The Malice

Vesper likes the scars. They’re proof of a different life. When her father was the heroic knight that her Uncle talks about, not this tired man who frowns too much.

Her father stops by the chair, leans on it, stoops forward. Harm’s hands fumble their way upwards, searching for his face.

‘There you are.’ Fingers brush features: a chin that needs shaving, crow’s feet deepening around the eyes. They find lines furrowing the forehead and smooth them away. ‘They know you’re not going to fight again. Nobody’s expecting you to. But I think we should at least know what’s going on, just in case.’

Soothing hands are taken in callused ones. The two stand peaceably, enjoying the moment.

As usual, Harm is the first to speak into it. ‘I hear things. From the people who bring us offerings. There aren’t so many as there used to be but some still come. Apparently, Sonorous has declared independence and the First has recognised them. There’s been no official response from the Empire yet but either way it won’t be good. And have you heard about what’s going on in the south? There’s a rumour that—’

Hands break apart. Amber eyes fix on the doorway. Vesper is caught in their glare. She smiles quickly, and goes in, clearing her throat. ‘What rumour is that, Uncle?’

‘Ah, Vesper,’ comes the bright-voiced reply, ‘it’s just gossip, nothing important. How’s the goat?’

‘She’s getting worse. Didn’t even bother with this one. It would’ve died for sure if I hadn’t been there.’

‘That’s the third you’ve saved now, isn’t it?’

‘The fifth, actually. But each time, she’s doing less.’

‘If I was her age, I doubt I’d be much better.’

‘How old is she, Uncle?’

Spontaneously, both men smile. ‘We’ve got no idea. But old. If she were human, she would be long past having babies, that’s for certain.’

‘Well, she’s having them but she’s not feeding them. I need to get a bottle.’

‘Go ahead.’

Hands ruffle her hair as she goes past. She feels her father watching her, and moves quickly. In her haste she fumbles the teat, dropping it. ‘Any news from the City?

‘Why do you ask?’

She crouches down to collect the teat. ‘I … thought I saw someone come to the house.’

‘It’s true, we did have a visitor. And they did come from the City.’

‘What did they say?’

‘Not much.’

‘But they must have said something.’

‘You know what it’s like, there’s always something going on –’ Harm hears her excited intake of breath ‘– but nothing for us to worry about,’ he adds quickly.

‘Oh.’

Getting nowhere, as always, she collects the teat from the floor and leaves.

Fed and full, the kid goes to sleep in Vesper’s arms.

She sits on the front step, enjoying the warm weight of him until her own belly demands attention. The kid grumbles as she puts him down but doesn’t wake. Vesper lets out a relieved breath and creeps into the house, her mind already busy conjuring images, succulent and mouth-watering.

Out of habit she listens at the kitchen door, hearing nothing but the sound of soft snoring. A peek reveals Uncle Harm slumped in a chair, enjoying his afternoon nap.

The snores continue, undisturbed by clinking cutlery and enthusiastic consumption.

As she leaves the kitchen, she hears a noise coming from the storeroom and freezes. The door is open a crack but not enough to see what’s inside. Curiosity and fear briefly battle within her. She hears another noise, a soft scuffing sound that she cannot identify. Whoever is inside is moving carefully, stealthily.

It must be her father. She wonders what he is up to and reaches out to push at the door, praying that it won’t creak. Experience has taught her that if she wants the truth, it is better to look for it herself than to ask questions. The gap widens slowly, half-inch by half-inch.

When she sees inside, her eyes widen considerably faster.

He stands with his back to her, fists trembling at his sides. A low humming sounds near his feet, like a hornet, angry.

Slowly, his head shakes from side to side and the humming gets louder.

She can taste the tension in the air, can see the effect of invisible hands pulling at her father, sees him resisting, leaning back, as if fighting stormy winds.

His head shakes again, faster this time, less confident. His jaw moves but if he says any words, they are too low to make out.

Something seems to break and her father leans down quickly, the movement desperate. There is the sound of a box lid slamming shut.

The humming diminishes but does not vanish.

Her father leans heavily on the box for a moment then stands up.

Vesper pulls back from the door but it is too late, he has seen her. He always sees her.

She adopts what she hopes is a neutral expression. ‘Are you alright?’

He marches up to the door and nods curtly. His amber eyes are bloodshot, puffy, and she wonders if he has been crying.

They look at each other for a moment and she feels the need to say something, to reach out to him. She has no idea where to begin and offers him a weak smile instead.

His lips move, threatening a sentence and she dares to hope that, for once, he is going to open up, but he cuts it off in its infancy with another sharp nod.

The door closes between them.

With an angry mutter, Vesper plonks herself down on the hillside. The kid comes and sits next to her.

‘It isn’t fair!’ she exclaims, making the kid look up in alarm. ‘He never tells me what’s going on. And he never lets me go anywhere or do anything. I am so bored of goats and grass.’ To take the sting out of her words she strokes the kid’s soft head. ‘But you are very cute.’

The afternoon is spent watching the horizon, scope in hand. Scanning the distant edges of the Shining City, hoping for glimpses of a place featured in her Uncle’s stories but never visited. Today she is rewarded. A group of young people gather in a circle. She maximises the zoom on the scope to drink in the details. Their clothes are all alike, unadorned, white; there is no fashion for the young in the Shining City, and their hair is of uniform cut. There is something formal about the way they stand and she wonders what it is that they do.

The formation is familiar, sparking the chip in her head to take action. It analyses the group, noting formation and age, and categorises them, popping the noun into Vesper’s brain: a choir. In the Shining City all young people are grouped into choirs from an early age. This keeps them from becoming too strongly attached to parents or siblings. Every six months the membership of a particular choir changes to prevent social bonds growing too deep. This way, loyalty to the Empire is assured.

Vesper does not see social engineering or the sparks being slowly stifled. She sees mystery and is hungry for more.

For a time, she watches, noting every movement and gesture. She has no idea what they discuss but is certain every word is fascinating.

She does not notice the man until he is nearly upon her. He appears as a giant in the scope, a portion of pale scalp suddenly filling her vision. With a shriek she falls backwards, sending the kid scurrying back up the hill and out of sight.

Embarrassed, she sits up, looks a second time. Without the scope the man is much less scary. His clothes are black, robust, and a badge of the winged eye stands proud on his collar. His hair is red and wiry and struggles to escape, springing wide on the other side of his hairband. One of the Lenses, like the visitor her uncle spoke of.

‘Hello,’ she says, giving a hesitant wave.

The man looks up the hill at her. ‘Good afternoon, Vesper.’

‘You know my name?’

‘Yes, we’ve met. A long time ago. I helped your father once, got him into Six Circles and across the sea. My name is Genner, did he ever mention me?’

‘Nope.’

Genner stiffens. ‘As I said, it was a long time ago.’

‘Are you here to see him?’

‘I’m here to help him. At least I would be if he’d let me.’

She nods, knowing exactly what he means. ‘You think he needs help, too?’

‘I have a feeling he will soon. Do you think you could persuade him to come out and talk?’

‘I don’t know. He’s …’

‘He’s what? It’s very important you tell me, Vesper.’

Words come and go, none fit. She shrugs. ‘Difficult. Something’s going on but he won’t tell me what it is.’

He comes and sits beside her and they both look out towards the city as he talks. ‘I’m one of the Lenses. We watch for trouble and when it comes we guide the Seraph Knights and the armies of the Winged Eye to where they’re needed in order to protect us.’

‘You know Seraph Knights?’

‘Oh, yes. I even give them orders from time to time.’ He takes a moment, enjoying the awe on her face, then sighs. ‘Something is very wrong in the south, Vesper. The Seven feel it in their sanctum, and we’re sure Gamma’s sword feels it too. We need your father to take up the sword again, and when he does, I intend to make sure he isn’t alone.’

Vesper is quiet while clouds flit by, fluffy, incongruous. ‘Is it dangerous?’

‘Yes.’

‘What if he doesn’t want to do it?’

‘It doesn’t matter if he wants to or not. There is nobody else.’ He takes his gaze from the sky and turns it on her. ‘What I really want to do is burst in there and order him to help us. But your father is chosen of The Seven, it puts him beyond my authority. I need him to come of his own free will. I need you to talk to him.’

She gets up. ‘My father is a hero. When he realises how bad things are, he’ll help, I know he will.’

‘So you’ll talk to him?’

‘Yes.’

He waves to her as she runs back up the hill. ‘Winged Eye watch over you.’

At dinner, the scrape of knife on plate sounds sharp in the ear, the noises of eating too loud. Harm’s banter is subdued and her father’s attention fixed on food barely touched. Vesper glances at the two of them, uncertain of her chances. She tries anyway.

‘I was thinking, now I’m older, it might be time to see more of the world.’

A frown appears on her father’s face.

Harm reaches for her hand, finds it and gives it a squeeze. ‘Your father and I were talking just the other day, about how fast you’re growing, every time we turn our backs it seems!’ Her father’s frown deepens. ‘But to be safe out there–’ he nods towards the Shining City ‘– we feel there are still things you need to learn. To be safe—’

‘What if you came with me? Both of you. We could go to the Shining City. It isn’t far. That way I could see things and you’d know I was safe.’

Her father gets up, collecting the used plates, and Harm replies, ‘Now isn’t a good time.’

Vesper’s face darkens. ‘It’s never a good time.’

‘I know it feels that way.’

‘I’m not a child any more.’ Her father looks round at that, an eyebrow raised. ‘I’m not! I know something is going on! And I want to help.’

She feels the weight of their attention, hesitates. ‘A man from the Lenses spoke to me today. He said things are getting bad. He said they need you to be a hero again, like you used to be, and this time I want to come with you.’ Her father shakes his head and she falters. When she finds her voice again it is small. ‘You’re going to leave me behind.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Harm soothes. ‘We’re not leaving you behind. We’re not going anywhere. Everything’s fine.’

‘That’s not what the man said.’

Harm nods sadly. ‘Things out there are never fine. Even before the Breach there were wars and plagues and floods, and goodness knows what else. We can’t look after the world.’ He glances at her father. ‘We’ve learnt that the hard way. But we can look after each other.’

‘He said father had to do it. He said there isn’t anyone else that can bear Gamma’s sword.’

‘That sword can speak for itself. If it wanted to be used again, we’d know about it by now.’

‘But it does!’

‘I doubt that.’

‘I’ve heard it and so has he.’

‘That’s enough,’ warns Harm.

She looks at her father for confirmation but sees only his back as he does the dishes. A frown of her own appears, a tiny mirror of her father’s. Tears of frustration build, and the discussion ends, abrupt, unsatisfactory, with no mention of Genner or the threat to the Shining City.

The frown stays with her for the rest of the day, a constant companion.

Vesper snaps awake, heart pounding. She sits up, peering into the comfortable dark of her room. She is alone. This surprises her. She was sure of the opposite. Bare feet slip onto cold floor and she pads to the window. Outside, the only lights are distant, unable to penetrate the moat of darkness at the base of the hill.

The house seems quiet. Vesper waits for her pulse to settle and listens. She begins to detect the soft murmur of Uncle Harm’s voice and beneath it … something else. She frowns, unable to place the sound. It is a kind of humming, more felt than heard. It stirs the blood. She remembers the sound from earlier in the day, and her father’s fear.

When it comes to sneaking through the house, Vesper knows all of the tricks. Squeaky boards are avoided, obstacles skillfully stepped around or over. Her door is opened just enough, so slow as to be silent. Soon she creeps past her parents’ room.

‘Ssh,’ says her uncle.

Vesper freezes, panic gripped until she realises that the voice is not directed at her.

‘It was just a dream. I’m right here. Vesper’s asleep next door. We’re all okay … Ssh … Go back to sleep.’

Against all reason, Vesper risks a glance inside. Uncle Harm lies beside her father, propped up on an elbow, stroking his brow. Her father’s eyes are closed and Vesper relaxes a little.

As her father drifts back into sleep, tension falls away, making him appear suddenly younger. Not young, Vesper decides, but not as old as he looks in the day.

She doesn’t stop to wonder if her uncle is lying or simply unaware, and moves quickly downstairs, determined to do something to help.

Since her previous visit to the storeroom, boxes have been stacked in front of the door, blocking it. Young arms struggle with the weight and she is forced to place them heavily. She winces as each one clunks against the floor, waiting for the tell-tale sounds of her father or uncle being disturbed.

But upstairs, all is quiet.

Sweating, she removes the last obstacle and goes inside. The room is small, more a glorified cupboard than living space. Junk is stacked messily on top of boxes. Vesper begins to pull things down. She is often distracted. An old rubber lung catches her eye. She squeezes it and it sighs for her. The sound is comforting. She sniffs it, enjoying the faint tang. There are other things, half-finished carvings that her father has abandoned. One is of a smiling knight with bulging muscles. Most are of a woman, vague shapes never fully realised.

When she lifts the first box clear the humming gets fractionally louder.

Excitement and youth make quick work of the pile. Boxes are dumped behind her, scattering across the kitchen floor, haphazard. Without them, the storeroom looks spacious.

Vesper frowns, listens again. She searches the corners, now accessible, finding only dust-heavy webs, long vacated.

Nothing. The storeroom is empty.

As quickly as it came, excitement vanishes. Vesper hangs her head. But humming persists, not imagined, invisible. She feels it through her feet. With a vengeance, excitement returns. Vesper presses her cheek flat on the floor and sees a board not quite aligned with the others. Fingers work the edge, teasing it up until purchase can be found. She lifts the board and sees space underneath. She lifts two more, revealing a shallow hole lined in trembling plastic. She dares to touch it, feels the humming through her fingers.

More carefully now, reverent, she pulls it back to reveal a long dusty box and a pair of old boots. The boots release a heady musk, mixing damp, old sweat, and other less savoury things. Vesper pulls them on anyway. She tries walking in them, imagining herself as a mysterious traveller. But boots soon fall from little feet, one thump, then another. They remain upright, stiff from experience.

The box is heavy and Vesper struggles to lift it out. Twice it slips out of her fingers, sliding back into the hole at an angle. She does not try a third time, instead leaning into the hole and flipping the catch. The lid creaks as it opens, protesting. A cloud of dust puffs out, demanding its tribute of coughs. Vesper obliges, once, twice, thrice.

An old coat has been used to pack the box. Vesper takes it out. The fabric is worn but tough, reassuring. The coat has been stitched together in places. Lower down, scorch marks and bite marks decorate, left by tainted dogs and unearthly fires. She puts the coat on. It is too big for her, almost a robe. The reality of how she looks in it makes no impact on Vesper’s imagination and she keeps it on, grinning.

Only then does she look down.

The humming has quietened, softening into contentment. At the bottom of the box lies a sword. Sheathed. Silvered wings wrapping the hilt unfurl, reach up to her. Open, they reveal an eye set in the crosspiece, staring, waiting.

One Thousand, One Hundred and Thirty-Seven Years Ago

In a storm of purple lighting where clouds look like egg sacs and the sky like a cavernous throat, a baby is born. Only the baby can see the storm, however. To the others the sky appears as it always does, a haze of light pollution and smog.

They wonder why the newborn is showing signs of distress. Experts circle her glassy pod, examining. She seems healthy, a good strong set of lungs, a decent heart. All limbs appear in working order. The experts shake their heads, concluding it is just a temperamental issue, merely emotional. They dose the baby with calming drugs and, as expected, it settles down.

Years pass and the baby is given a name, a gender and a social class. The baby becomes a girl, Massassi, and she is put into the lower middle echelons. Her supervisor is warned of her predisposition to irrational outbursts and authorised to medicate where necessary.

The girl becomes an apprentice mechanic and proves skilful. At the tender age of eight, she is assigned work on the great construction mechs, crawling into nooks and crannies, repairing. It is dangerous work. The mechs are automated and held to rigid schedules. They pause rarely and never for very long. The girl must be quick or dead. She darts between pistons, removing blockages, replacing worn parts, squeezing into spaces too tight for adult bodies. For the first year, she is quick enough.

Perhaps it is a mark of respect that she is trusted with such deadly work, or perhaps it is because she does not get on with her peers or her supervisor, or anyone else. Massassi is a brooding, angry girl. Too clever for her age but not clever enough, not yet.

She enjoys the thrill of her work, finds the thought-invading anger that haunts her nights is sated by daily brushes with death.

There is no time off, no holiday to take, but all workers have enforced downtime, carefully scheduled activity changes to maximise efficiency. More than anything else, she dreads the mandatory social gatherings. One day, after three consecutive events, the anger grows so strong that she starts to break things. Immediately, an alarm sounds on her supervisor’s HUD and he whispers an order.

Implanted dispensers in Massassi’s spine go to work and anger fades, humbled.

She remembers little of these times but doesn’t complain, even prefers it that way. When she requests dangerous levels of overtime, her supervisor doesn’t check too closely.

Massassi is ten when she has the accident.

Her thoughts are elsewhere, cloudy with free-floating emotion. She is supposed to be fixing the shoulder motors of Superior Class Harvester 4879-84/14 but all she wants to do is tear them apart. For the first time, she wonders why she is different, and if perhaps everyone else is not at fault after all.

Preoccupation, however slight, is dangerous. Massassi combines hers with fatigue and a self-destructive streak. Too late, she realises the Harvester is reactivating. Massassi tries to throw herself clear but her sleeve catches on a piece of wiring, wiring she would normally have secured.

She cannot free her arm.

Engines roar with power, blades spin, lights flash.

The Harvester moves.

Massassi screams.

Blood smears between metal plates, bones grind to chalky powder.

On her supervisor’s HUD, an alarm sounds.

CHAPTER TWO

Thoughts come like the tide from a distant shore. They get closer, louder, more insistent. Gradually, they gain form, lifting through the fog, breaking the spell.

As awareness returns, Vesper finds herself leaning into the hole, hands hovering inches from a feathered hilt, perfectly aligned with the upturned wings, like partners before a dance.

The girl blinks, the sword does not.

It glares at her for a few moments, judgemental, then the eye closes with sudden disinterest. Apparently, she is not the one it wants.

She thinks of her father, standing in the same spot earlier that day, and she begins to understand why he was afraid.

It is tempting to repack the room and turn her back on it but she knows that won’t work. The sword will keep calling and wearing her father down. He is already tired, it will only be matter of time before he succumbs.

Something must be done.

She swallows, realising that she has come to a decision.

The sword has to go. She resolves to take it to Genner and let him deal with it. There are many knights after all. They will find one and give the sword to them. Afterwards she will come home and it will be safe again. Her father will be free.

She removes the sword from the storeroom to the kitchen and returns its box to the hole, covering it with floorboards. Then she replaces all of the boxes, trying her best to match their original positions. Finished, she shuts the door and blocks it as her father had earlier.

With luck, she thinks, he’ll never know what’s happened.

Only after she’s finished does she realise she’s still wearing the old coat. She gives a shrug, happy, deciding to keep it.

Vesper creeps back to her room and dresses in silence, quickly. She collects the sword last, wrapping it in an old plastic sheet. Scared it might wake again, she tries to make as little contact with it as possible, being especially careful to avoid the hilt and the eye twitching within.

When she opens the door a cold breeze touches her cheeks. She shivers and sets off, not noticing the small body curled by the front door. At the sound of her passing, the kid blinks awake, springing up. He looks round, sleep forgotten at the sight of his good mother, and follows.

Both forms are quickly swallowed by the night.

The sword is lighter than it looks, but still heavy for a young girl to carry. In the dark, familiar ground becomes strange, and Vesper stumbles down the hill, jolting her legs, the bundle bouncing in her arms. Despite plastic wrapping, its edge digs into forearms, painful.

She pauses halfway down, looks at the sword again, sure that under the four layers of plastic, it is looking back. She swallows, sniffs. Dust tickles nostrils and she wipes her nose on her sleeve, only to discover her new coat is filthy. Sneezes come.

Paranoia makes her look back towards the house. But instead of her father, watching from a window, she finds the kid at her heels.

Shifting the weight of the sword onto one arm, she points back up the hill with the other. ‘Go, off you go. You can’t come with me. Go home.’

A warm head butts against her hand.

‘No. You need to go back. You need to …’ Vesper trails off, finds herself stroking the kid. ‘I suppose we won’t be gone long, are you sure you want to come?’