Food is eaten, weary bones rested. The kid hops with excitement, eager to climb. He bleats at the group, urging them to continue but having sat down, Jem is unable to get up again. He tries several times before giving up. In the end Samael carries him and the young man quickly falls asleep.
Part walking, part climbing, the group make their way towards the Man-shape’s tower in eerie silence, uncontested. Even the clouds of flies keep a respectful distance.
Fungus grows over gleaming walls, covering old battle scars and past glories alike. The kid pauses to tear off a spongy strip then trots onward on happy hooves. Eventually, they reach a tower where the walls turn bronze in places, green in others.
‘This is it,’ says Samael, his voice echoing along abandoned streets.
Vesper cranes her neck trying to see its tip. ‘It looks a long way up. Duet, you should wait here with Jem.’
‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’
‘No. You need to rest and we can’t leave Jem here alone.’
‘You think I’m going to let you go up there alone?’
‘I won’t be alone.’
Duet leans closer. ‘I still don’t trust Samael.’
‘I wasn’t talking about Samael.’
An eye watches Duet through a half-closed lid. She swallows, kneels. ‘I’ll be here when you need me.’
‘Thanks.’ Vesper puts her hand on Duet’s shoulder. ‘I am going to need you.’
Leaving Jem, Duet and Scout behind, they climb into the base of the tower, ducking under the diagonal doorframe, propping themselves between wall and floor. As they work their way up the spiral staircase, surfaces swap roles, walls sometimes walked on, sometimes leaned on. The kid races ahead, immune to the unbalancing aesthetics. More than once, Vesper slips. Elbows and knees knock on hard surfaces, echoing, adding new bruises to an already impressive collection.
The Man-shape waits for them at the top, standing by an empty window.
While Vesper pauses to catch her breath, the kid scampers about, looking for furniture to climb.
Dried mud muffles Samael’s boots as he moves forward to join the Man-shape. He removes his helm and the two touch heads.
Vesper waits, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling, nervous.
A few seconds pass and the two figures withdraw.
Samael steps back further, removing himself from the conversation. The Man-shape catches Vesper’s eye, then turns its back. Muscles work in its jaw, bones popping into the position required for speech.
‘When I asked Samael to bring the Malice here, I did not expect it to come willingly.’
‘Hello,’ says the girl, clearing her throat. ‘My name is Vesper. Are you the one they call the Man-shape?’
‘Yes. And you are making an introduction, identifying yourself in order to facilitate discussion. I plucked the idea a long time ago and had almost lost it. My kind have no need for such things you see. We know who each other are even before we make contact.’
She begins to move forward but it holds up a hand, careful to keep its back to her. ‘Do not come closer. I am not yet ready to face the Malice again and I cannot speak as you do and maintain the correct composition with my face.’
‘You fought the sword before?’
‘Not fought, no. But I watched it fight my master.’
‘You were there when Gamma died?’
‘Yes. I saw the Usurper end her, and later, much later, I saw her revenge.’
‘What happened?’
‘Come, I will show you.’
The light in the room is poor and Vesper has to use her Navpack to make sense of its contents. She sees webs strung across the ceiling, their patterns strange and drunken, peppered with ancient flies. She sees vines pushing through cracks in the floor, their purple leaves knife edged, garish. They grow everywhere except for a space at the back of the room where two figures recline, embracing, an alien parent and full grown child, dead.
Vesper moves quietly towards them, placing each foot with care. The Man-shape and Samael enter the room behind her but do not follow. The kid does not even enter the room.
The smaller of the two figures is covered from head to toe in armour. Originally fashioned in the proud tradition of the Seraph, it, like its wearer, was twisted by the Usurper and remade. Once the metal lived, breathed, but now it is silent, captured in a last spasm of death. To Vesper it looks as if the plates were superheated and then frozen mid melt. In places the armour is stretched thin, like saliva over a screaming mouth. In others it collects in thick lumps. The figure inside the armour is shrivelled away, a collection of too-thin bones.
Both of its arms are missing below the elbow.
The larger of the two figures is a statue, bloated, silver skin tarnished with green which in turn gives way to brownish rust. Tracks of scars run the length of its body, weaving across each other, a litany of repairs. Two wings sprout from its back. Unlike the other features these remain their original size, vestigial reminders of a more graceful past.
The Man-shape speaks, unexpected, making Vesper jump. ‘When my master came, it defeated Gamma and took her body as its own. B
ut even the greatest of your world was not enough to contain my master’s strength. So the Usurper took the strongest of your Seraph Knights, your Knight Commander, and mixed its own potency with him, making him into this. But then the Malice reclaimed him and sent him here, laced with Gamma’s essence, a pick to reopen all of the wounds from their first struggle. When he came, the master welcomed him, drew their essences together once more, allowing the Malice to have its revenge. What was left of Gamma destroyed my master from the inside. It was terrible to behold and yet I find a symmetry in it all that is not without beauty.’
Vesper studies the face, looking for signs of Gamma but all she sees is the Usurper distorting from within, great ridges of bone stamping out her features.
‘Now all that remains of my master is an echo in Samael’s chest and all that remains of yours is strapped to your back. But still we must bow, even to their ashes.’
A frown begins to form on Vesper’s face. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like some time alone.’
Samael and the Man-shape withdraw, closing the doors, sealing Vesper inside.
She looks at the sword on her shoulder. Silvered wings wrap tight around an eye squeezed shut. The Navpack is put away, taking the light with it. She takes a deep breath then slowly, carefully slides the sword free of its sheath and holds it in her arms, the flat of the blade pressed to her chest.
They stand like that in the dark, together, a human heart beating on silent steel.
‘I think you need to see this for yourself.’
The sword feels cold against her. It does not move.
She lets go with one hand, reaching up to find the edge of one wing. Fingers find feathers, curling underneath, easing back. There is no resistance, just reluctance. Having opened out one wing, she lets go, feels the briefest tug at her fingertips. She pulls at the second, gentle and it allows itself to be moved, revealing an eye, resolutely closed.
Vesper waits, trying to ignore the mix of scents, of alien pollen and decaying matter, of her own sweat.
An eye half opens, peering out under the lid. It does not need the light to see.
After a few moments it closes again, wings pressing in hard against it.
She holds on a little tighter. Sharp edges press through sleeves, bringing discomfort and Vesper feels rage charging the air, terrifying, destructive, directionless. She holds on, enduring and patient, feeling the anger make way for other things. The blade begins to tremble in irregular bursts, shaking them both.
And still, Vesper holds on.
One Thousand and Ninety-Seven Years Ago
Massassi’s body slumps in the chair, held fast by crisscrossing straps. Three holes perforate the seat, matching three passageways through her back and chest. Through the three new holes in the roof she can see the sun. To normal eyes the great disc is felt rather than seen, hidden behind a veil of thick smog. To Massassi however it shines like an astral spotlight, highlighting her end.
She is aware of her own essence, how it wants to fade, to give up her shape and break apart. Only her will holds it together. It is tempting to let go. To stop fighting. It feels to her as if she has been fighting all her life and suddenly that inner fire is no longer there. It is a great relief.
The screens that surround her are inoperative, dark, depriving her of one final look at the Breach. Instead, she looks up at the sun.
On its blazing surface she perceives three smudges of dark, little gaps where no light exists. She frowns, or at least she imagines frowning, for in reality, her slack-jawed face does not move, and looks closer.
The holes in the sun are tiny things and she has to strain to make them out. As she watches, cracks creep outward from them, little fingers joining up to make a single line that threatens to grow, to divide the sun in two.
She sees the distortion in the sky shift, as if drawn to that weakness, lines of light that fold the sky, trying to force a breach in the stars to match her breach in the earth.
This will not do. Her life’s work must not be undone by her death. Renewed with purpose, Massassi sharpens her focus, draws her essence together once more. It shines like a star, hard and silver through her wounds. She takes back her body, restarting its heart, waking muscles, slapping the release button on her harness.
She drops out of her seat, turning to see a masked figure holding a sniper rifle. The assassin’s mask is stretched at the bottom by her jaw, gawping. While the assassin wrestles with the fact that Massassi still lives, reflexes take over, smoothly reloading as they raise the rifle, this time aiming for the face.
Massassi’s eyebrows raise, her eyes flash and the essence within the assassin turns to ash. Another life to add to the many she’s taken. But Massassi does not falter, who would cry over a drop of spilt water to save the ocean?
Past experience tells her to move quickly. It is not easy holding one’s essence together while leaking blood from six holes. If she trusted her subordinates to get it right, she’d call for help. No. Better to do it herself. In the end, she has always been alone and that is how she likes it.
Outside, the world rocks to warheads detonating. People hide, people die and the earth trembles.
Massassi barely notices as she stumbles into walls, pushing off them again, leaving hand-prints of red behind her.
Her body is starting to fail by the time she reaches her workshop. Blood loss and shock combine, trying to force her to lie down. She refuses, grabbing her welding torch and a plate of metal.
The work is ugly by her usual standards, especially compared with her arm, but it is functional. Six caps to plug the wounds front and back, studs of silver, lifesaving. In the coming years her body will demand recompense, a constant diet of drugs and occasional organ repair. She accepts this, ready to pay any price to extend her life.
Hauling herself to a window she looks at the sun once more. The three black marks no longer mar its surface, but a faint impression remains, a hairline scar, prophetic.
The distortions in the sky return to their normal lines as well, drawn back to the south and the breach waiting to open there.
Normality reasserts itself and Massassi slumps against the window, letting her head rest on the plasglass. She lives, and for humanity to survive, she must go on living. It is her strength that holds back the invaders and the tidal wave that carries them. She sees it now. For as long as she draws breath, the sun is safe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Vesper returns to the Man-shape’s chamber, the sword in her arms, sleeping. Silvered wings drape over the back of her hands. She is greeted by the kid, who sniffs at her hopefully.
Samael takes his habitual place by the left wall and the Man-shape stands by the window, its back to her. ‘The Yearning is getting closer. When I look out to the south, I can see the way its essence plays across the sky. I can see it fighting to gain ground. It’s still too far away to read in any detail but I have had an interesting thought. Would you like to hear it?’
Needing both hands to hold the sword, she tries to rub tired eyes on her shoulder. ‘Okay.’
‘Seeing the Yearning through this shell, and through the visions Samael shared, I am struck by how strange it is. Unlike us, it has not tried to adapt to this world. The Yearning shows me how much we have changed since we arrived here. If the I that first emerged from the Breach were to see what I have become, it would not recognise itself. I see the Yearning and I cannot understand it and I feel fear. Is that not how your kind first reacted when they beheld us?’
‘Why do you think that the Malice can stop it?’
‘I believe that the Malice will be like a poison to it, as it is to all of my kind. It may take longer to work than it did on my master but in the end, the Yearning will be vanquished.’
‘But, the Usurper survived those wounds for years!’
‘There is no other way.’
‘And, if I did this for you, what would you do in return?’
The Man-shape’s frame becomes still for a moment, then rean
imates. ‘I do not understand. We are not trading, this is what the Malice is here for.’
‘The Malice might be, but if you want to send the Malice against the Yearning you need me.’
‘Do I?’
‘The sword doesn’t want to be used by anyone else. I don’t think it would end well if they tried.’
‘But you, like the Malice, wish to stop the Yearning. Why do you try to trade when you already have what you want?’
‘Because there’s no point in stopping the Yearning if we don’t make things better afterwards.’
‘Interesting. What is your price?’
‘In return for stopping the Yearning, I want you to take New Horizon from the Demagogue.’
‘This is agreeable, the Demagogue has betrayed us and we will have need for a new home if the Yearning comes any closer to the Fallen Palace.’
A grim smile flexes Vesper’s face. ‘Actually, there’s more.’
‘Go on.’
‘When you take it, you have to free the people there. All the slaves.’
‘Without slaves, how will my kind acquire fresh shells?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe we can work out an alternative but that’s my price.’
The Man-shape tilts its head. ‘What do you think, Samael?’
‘I think the slaves will die if you free them.’
Vesper shakes her head. ‘I don’t want that to happen!’
‘They’ll starve,’ continues Samael, ‘or get picked off by other people.’
‘Then you have to look after them. Give them food and proper clothing and shelter, at least until they are able to look after themselves.’
With a pop, the Man-shape’s jaw resets itself. ‘And how long do you expect us to care for them?’
‘As long as it takes.’
‘Very well. We have an accord. Samael will take our forces and depose the Demagogue, taking his rightful place as our king. He will release your people and care for them. In return, you will destroy the Yearning and then take the Malice back north, as far from here as you are able.’