The Malice. Peter Newman

of her back, moving her on. There is so much wreckage for such a small skirmish, she cannot take it all in, nor can she stop looking. Limbs, bits of clothing, unrecognisable hunks of meat, still sizzling on the stone. Smells invade nostrils, snake up into the brain to make memories, lasting.

      On broken chunks of brick, she sees blood glistening. The sight makes her stop. There are no corpses here, just bricks flecked crimson and a dark puddle spreading between them. The strangeness of it holds her, troubling a traumatised mind.

      ‘What happened here?’

      ‘It doesn’t –’

      ‘– Matter.’

      ‘But how did the blood get here? Who did it belong to? This doesn’t make any sense.’

      ‘This is war –’

      ‘People die. That’s –’

      ‘– All.’

      ‘But there has to be more to it than that!’

      Duet exchanges an exasperated look with herselves. ‘They are traitors –’

      ‘– Who side with demons.’

      ‘It’s them –’

      ‘– Or us.’

      Vesper’s eyes are too wide, staring but not seeing.

      ‘We have –’

      ‘– To go.’

      She doesn’t hear Duet, doesn’t catch the urgency in the Harmonised’s tone. ‘But who were they?’

      ‘We have –’

      ‘– To go.’

      ‘This was a person once.’

      One of Duet tuts, the other sighs heavily, and both take one of Vesper’s arms, dragging her the rest of the way.

      As they get closer to the main group, Vesper sees that Sonorous has lost many troops this day. Their own forces have fared better. Only one knight has fallen. Squires attend their dead master, reclaiming armour and sword. Such items are priceless, made by the creator when the Empire of the Winged Eye was born. Stripped of office and dignity, the corpse is placed with the others. There is no time for ceremony, so the soldiers move quickly, levelling their lances, incinerating remains. A knight’s death is regrettable, an untainted corpse left behind for the infernals, unforgivable.

      Genner strides over to meet them. ‘You’re unharmed?’

      Duet answers for the young girl. ‘The bearer –’

      ‘– Is unharmed.’

      ‘Then all is not lost. Help is coming but it will take time to reach us. We’re going to take the forge and hold out for rescue.’

      ‘This is wrong!’ Vesper exclaims, clutching the fabric of Genner’s uniform in her fists. ‘These people have died because of me! I’m not the bearer. I’m just a stupid girl. You take the sword. Here.’

      He leans closer to her ear, lowering his voice. ‘It’s too late for that. You are the bearer, you have to believe that and they –’ he gestures to the troops and squires, patching wounds and forming up behind him ‘– have to believe it too.’

      Tears stream down cheeks, mixing with snot on her top lip.

      Genner turns to the Harmonised. ‘She’s in shock. Get her some stims and keep her under cover until we’re ready to move.’

      There is a pause that threatens to become a protest but Genner kills it in its infancy. ‘Step to it!’

      Duet salutes and escorts Vesper back towards the wall. One of her hands is firmer on the girl’s shoulder. Vesper grits her teeth, stifling complaint.

      They climb through a dusty hole into a washroom. Vacuum pipes coil untouched in transparent cases. A crashed pod covers most of the space, spearing the cleaning booth, like a dart in a board. Duet releases Vesper in a corner, then turns, wrenching the door from the booth and placing it across the hole.

      Vesper’s thoughts are a jumble, she doesn’t know what to do or say or think. To her surprise, she sneezes.

      She blinks. A moment later, she sneezes again.

      Dust is tickling her nose. She looks up, sees a trickle coming from a crack in the ceiling in bursts, uneven.

      In seconds, Duet is by her side.

      Through the silence, footsteps can be heard, multiple and fast, each one sending a fresh spray of dust as it passes overhead.

      From outside, a new noise invades: a rumbling, heavy and distant, heralding the coming of metal beasts.

      Duet moves either side of the door and raises her swords, ready.

      ‘What should I do?’ asks Vesper.

      ‘Hide –’

      ‘– In there,’ replies Duet, pointing to the booth.

      Before she can go further, invisible forces hammer the door, wrenching it half from housings to swing drunkenly open. Vesper’s mouth mirrors the spirit of the movement.

      A metal ball the size of a baby’s fist rolls into the room.

      It stops, clicks.

      Instinctively, Vesper leans back.

      And Duet is moving, breaking harmony. One throws herself at the girl, trying to push her clear, trying to put herself in harm’s way. The other’s sword sweeps down, flicking the ball back the way it came. The move is quick, sure, too late.

      Halfway out of the room the ball explodes, filling the air with corkscrew slivers, burning hot. They carve through Duet’s chestplate, biting a hundred times into flesh beneath.

      She takes two paces back, then two more, sword slipping from her fingers. She sways like a reed in the breeze before following her blade, a graceful slide onto her knees. While one woman goes down, the other leaps up, eyes intent on the doorway.

      Bullets come first, fired wild to clear the way. Figures follow, vaulting into the space at angles, making room for more behind. Even hurrying, they are stealthy, magenta battle suits muted to shadow grey. They see the injured woman and the young figure curled in the corner. They see the other woman flying at them, sword glinting as it falls.

      They do not see the gun in the injured woman’s hand.

      Lights and sharpened steel flash, strobing the room.

      Vesper watches the silhouettes on the ceiling, making their jerky way towards death.

      When it is over, a dozen bodies lie contorted in a thin puddle of blood.

      Duet reunites. Worried hands rest on shoulders, move to take off a battered helmet.

      They are pushed away. The gesture is not hard but it sends one half reeling, uncertain.

      Alone, the injured woman opens a panel on her bracer. From it she pulls a tiny needle and injects it under the strap of her helm. Alone, she stands.

      The noise outside is louder, closer.

      Genner’s face appears at the broken wall; it does not flicker at the sight of the bodies. ‘Report.’

      ‘The sword –’

      ‘– And the bearer –’

      ‘– Are intact.’

      Genner nods. ‘And you?’

      ‘We are –’ There is a beat, barely noticeable as one glances towards her battered counterpart.

      ‘– We are fine.’

      Whatever else Genner might say is superseded by the floor starting to shake. ‘Move!’ he shouts, pointing towards the door opposite. ‘Move now!’