~~
The next morning, Wasp and Chain shared breakfast. His Servants put on cured meats of all kinds, fruits, and cereals, filling the whole dinner table. It was too much for the two of them but what they didn't eat today could be used tomorrow, or eventually as slop for the pigs being reared for Cleansing Day.
Chain sat opposite Wasp, a vision in white. She had slept well and looked ready for whatever the day would bring. Wasp had no idea what her day would involve. He had an urge to needle her, to make some glib comment about how she would be wasting her time. But then he remembered the annoyance and the shame he'd felt at being put in his place for making such comments and instead settled for politeness.
“What have you got planned for the day?” he asked.
Chain looked up from a bowl of porridge oats mixed with apples. “I've got my final exam, a written test on Disciple Tactics.”
Wasp nodded. Disciples... He didn't know anything of them beyond what was drawn in the history books. It was interesting to think that there was a world of knowledge that he didn't have access to, even with his resources. Interesting and frustrating. He had old Shields in his employ who he could talk to if he wanted, but it would never come close to the education that Chain and other Contegons had received.
Maybe he would hire a Contegon, just to ask her about the Disciples, just to learn something more and not feel so inferior.
Chain stared at him. Wasp looked down and saw that his hands were white from clutching a spoon, that his fingers were deeply engrained with the floral patten across the utensil. He smiled and put the spoon down, lowering his hand so Chain couldn't see it.
“That sounds like it's important. Shouldn't you have been revising last night?”
She shrugged. “Not really. I already know what I'll be asked. Disciple Tactics aren't really that hard.”
Wasp involuntarily clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
Either Chain didn't notice or she didn't care. Instead, she carried on. “Disciples are pretty simple. They only have a standard set of responses. Really, they're more like machines than people, so it's the easiest part of the exam process. You've just got to know their patterns.”
He sniffed. “Well, good luck.”
Chain smiled. “Thank you.”
His heart lifted at that smile and he returned the gesture. Then they attacked their meals, chewing away happily.
Until they were interrupted.
Wasp had left strict instructions with Nail that he and Chain should not be disturbed during their meal. He wanted time alone with her, to understand her better, this strange and fascinating object of his affections. Often when they met, they didn't spend too long talking. He wanted her to himself.
So when the knock on the door came, his tone was bitter. “Enter.”
Jade, a female Merchant who had inherited the post only three months hence, entered the room. Whilst he was personally glad of the practice, the nepotism in the Merchant Station could be something of a problem... particularly when a woman like Jade is the only wellborn child. If she didn't pick up her act in the next nine months, he'd have to petition for her removal, which was a tedious procedure.
She didn't even look like a Merchant. Yes, she wore the full robe of a Merchant, faded gold trousers and a long-tailed coat, but they did not suit a female figure. And she had no presence, no charisma. Her hands were worrying at the buttons on her jacket even before she saw a Contegon sitting at the table.
“Sire, I... I didn't know...”
“No, go on,” Chain said. “Ignore me.”
Wasp shot her an annoyed look. Then he turned the full force of his glare on the junior Merchant “Yes, ignore her. You're here to see me. What is it, Jade? What could have brought you here so early?”
“There have been some... problems with one of your warehouses.”
The girl was clearly in awe of Chain still, regardless of Wasp's order. Even for a Merchant like her, that was a pathetic report and a poor reason for insulting a man's breakfast. He took a deep breath. “Care to be more specific?”
She almost leapt back. “Sorry, yes, your Ocean's Edge Fabric Warehouse.”
Wasp waited for a moment. Then he clucked his tongue again. “And what about it?”
“Oh, yes, erm– Well... is it okay to–”
Wasp gripped his leg so tightly that the muscles flared in anguish. Jade or any other Merchant would not dare to have acted like this with his father. Ant ruled them all like a tyrant, had them so scared that they would have prepared for days just to interrupt him during a meal. And yet this Jade comes and can't even spit out why she's here.
“Tell me what you've interrupted me for, Jade, or I'll have you counting rice for backwater Farmers for the next six months.” That he hadn't shouted was a testament to his restraint, to his desire not to leave a bad impression on Chain.
Jade took a deep breath, steeled herself as though she were about to fight. This caution eased Wasp's temper somewhat. “There have been a... Well, a number of structural defects with the... that is, the building hasn't been sound for a while. And now the roof has collapsed. The fabric inside, much of it has been exposed to the elements. It's... Sire, it's ruined. And I've been reporting this to Cap for months now but–”
Wasp leant forward. Cap was one of his father's partners, a very senior Merchant. “Cap knew about this?” he hissed.
Jade nodded. “I've got the paperwork, the reports, to prove it.”
Why would Cap keep something like this from him? If he'd known that there were structural problems with a warehouse, then he should have damn well fixed the bloody things, taking it out of his share of the profits. Yes, it would have hurt, but it was better than losing... Sol, maybe ten thousand Circles worth of stock? Wasp couldn't understand why Cap would do such a thing. If Wasp had known, he might have done the damn repairs himself...
“Why,” he started, his words slowly plucked like splinters, “do you think I wasn't told?”
“Maybe he was trying to... look after you?” Jade guessed with no authority. “What with all... with your... your bereavement?”
Chain remained silent. She watched him closely. Jade kept nervously switching between watching Wasp and eyeing Chain with reverence.
Wasp stood. He brushed himself down and wiped the corners of his mouth with a cloth. Then he walked over to Jade, stood right in her face, and said “I don't need anyone to look after me. I am Wasp, the owner of the Ant Mercantile Concern, son of the greatest Merchant that this fair city has ever had the fortune to witness. And those who cross me will find that the dark brother would quake at the evils I would do. I want you to go and tell Cap that. I want you to find him and say that to him, word for word.”
Jade hesitated, intimidated into frozen fear.
“Go,” Wasp said. “Now. Or else you'll feel my wrath too.”
That snapped her into action. She ran out of the room, forgetting even to acquiesce to Chain. That pleased Wasp greatly. He watched her go and closed the dining room door after her.
“You'll have to forgive me,” Wasp said, “but I have to go and deal with this. Let yourself out when you're done. You understand.”
“Of course,” Chain said simply. “I hope it's not too major.”
Wasp nodded and left. On the way out, he entered one of the disused rooms, one that he had not yet cleared of furniture. The inescapable presence of Ant pressed in like steam. Wasp chose a particularly expensive chair. Lifting it up with his bloody hands, their wounds hidden beneath leather gloves, he smashed the thing down onto the floor, breaking it into five pieces.
Then he picked up the largest piece and smashed it again, leaving a haze of wood splinters across the carpet. It felt good. So he did it again. And again. The day, the problems with his warehouse, went forgotten and he just enjoyed the pure thrill of destruction. When he was done, he selected another piece of furniture and destroyed that too with a series of jarring, muscle-twisting slams and kicks.
&nbs
p; In a way, he realised when the chairs of a full dining set were worthless as anything more than firewood, it was practice. Because Cap and anyone else complicit in what had happened that day would face the same fate as his furniture.
He stalked out into the day, like a rabid bear, ready to teach people a lesson and impose his will onto his Merchants.
32
Snow stood on the deck of the ship and was battered by the malevolent winds of the storm. But the deck was the only safe place the adults could meet, where the children wouldn’t hear their conversations over the screaming gale.
“What are we going to do, Snow?” Branch asked, still as arrogant as ever. Except now her eyes shifted, and she played with her fingers as she talked. Branch was as scared as the rest of them. Everyone apart from Snow of course: he wasn't allowed to be scared.
Bless, Base, and Act, the Mariners chosen to accompany them, also watched and waited. He'd learned their names during this journey and knew each of them pretty well: you get to see who a person really is under pressure. Tired, hungry, soaked through and shivering, they stood in the cloudy night and expected answers.
Snow should have been terrified. He should have crumbled. But he had found a deep vein of strength ever since they'd left Fountain to hold off the Disciple. In fact, he had felt nothing but cool rage, like his heart had become a forged steel contraption.
“How much do we have left?” he asked, holding his lantern up against the storm.
“One sack. A single sack of grain,” Branch replied.
“If I ever catch the bastards who...” Bless started but then fell into a fit of coughing. Base rubbed his back for him, the young Mariner looking after his Captain, and he straightened again. “If I ever catch those thieves, I'll tear them a new arsehole.”
Snow shared the sentiment but didn't echo it. “And we're still days away from Aureu?”
“No doubt about it,” Act replied. He was the oldest, a navigator of great experience. His long hair clung to his skull like seaweed. “I'd say we've got at least a hundred miles to go.”
“If we even can make it that far...” Base muttered.
“Not helpful, Base,” Snow warned.
“It... it needs to be said though. This ship won't make it to Aureu. We're lucky it's even afloat. I'd be more confident in my shoes sailing me back!” Base always spoke quickly, but now, angry, his words shot from his mouth.
Bless smacked him on the shoulder. “Shut it. This is... this is where we are. Complaining won't do any good.”
“But we need to land, get to shore! I know we don't want to admit it, but Aureu is already gone! There's no way they will be able to defend against these Disciples. This is the Second Invasion! Putting our lives at risk to give them enough time to panic before they die won't help.”
There. It had finally been said. Snow had known Base felt like this for some time – it was obvious whenever they held these meetings – but he'd finally said it. Had he waited until they were this desperate, knowing he would not be listened to until then?
Snow decided he probably had.
“They could evacuate with our help,” Branch hissed. “Some could survive.”
“But they won't, will they, Branch? They won't evacuate because–”
“Don't you say it,” Act warned. The wind died down suddenly, as though in anticipation of what was to come next.
“Because of Sol,” Base continued, ignoring him. “They won't do anything but fight because Sol will save them. More people could die if we warn them. At least some would flee during a sudden attack. If we give the Council warning, then they'll call a Militia and get innocent people killed.”
“You fucking monster!” Branch yelled and launched herself at him. The woman moved faster than Snow would have given her credit for. She knocked Base to the floor and clawed at the Mariner's face, drew blood.
Act jumped across, pulled her off, but Branch fought violently. “Sol will save them. Sol will save us,” she screamed.
Snow just watched, dispassionate. Branch had family in the Contegons, a stay-at-home called Oasis. To suggest that she would die was... insensitive to say the least.
“Enough,” Snow said, and everyone stopped. The ocean slamming against the boat and the rustling of the sails in the vicious wind were the only sounds as he held their attention, made sure he had it all. It sounded like the storm might be dying, which would be a blessing.
“We continue to Aureu,” Snow continued. “I and Branch will be on quarter rations, the children on half, and you three Mariners will be on three-quarters. Now go get some sleep: I'll watch the ship tonight.”
Base looked away, tutted, but said nothing more. Then they left, went below, Mariners and Branch separate. Snow was left alone.
He leant against the mast, and the wind started up again. His hopes of a brief storm had been foolish. The rising wind tousled his hair and stole his heat. Barely noticing, he looked out over the sea.
They should never have been in this situation, should never have had to use this boat. And 'boat' was a kind term: most of her ropes were rotten; the sails could at best be called 'worn' and might fall apart at any moment; her deck bore holes, so the children below were cold and damp; and rot was an ever-present concern. But it had been the only boat left.
Desperate to get away, the refugees had gratefully accepted what they could get. By consensus, the adults had quickly agreed they had to get to Aureu and warn everyone about the invasion and they'd piled everyone onto this heap. Snow had endorsed the plan.
Now he felt stupid.
But he wasn't entirely stupid. After comparing stories with the two women and those children who could talk about what they'd seen, Snow was certain his theory about the Disciples taking captives had been correct. Unfortunately, that theory meant that many were convinced that Lun was preventing the captives from joining Sol. They each mourned the loss of their family's souls as well as their lives, and doing so cut them as bitterly as the night's frost.
Snow thought there was something more than superstition to what had happened, that Lun was not involved as they all thought... Just because he now doubted Sol's existence at all. He didn't know why, but the invasion reeked of change, of a shift in the world. As he looked out over the dark waters, unable to tell where the horizon ended and the night began, he knew that something was different.
It could just be him. There was this... wall between him and others now. Maybe because none of them had seen blood, maybe it was the burden that had been thrust onto him, or even his flagging faith... but everyone seemed so unlike him. Not in a bad way: he didn't feel superior. They just weren't like him. He could make decisions about their lives with a heavy heart, but without remorse, which was so... odd.
He sighed. Such reflection would get him nowhere. He needed to look to the future.
For his part, Snow partially agreed with Base. Getting to Aureu would make little difference to any outcome. But everyone had climbed aboard this wreck of a ship under that pretence, the children especially, and they endured the hardships and cold and mould because they were trying to save people. This purpose was almost as important as food. Maybe more so: below decks was a depressing place and anything other than racing to Aureu could drive the refugees mad.
But then, what would happen if they did crash ashore? Did Base expect them to find a small village and hope to avoid the Disciples forever? No, there would be no escape. Maybe it was better to face the end amongst people, as a group.
Some more food really would have made things easier though. This spare vessel was meant for short, emergency trips, and had little enough to begin with before it had been ransacked. Lacking something so basic, so vital, as food drained them all. Water was no problem – they collected rainwater and morning dew – so that was a blessing but...
Snow laughed. 'Blessing.' What a joke. If Sol was watching them, what was he thinking? Why had nothing gone right for Snow in weeks? His entire life had crumbled. Now Snow had nothing but himself
and the worries of a ship full of civilians. And he was racing back to Aureu, back towards the punishment and shame he'd kept hidden, with a message that would make them all screech in terror.
What a joke.
“What's so funny?”
It was Element, the young girl from the coach, a tiny figure by the stairs down into the ship's bowels. She clutched a blanket, looked tired but curious. Element came to him often, odd and talkative and mature. Somehow she understood him the most.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing is funny.”
“Why laugh then?”
“I think... Sometimes you have to laugh, I think. Without doing so, you'd break down.”
She nodded. “Mind if I join you?”
“Go right ahead.”
Element started laughing, which surprised Snow. He smiled, felt that wall lift slightly. “Feel better?”
She thought about the question. “I suppose so. Do you?”
“I suppose so too.”
“You're not eating your rations, are you?” she asked. It was faintly accusatory, but mostly her voice was filled with pride, possibly at discerning this. “You've not eaten more than three meals since we left, have you?”
Snow's smile became a grin. “How did you know?”
“I keep an eye out. I've got to...” She wiped her eyes on the blanket, sodden and mouldy.
Snow looked away out of politeness, and weakness crashed over him like a thwarted sea: he'd only eaten twice since they set sail. He coped and gave himself no choice but to do so. But now that it had been mentioned, though, he couldn't ignore it. He may have to have that third meal, though he would feel guilty about every mouthful.
“I have fat to spare, so I've not eaten,” he said. “It's better for everyone else, means there's more to share.”
“And what happens when you faint from hunger?” she asked, pulling the blanket away and leaning against the stairs.
“I won't.”
Element nodded. “Be sure of that then. People below aren't well. Not everyone is coping with the mould. And they need you, Snow. We all need you. You're keeping us going almost more than this boat. Eat more. Look after yourself if you want to look after us.”
“How old are you again?”
“Thirteen.”
Element must just have a tiny frame. That explained some of her maturity, but not all of it. Was she destined to be a Contegon, maybe? You could join as late as fifteen, he'd heard. Could she have been about to leave when the Disciples attacked?
“I'll take better care of myself,” he promised. “Good night.”
She harrumphed and turned, went back below. Definitely Contegon material. Not that it mattered: being a Contegon was a dead profession now. With the Disciples stronger, more intelligent and without their Weakness, there was no fighting them. Guerilla warfare and a nomad existence were all that lay ahead for the people of Geos, assuming that surrender was not an option.
Maybe what had changed was the possibility of a future. As Snow looked out at where the new day would rise from, he realised that there was only one outcome for all of this now. Base was right. But fighting on, keeping going, was part of being human.
Snow realised that he still had a connection with the people below, with everyone else: none of them would give in to the Disciples. He smiled at the thought.
33
Before the Disciples took over, Call's town centre was used for prayers and celebrations. Wide, open, and plain, the centre was formed where several cobbled streets met. Paving and cobbles, that's all there was to it, but it was the hub of the town. Kids played ball games there, occasionally breaking windows and bones, and it hosted a dance every season. Everyone Pitch had spoken to during his time in Call had happy memories of the centre, even those whose children had returned with a broken hand: amidst the war, people met their lovers here, caught up with friends from the other side of town or just drank and enjoyed themselves. It was Call's heart.
Which was why Pitch found the Disciples' choice of gathering point grotesque. Something pure had been sullied by their using the town centre. It wasn't disgusting: they hadn't piled up corpses or worse... No, they'd just made the people of Call huddle together on those beloved paving stones, twisted their wonderful memories like a child who can't understand the pain of insects. That they had no understanding of what they were doing shook him.
Torches roared around them, casting dancing shadows across the captives. The Disciples marched him into a crowd of maybe a hundred survivors. The locals greeted one another with fierce hugs and cries of joy.
Being a tourist, no one was delighted to see Pitch.
He watched the Disciples instead. They stood three-abreast, two rows deep, on every street that led to the square. The avenue they'd entered through was closed too, leaving no escape. He counted their number. Fifty four Disciples watched them. This was more than just an insurgency: it was the Second Invasion.
Blessed greetings done, Call quietened. The atmosphere shifted. Cloying terror and sweat filled his nose, so strong he could taste them. Suddenly, Call expected.
With the usual mechanic rattle, a Disciple broke ranks. Pitch thought it was one of the Disciples who had escorted him. People screamed. Pitch almost did too when the Disciple marched into the centre and threw its arms out. Everyone flinched, but what came next caused hysteria.
“People of Geos,” it said, clear as glass. Its voice was almost human, though it lacked something indefinable, a certain lilt or a personality maybe.
Screaming, backing away, the crowd left Pitch alone at the front. When he realised this, he stepped back, tried not to stand out so much. It was pointless now, but being further away from the monster could only make him feel better.
“People of Geos, my name is Babbage and I am one of the leaders of the Disciples.”
Yelps and more bitter tears. Some fell to their feet, knowing their fate was sealed. Others, like Pitch, balled their fists and glared at the creature, thinking of their friends, families and homes. The angry ones seemed to be in the minority, which did not bode well.
“Judging from your reactions, I can see you think us monsters. We are nothing of the sort. We fight for justice and for your freedom. Freedom from the lies told to you. Surely you must realise something is wrong here, with so many old buildings and so much debris across your land?”
It... What was it saying? Pitch guessed it meant the pre-Cleansing debris and buildings but he had to guess. The New Language didn't suit this monster because he wasn't being clear. He suppressed a laugh: in at least one way, they were still worse than people.
“We know,” an old man, his fists raised, shouted. “It was The Cleansing, which cleared away the likes of you who were destroying us all. Sol saved us once, and I'm certain He will do so again!”
A cheer went up from the crowd. Hysterical, they would cheer any word of dissent, and the mood was catching. Pitch applauded, feeling lifted, though he didn't share the man's conviction. As far as Pitch had ever known, Sol helps those who help themselves.
The Disciple then did something awful: it rubbed its head and sighed. A human expression on that metallic frame was beyond anything Pitch could understand. Had the captured Shields or Contegons been... processed, turned into Disciples? None of them had been seen since the battle started... He took a step back, almost clattering into huddling, weeping men and women, but his eyes remained on the Babbage Disciple.
“Sorry, can I just ask something?” it said. It put one hand on its hip. The other hand gestured at the old man. Pitch felt like screaming. “This... Sol person. What does he look like? How old is he?”
“Sol is not a person: he is our god!” a young girl shouted. Brunette, pretty, she was about Snow's age.
The girl and old man stepped forward, wielding Sol's image: he with Sol dangling from his bracer, and she with the sphere and four arcing rays of light inked onto her arm. The Babbage Disciple leant forward, examining the images across a hundred foot gap, and then sigh
ed.
“Okay, well, you have still all been lied to. Very well lied to, and with impressive consistency, but still lied to. This Sol is a, a fiction and his creator has controlled you from the shadows for years. He is dark-haired, tall, has... strange powers?” It looked around. “Does this ring a bell in your philosophy or history?”
“What does 'ring a bell' mean?” the girl asked, confused. Pitch didn't know the phrase either.
“Sound familiar, tickle a faint memory, that kind of thing...”
Tickle a memory... How odd.
Everyone looked to the old man. Only the gentle sobs of the maddened captives filled the air. With the conviction of a Guardian, he closed his eyes and scanned his memories, lips moving quickly. The odd fragment Pitch picked up from lip-reading suggested he was recounting the Sol Lexic. All of it. From memory. That level of piety and dedication was inspiring, and Pitch's burden lightened. He should have faith that Sol had looked after Snow, who would be active, helping himself and others.
“No...” the old man said after a couple of minutes, “there's no mention of anyone like that. Not once. The dark brother has been lying to you, Babbage.”
This seemed to take it back for a second: it shuffled back, shook its head, looked almost... scared. “All right, all right. I guess I shouldn't have expected this to be easy: he has planned this out very carefully.” Despite its lack of lungs, it sighed.
Pitch shivered, but made himself take a step forward, recover lost ground.
The Babbage Disciple continued, “Thank you for your counsel, sage. If I'd known being civilised could work then we probably would have tried sooner.”
Pitch knew his history, so this lie angered him. “Excuse me, Babbage Disciple,” he said, stepping forward again, “but we tried diplomacy. Hundreds of Messengers died trying to get somewhere, anywhere, near Moenian but they were all killed. Don't sell us sheep wings.”
The thing observed Pitch for a second, and then looked back to the old man. “I apologise. I was not... present... then. Nonetheless, I have a final question for you. If Sol is all-powerful, the god you proclaim him to be, then how did we survive?” It gestured around him, indicating his brethren. “How do you account for his failure?”
“Lun.”
The single word brought wails, prayers, and fervent supplication to the sky, where the dark brother was looking down on them, laughing at his handiwork.
Babbage rubbed his hands across his face with... Well, it sounded like a laugh. Pitch hoped it had just been static, or a mild speech failure. The alternative was unconscionable... “And I assume Lun is this dark brother you spoke of? Sol's opposite, slightly less powerful, creates evil and mayhem in the world?”
“Of course you know that, being one of his cohorts,” the girl replied.
“All right then, not all of you will be as familiar with the teachings of this... Sol... and I doubt that you're all as faithful. So, I will present reality to you: you're on the wrong side. Even if you won't see that the foundations of your religion are nothing more than dust, at least you can see we've finally got ourselves together and will steam-roll our way across the land now. Nothing can stop us.”
“Sol will stop you, monster!” The old man's hands shook furiously. He turned away and spat on the ground. “May Lun eat you, vile thing.”
It waited for a moment. “As I said... nothing can stop us.”
The crowd became thoughtful. Pitch could understand why: a dozen Disciples had torn through the Western Front and taken Call in one day. Faith was all well and good, but monsters that could crush a hundreds of men without being even scuffed were here, now.
“So I give you the chance to end this quickly, with as little bloodshed as possible, by joining us. Afterwards, we will need ambassadors who can provide a diplomatic option which didn't exist before. Please consider it: you could save lives by working with us.” It pounded its chest and a solid thunk rolled out across the square. “Work with us. We are not monsters, and we know nothing of this Lun. Please.”
Someone stepped forward from the crowd and said “I'll join you, Babbage.”
The crowd gasped, but they weren't as shocked as Pitch: it was Wire.
“What is your...?”
“Wire, what in the name of the First Servant are you doing?” Pitch shouted, running across to her.
He winced when she sneered at him. “Oh, you survived, did you? No, you wouldn't have the good sense to die when it was best for everyone, would you?”
Pitch slapped her. Hard. It was satisfying. “Our son got away, by the way.”
Shock widened her pupils to almost fill her eyes. “How... how dare you? After all I've put up with... Babbage, I'll come with you right now if you kill this man, this worm.”
“We're not murderers, madam: we tried to keep civilian casualties to a minimum. I would welcome you joining without the caveat though.”
Pitch wondered if Wire could accept that, could take being bossed around by someone more powerful than her. He cursed and corrected himself: something more powerful than her. As she looked from him to the creature and back, he didn't know what she'd decide.
“Very well. I still accept.”
“How can you go with them?!” Pitch exploded. “What is wrong with you?”
“Don't be pathetic, Pitch. Think for once in your miserable, tallow-selling life. The Disciples are raw power, greater than anything Sol or Lun have shown. Now they are here, they will win, and their opponents will die. Scar is dead: there is no legacy to continue with, so it's a simple case of accepting fate and trying to build a new life or painfully resisting it and causing bloodshed. He said it himself, eloquently.”
“You're insane, Wire! How could you think this, this abomination is telling the truth? It probably just wants our minds to create more Disciples. Try some thinking yourself: how did the Disciples suddenly gain intelligence? It doesn't make any sense unless they've taken some poor captives on and planted their minds into these creatures somehow.”
“Excuse me,” Babbage said. “I've got two points on that: one, no, I'm not one of you, I'm much older, and two...” It raised its hand and shot Pitch, two bullets to the head and one through his heart. Pitch fell to the ground, his hole-ridden head cracking against the paving, and died.
“But... but what about murder?” the old man asked, backing away slowly.
Babbage shrugged, a mechanical feat. “He reminded me of someone I really, really hate. Plus he was providing undue resistance. Now, does anyone else want to join us? Or do more people want to demean those who make this sensible decision?”
Babbage felt satisfied, happy. Only Brya could stop them now, and Titan's careful planning would ensure she'd have no part of this, not until he presented victory to her and proved that the 'experiment' had been a success. The thought of her breaking into a grin made Babbage feel something he hadn't felt in a long time: warmth.
34
Maya came to refer to the room she slept in as 'The Summoning Room' and the label stuck, even with Nephilim. It made her smile when he referred to it as such, made her feel as though she belonged here. After almost two weeks, it was like a... a home.
After another heavy day of staring at her sword and thinking of fire and anger and love, she stumbled into her Summoning Room. It was hard work, building her power like this, and every day drained her horribly. But Nephilim insisted that it was important, and so she did it in between maintaining her physical prowess. So tonight, as with the end of every day, she was exhausted physically and mentally.
The door closed behind her. She pressed a button to lock it, and the lights dimmed. Maya stripped and lay on the carpeted floor. Her sword was still in her hands, but other than that she was naked. Feeling safe, she drifted away, lulled herself into–
Someone slapped her, hard. She woke with a yelp. But no one was around. The room was quiet and empty. Maya shook her head, decided the slap had been the strangely-real finale to a violent nightmare.
With a yaw
n, she picked her sword back up and curled into a foetal position. Within a minute, her heartbeat dropped and she was calm, relaxed...
This time, she sensed the incoming hand. She rolled over, blocked with her forearm and then reached up the arm for the soft flesh waiting there. Maya took hold of this flesh and used it to pull her attacker to the ground.
Springing to her feet, she observed her aggressor with mixed confusion and fear. It looked like a girl that had been infected by fire, like the flames were a disease that ravaged the body but didn't consume it. The entire right side of the girl had been smoked, and her flesh was charred and cracked. Her left side, though, was unblemished save a strand of fire that reached across her bald head, making a play for the other ear. And Cyrus Force peeked out from beneath her cracked skin where muscle or bone should have been, like it was her skeleton.
Solid, ragged yet beautiful, Maya couldn't take her eyes off this woman. It felt like Warmth and was an impossibility that her mind told her was real, true and there.
The thing took advantage of her shock and launched itself at Maya, knocking her to the ground. Maya kicked it off, rolled onto her knees and readied herself to attack. She'd dropped her sword when she woke, and it lay too far away to be useful, so she'd have to fight unarmed.
“Who are you?” Maya asked first.
It hissed something and leapt for a second time. Maya rolled forward and kicked upwards, catching it on the burnt half of its chin with her heel. The manoeuvre meant she landed awkwardly, so she scrabbled to her feet. Her attacker struggled upright too, rubbed its jaw then spat. Cyrus Force arced through the air, dissipating before hitting the carpet.
What the hell was it?
Maya's sword was much closer now, so she rolled across the carpet and scooped it up. The girl followed her, staying out of reach. But no attack came. It just stood, eyeing her. Maya noticed that its burnt eye, black and dead, was looking her up and down, working perfectly. She swallowed down the urge to throw up.
As though indignant at that reaction, the woman prowled around Maya, hissing. After a full circuit, it faltered, its hateful expression softening. It didn't know what to do.
Jumping, Maya took advantage of this hesitation and tackled it. With another blow to its chin, she held the creature firm in a clinch the Academy had taught her. Its scarred half was warm. It smelt like burning hair. But she had it hostage.
She asked again “Who are you?”
Gibberish was its response, angry and affronted. And then it threw her off by spinning her round and slamming her against the floor. It was an impossible manoeuvre, but Maya should be used to the impossible when it came to Cyrus Force.
Maya couldn't allow herself to be winded. She rolled away and narrowly avoided a kick in the head.
Wheezing slightly from her awkward landing, she sprang to her feet. Her sword was between them now, waiting on the floor for whoever could get at it first. She sucked in air and circled the creature, trying to recover.
“I know that you can speak,” Maya said. And somehow she did know this: it was obvious, like looking at a sea shell and knowing it had once housed a life. “I know you can answer, that you understand me, so tell me who you are! Now!”
It hissed back at her, eyes wild and feral. Human teeth yawned out from its maw, one half blackened and the other half pearl-coloured.
Maya balled her fists and took a step toward her sword. The creature did the same. Maya feinted she'd go one way but the creature read the ploy, didn't move. Both naked, both determined, she and the burning girl watched each other.
Then Maya rolled across the carpet, making for the sword. Her opponent jumped across, seeking to take advantage of Maya being prone, and tried to stamp on Maya's outstretched hand. Maya saw this coming and pulled her hands away, then kicked the creature to the ground rather than grabbing her sword. This surprised it and allowed Maya to bring it down to the carpet.
It tried to spin and catch itself, not let itself be jarred when it landed, but Maya kicked it as it fell to prevent this. With a cushioned but painful thud, it fell and was weakened for a moment.
Just as Maya had planned. She rolled over and placed her knees on its shoulders, pinning it, and then shot a punch into its face. Then another. And another. Green saliva spilled from its mouth with each blow. Three blows should have made it woozy, unable to concentrate.
But Maya had to give her opponent credit: it wasn't giving up. Thrashing and pushing and snarling, it resisted any admission of defeat. It somehow managed to grab Maya's hips with the tip of its fingers, tried to pull her away, but it didn't have enough leverage. The thing was strong though and might soon throw her off if she didn't act.
The sword! It was right by them. Maya punched the creature as hard as she could, a blow that would have broken a man's jaw, and grabbed her weapon as it saw stars. The thing didn't know what was happening until Maya held her sword less than a centimetre from one of its deep brown eyes.
It stopped fighting then and looked at Maya. It knew she was not bluffing: Maya would blind it if she had to.
“Now, this is your last chance. Who are you?”
“Your...” it said, the word stretched like flayed skin. “I'm... your...”
It stayed silent. Maya dropped her sword a fraction further. The woman's eyelashes brushed against the steady, sharp tip and its eye twitched and leapt furiously.
“I'm... your... Maya, I'm your Spirit.” Suddenly, her voice was sweet, clear. Her expression softened.
Maya frowned. She hadn't expected this. “My Spirit? What's a Spirit?” she asked.
“I think I'm the truth that Nephilim wanted you to learn for yourself.” Its eye flickered against the blade of her sword. “I can't concentrate with a sword in my eye! For one thing, I'm scared of saying anything more in case you slip and blind me!”
Maya eyed the 'Spirit' closely. The savageness had gone from its eyes, and it was eloquent, rational. Her instincts told her she wasn't in any immediate danger, so she pulled her sword away and stood.
“Thank you,” the 'Spirit' said.
Maya offered it a hand up. “Okay, Spirit, talk. Start by telling me what you are.”
It stood and stretched, loosening its muscles. “A Spirit, Maya, is a being born of the Cyrus Force which accrues in things humans have feelings about. The innate Cyrus Force of an object is one of us striving for some semblance of intelligence. It's only when someone concentrates and practices, as you have, that we gain a form, a mind. Until then we're ephemeral, useless.
“Ever since mankind was able to think and feel for itself, it has been creating Spirits. Shambling things, half-formed and weak, but Spirits nonetheless. The human mind is disordered and chaotic, doesn't often think about one thing but instead has a thousand things going on, and it unconsciously makes Spirits along with everything else it does. When you've had a lucky coin, or a favourite book, or a preferred weapon, you have made one of us. And if you kept thinking positively of it, if you instil belief and strength into us, then that Spirit might be able work with you and try to influence events... which then makes you believe in it more. It's a harmonious circle, and one that has gone on since you first gained sapience.”
Maya stared as the 'Spirit' for a while, trying to read her posture and expression. She could see nothing but honesty. At the very least, it believed what it was saying. “So you've always been in my sword?”
“In essence, yes,” the Spirit said with a small smile. “And I mean that literally: my essence has been there since you first decided it was your favourite. But a Spirit needs to be worked on, to be sculpted, for it to become... well, like I am now. All humans have the ability to make and mould and change Spirits, but it takes discipline for us to be useful.”
“Useful how?”
The Spirit now grinned. “Well, for you to get access to our Cyrus Force.”
Maya considered the Spirit for a moment, all that she's said. It seemed to be confirming her version of the truth, the reality that Neph
ilim told her to build. But, if it was a Spirit and she had made it, wouldn't it only ever confirm her world view?
That question was complex, made her head hurt.
“Okay. If I made you, why did you attack me? Why were you fighting me so?”
“You need to ask yourself that question, not me. Though it would seem to fit you. I mean, look at me.” She gestured across her body, and her smile faded. “I couldn't be a better representation of you. The only way I could improve would be to carry Chain on my back.”
Maya's eyes narrowed. “Don't you dare...”
“Dare what, Maya?” It asked, raising its eyebrows, the burnt one crackling with the effort. “Remind you how guilty you feel? Force you to remember your former best friend for the first time in a while? Prove that I understand you by telling you that actually, deep down, you'd be glad if Chain is suffering, because...”
“Enough!” Maya threw her sword at the Spirit, but it dodged, catching the blade with its burnt hand.
It looked at the sword, its Mother, in shock. “Sorry, Maya, I went too far,” it said before walking across and handed the weapon back to Maya. “I guess I sometimes don't know what the consequences of what I'm doing will be.”
Not knowing what was worse – that this Spirit knew her that well, or that it forgave her outbursts so readily – she took her sword back. “Thank you.” The apology was little more than a whisper, so she repeated it with more conviction. “Thank you.”
A comfortable silence fell then between them as they looked at one another, creator and creation, human and Spirit.
Maya broke the silence. “What's your name?”
“Normally you give us a name, but I have a request. I want the nickname you gave your father's sword.”
“Really? Why?” Maya asked, her eyebrows raised.
“Spirits become more powerful with greater emotions and feelings: the more you think about us, the more you're emotionally invested in us, the stronger we become,” it said. “So, it'll be best for both of us if you associate me with something emotive.”
Maya nodded. It made sense. Memories bobbed to the surface, memories of caring but gruff instruction, of girlish laughter, of sweat and piles of sliced apples he then used to make cider. Every year, around autumn, he would call her into his little wonderful-smelling brewery and let her have the first taste of the sweet, heady amber he'd produced. And every time, he would say...
“To the victor, the spoils,” Maya whispered. A tear rolled down her face, and she extended her hand. “Then I'm pleased to meet you, Applekill.”
The Spirit grabbed her hand. “I'm pleased to meet you too, Maya.”
If Maya wasn't mistaken, Applekill seemed stronger, more real. Which made sense because Maya had just accepted her, named her. But this sense of increased reality was off-putting. “Okay. I need answers, Applekill. Why don't people realise Spirits exist? What happens when someone inherits an item? Or steals it? And...?”
“Can I answer one thing at a time?” Applekill cut in. “I came from you, Maya, so I can't handle more than one question at once.”
Maya smiled. “I'll regret letting you live if you point out my limitations all the time.”
Applekill laughed, a happy sound. “All right, I'll keep to only appropriate mockery.”
Maya started laughing too, and they simply stood there and enjoyed the shared moment.