The Malice. Peter Newman

      Genner opens his eyes. ‘Yes. We’re actually flying.’

      ‘I wish we could see outside.’

      ‘Only the pilot needs to see.’

      ‘Where’s the pilot?’

      ‘In the iris pod.’

      Feet pause their tapping. Vesper’s brow creases in thought. She begins to open her mouth, pauses.

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘Please, would it be possible for me to sit in the iris pod?’

      ‘That’s not standard procedure.’

      ‘Oh. I understand.’

      Genner makes a speech, about safety, about protocol, trying to explain, to restore the happy face of moments ago. ‘I’m sorry, that’s just how it is.’ Before he can say more, a square lights up at his throat, then another within his ear.

      The communication makes the young man sit up, straps cutting into his shoulders. He speaks rapidly. ‘How many? How do they even know we’re here? Is the stealth active? Yes. Yes. I’ll await your report.’

      As lights fade from skin, Genner meets Vesper’s eye.

      A quaver disturbs the girl’s voice. ‘What was that?’

      ‘Rogue sky-ships, three of them. They’re on an intercept course.’

      ‘What does that mean?’

      ‘It means no more talking. Brace for impact!’

      Figures tense, gripping the arms of seats about and above her. No words are said but many mouths move, intoning the litany: Winged Eye save us, protect us, deliver us.

      Three sky-ships move in formation. Once, they wore their allegiance to the Winged Eye proudly. Now, those signs have been defaced, with blood or with knives, symbolic. They swoop down together, ready to attack. Their target is invisible, hidden from mortal sight. This does not stop them, for the First guides their hand, finding the needle in the sky and plucking it.

      Missiles fire, and the three ships peel away, keen to avoid retaliation.

      The target makes an optimistic attempt to evade the attack. It spins, dives, spits balls of light in its wake, distractions that sparkle, tempting.

      But the pilot’s manoeuvres are as out of date as the countermeasures. Superior missiles find their mark, shattering shields, tearing engines.

      In a gasp of fire, the Light-drives fail.

      As the sky-ship begins to fall, a cloud of pods explodes from it in every direction, like a sneeze. Each pod is just bigger than the adult it carries. Orders mobilize them and they streak towards the nearest landmass; a formation of white-tailed comets heading to a half-made island, home of the Harmonium Forge and the airy prison: Sonorous.

      Part prison colony, part port, Sonorous looms up from the water, buildings bolted onto a vast semicircle of rock. Within the sheltered waters, ships rest. Lifts sway gently as they move between the different sectors, from the dock level at the bottom to the watchtower three miles above. The prison is built on the outer curve, cells dangling from chains over the open ocean.

      Tiny roads spiderweb between crammed buildings on the lower levels. By contrast, Sonorous’ main road, the Tradeway, sprawls out like a fat tongue, running from the port to the mountain’s edge. From here it angles mildly up, a leisurely spiral snaking towards the mid-level, where it meets the machine factories.

      Only the Tradeway is large enough to support the four crawlertanks as they groan from their hangars. Mechanised legs bear heavy oval bodies, packed with troops. They travel the length of the Tradeway at speed, warming cannons as they go, for the island kingdom has only recently declared independence and when its rulers see the flurry of pods streaking overhead they assume the worst.

      Fearing that the Empire of the Winged Eye has come to reclaim its wayward colony, they summon their soldiers, send a message to the First for aid, and hide in custom-made bunkers, prepared for just such an occasion.

      Above, the pods decelerate and spend the last of their reserves in fields of energy, dazzling, sparking as they take the impact of landing.

      They come down, some in the streets, some punching through walls. Metal rain that destroys noisily.

      People run. Unable to tell which way is safest, they go in random directions. Dust plumes around them, lending a gritty mystery to the scene. Gradually, noise settles. Air clears.

      A pod sits in a trench of its own making. A rectangle of white fades up along one of its sides. Soon after, there is a popping sound, soft, anticlimactic, and a segment of metal falls away, allowing a man to stumble out. He brings a hand to his forehead. His fingers come away moist, a much darker red than his hair. He wipes them quickly, then pulls a gun free from its holster.

      He scans the streets, counting pods, watching them disgorge their contents onto the floor. Aside from his own people, the streets are empty.

      They will not stay that way for long.

      The man intones his name, not Genner, his real one. In answer, knights clank to attention, drawing swords, saluting. Squires rush to their sides and soldiers come limping, come running, moving as best they can into formation.

      Duet does not join them, choosing instead to watch through a hole in a cracked wall. She stands either side of a pale-faced Vesper, fencing her between steel and stone.

      The girl straightens, trying to peer through the hole. ‘What’s—’

      Duet’s hands find her shoulders, silencing, pushing her back down.

      Before the wall cuts the scene from her eyes, shots ring out. A squire catches a bullet with his hip, spinning twice before falling. The bullet continues on its merry way, barely slowed, bouncing off walls, looking for more targets. Knights and soldiers disperse, returning fire.

      Behind the wall, Vesper struggles to make sense of the chaos outside. She hears more orders being given. They are under attack. More shots, shouts, the sudden belching of fire and screaming, like pigs being savaged by wolves. Pushing aside Duet, she manages to catch a glimpse of the action. Bodies twisting and tearing, people running, some of them on fire. She does not know who is dying and suddenly it does not matter. Nobody should suffer this way.

      Vesper ducks down, unwilling to see further.

      But the sounds continue, forcing past hands pressed over ears. Fire rumbles, steady, underscoring the highs and lows of battle, constant against the chatter of guns and screams of the injured. Time stretches, each moment heaping age on Vesper’s shoulders. She weeps, but war cares little for tears or the children that shed them.

      Then, twenty-five voices rise together, thrumming along sacred blades, irresistible. And even though their judgement is not directed at her, even though the girl knows that this is the sound of the Seraph Knights joining the fight, she shivers.

      In her arms, the sword is heavy and cold.

      Hands release their pressure from Vesper’s shoulders but they do not leave. Duet nods, two heads moving as one. ‘It is safe –’

      ‘– For now.’

      Her voices are complementary, not identical but seamless in the way they join their sentences.

      Vesper looks from one to the other, quickly wipes her eyes. ‘I don’t understand … they weren’t infernal, they were just people. Like us. All the blood!’ Her mouth twists with horror. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t …’

      Duet looks down at her and her sentence dies, unfinished.

      ‘They are –’

      ‘– Calling us.’

      ‘We must –’

      ‘– Go now.’

      Duet guides her around piles of rubble.