The Fall of Deadworld Omnibus Page 20

  Cafferly thought of her sudden attack of conscience watching the executions, and the mystery of where that had come from. At that moment, the person she’d been, pre-mortem, had briefly floated to the top. The idea that it had still been there, trapped in her dead shell, appalled her.

  “Your mind wasss cleaved,” Nausea continued. “The amplifier wasss a chance to sssee if it would correct it… eventually.” She shrugged. “Or at the very leassst, from a clinical point of view, witnessss what would happen to your sssanity. Brother Mortisss is collecting brainsss for a project of hissss own; yoursss would’ve been a worthy addition, once the requissssite work was done on it.” She looked down and casually toed one of the Polaroids. “You were a ssspecial casse, right from the beginning. The girl with the unique mind, gifted to Jusstice Department by her parentsss.” The witch glanced up at Cafferly with a dark expression and smiled. “You alwaysss belonged to ussss.”

  The psi dropped the file, and in one swift motion drew her Lawgiver, pointing the barrel directly between Nausea’s eyes. The witch’s mouth made an ‘o’ shape, and her eyebrows rose a fraction. She looked like she was waiting to see what Cafferly would do next.

  She pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  30 April

  CATCHING A RARE moment’s downtime—been travelling almost constantly for the last few days, and not had the opportunity to sit and write. Hawkins would sleep in the saddle if she could; she doesn’t like to stay stationary for any longer than is necessary. Figures we make less of a target, or we have less chance of being discovered, if we’re on the move. She’s given me a rudimentary guide to piloting the Lawranger so she can catch some zees on the pillion, and I picked it up surprisingly quickly—even Hawkins seemed taken aback by my aptitude for it. Onboard computer does most of the work, to be honest, and she registered me with it so it would follow my instructions, but even so I had an affinity with the controls that was kinda disarming. Dunno where that’s come from—had no dealings with the jays prior to That Night and I’ve never been near one of their bikes before. Mr Graham called me a natural when he taught me to drive the RV, so maybe I’ve found my calling; just a shame it’s coincided with the end of the world.

  It’s testament to Hawkins’ desire not to stick around that she’s letting me near the throttle at all. I’ve caught her many times looking at me oddly, like she doesn’t trust me or isn’t convinced that I am who I say I am, or she’s weighing up in her head what to believe. But she needs a co-driver—a wing-woman?—to take up the slack when she’s too shattered to continue. I suspect she’s only got one eye closed at any given time regardless, and I wouldn’t at all be shocked to learn that the barrel of her Lawgiver was never far from the small of my back at any given moment. I don’t take it personally. I’m pretty suspicious of myself these days, given what happened back on the mobile home, the events of which I’m still none the wiser about. How could Kez and the rest just disappear? What was I doing out in the woods—raving, according to Hawkins. Did I kill them all while the balance of my mind was disturbed? Something occurred during those memory gaps, and looking back at the scrawl in my journal, I was losing my grip on sanity. It was the dreams that had been tipping me over the edge; the crushing sense of judgement they contained, of punishment. They were at once both familiar, and like they belonged to someone else. Someone’s bad vibes stealing into my sleep.

  I like to think I’m not capable of that, that I could never murder. But what if I am? Emily was the gentlest soul, and they got inside her head and made her kill her own child. I could’ve been acting on those fuckers’ behalf, just like her, tranced out, a puppet they directed to butcher all those around me. The fact that I could have blood on my hands and not know, to be responsible for something so horrendous… The sick feeling at the pit of my stomach is like acid, eating away at me. So, yeah, until my recall comes back and says different, I really don’t blame Hawkins for giving me the stink-eye.

  She’s under no obligation to save me, to keep me from harm. Common sense would’ve told her to dump me by the side of the road and take her own chances. But when I asked her why she’s brought me with her, she said she’s on the side of life—that every beating heart is worth fighting for. To abandon me would make her no better than the forces of death that are hounding the planet to extinction. Funny to hear a jay talk like that, ’cause from what I can remember they were never big on human rights; but I guess maybe facing a greater evil can lead you revaluate what’s important. Maybe Hawkins was that rare good cop, even before this all kicked off. She’s certainly not short of guts—I asked about what happened to her face, and she reluctantly told me that she came under fire while allowing some cits she was escorting to escape. She drove through a ball of flame and managed to come out the other side.

  She’s convinced there’s a resistance faction—Judges opposed to the new Chief, that escaped the slaughter at the Grand Hall—that she needs to regroup with. That’s where we’re heading, if we can find it; she listens constantly to her radio, desperately trying to pick up chatter amongst the dead channels. Sometimes she thinks she hears a faint trace, ghostly voices emerging from the ether, and tries to make contact, but they’re beyond any broadcast ability. I’m sceptical those voices are even there, and suspect that Hawkins may be clinging to a vain hope, but I naturally keep this opinion to myself. She’s been out here without support from her fellow uniforms for weeks, and I know what it is to hold on tightly to a belief—it gives you resolve in the face of insurmountable odds. It’s probably kept her on the right side of madness too. I’ll stick with her on her search—’cause where else am I going to go?—but I don’t have her faith that this rebel enclave is out there. Maybe I’ll be proved wrong. I hope I am.

  THE BULLET PASSED through Nausea’s forehead and exited from the back of her skull, though there was no accompanying gore; the skin simply rippled, as if a pebble had been dropped into a pond. She flew back and landed in a heap several feet away.

  Cafferly stood motionless for a beat, looking down at her gun and then across at the body of the witch, the implications of what she’d just done spinning in her mind.

  Oh, fuck.

  She stumbled for the doorway, kicking aside crates and box files in her haste, and had made it to the foot of the stairs when she felt a magnetic tug from behind. She attempted to shrug it off and continue her ascent, but its grip grew more powerful, her legs more leaden with every step. Eventually, it grasped her like an invisible cord attached to her collar and flung her violently back into the records room, where she smashed into a metal stanchion. She heard brittle bones snap, but she felt nothing.

  Cafferly uneasily got to her feet, a splintered pelvis struggling to support her. Joints and cartilage crackled, and she realised, glancing down, that her femur had torn through the thin, papery meat of the leg that had housed it; the shattered bone was black with decay. Although there was no pain, she was aware of the limitations entropy had put on her post-mortem physical body; she could just as easily be taken apart, even if death didn’t hold any sting, and broken limbs would still impede her.

  The air around her was swirling, thousands of files caught in a mini-tornado in the centre of the room, paper birds twisting in the eddies, and hovering at the base of it was Nausea, floating slowly in the Psi-Judge’s direction. The wound in her forehead had vanished.

  “That wasss a missstake, sssissster,” she hissed as she drew nearer. “But I knew you’d ssshow your true colourssss eventually. I’d alwayssss ssusspected that you were not to be trusssted. I sssshould thank you for confirming it: it will make disssposssing of you ssso much lesssss… perfunctory.”

  “What are you?” Cafferly asked, holding herself upright against a shelf. “You’re not human at all, are you?”

  “Once, perhapsssss,” the witch replied. “The girl wassss asss young assss the face of hersss I wear today. She and her sssibling were practitionerssss of the dark artsss—they made contact acrossss the d
imensionssss and opened their soulsss to ussss. We sssaw a meansss to an end—to create our four championssss, who will bring blesssssed peace to thisss world, and hopefully more to come.”

  “Except Sidney’s outgrowing you, isn’t he? He’s tired of being your dog, obeying your commands. He’s shaping his own world.”

  Nausea narrowed her eyes, and looked aggrieved. “De’Ath is oursss, and oursss alone. We made him, like we made you all. When the final bonessss are laid to ressst, it will be our kingdom to rule over.”

  “Yeah? Try telling your protégé that. I can see the ambition in him—the desire for power, for recognition. He’s your pet no longer.” Cafferly gathered her strength and hobbled forward. “I’m surprised you and Phobia are so blind to that—that you’ve created something you can no longer control. He’ll turn on you, and usurp your precious fucking kingdom.”

  Nausea flicked her eyes sideways and Cafferly’s right arm wrenched itself out of its socket and went spiralling across the room, the Lawgiver still clutched in its hand. The Psi-Judge looked down at the dark, gaping wound below her shoulder and saw only fronds of rotten matter—no blood, no muscle, just desiccated sinew. Again, there was no physical sensation, but she experienced perhaps for the first time a disgust at what she’d become.

  “You can’t feel anything, can you, dead thing?” the witch murmured. “I could peel you apart limb by limb, organ by organ, and it would be like picking petalssss off a flower. Lesss commotion when there’ssss no pain, but it doesss remove ssssome of the pleasssure, it hasss to be sssaid.”

  Cafferly didn’t answer. She could feel the power emanating from Nausea, building like an electrical storm. She was no match for the witch, this vessel for some other entity entirely.

  “You’re jussst a collection of partssss, given a new purpossse by usss. There is nothing of you that issss of any worth.” She stopped to consider for a second. “Except, of courssse, your brain… Asss I sssaid, Brother Mortissss would be mossst interesssted. Yoursss would be invaluable to ssstudy—essspecially consssidering your… heritage.”

  “What did you mean, I was gifted to Justice Department?”

  “Exactly that. Your parentsss were… championsss of Jussstice Department. Sssstaunch believersss. They could sssee from an early age that you were ssspecial, that you had powersss. They wanted Jussstice Department to make usssse of thossse. Ssso they hothoussed you.”

  “They…?”

  “They moulded you for the Judgesss. Psssychologically. Physssically—

  (the punishment due)

  “—And you were given to the Hall of Injusssstice like an offering. A ssacrifice to the law.”

  “Why… why don’t I remember…?”

  “Because the Dead Fluidssss ssshould’ve sscoured it from you. There wasss no life before usss. Before our brothersssss. It all ssshould have been purged. But you… you were indeed unique. The Fluidsss didn’t obliterate it all—your mind ssstarted to reassssert itssself, claw back your original identity. We had never sssseen that before.”

  “I get flashes… images…”

  “Memoriesssss, buried in your cortex. They have proved remarkably resssilient to wiping.”

  Cafferly looked around her at the files scattered in every direction, the heaps of documents gathered in drifts, and recalled that spark that came the moment she picked up one. But it hadn’t been one of her own memories, or a trace of her past—or at least, not hers personally. There was someone else—someone else’s voice in her head.

  “Misha,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

  Nausea wasn’t slow to pick it up. “What’sss that?”

  “It… it’s nothing…”

  “No, I can sssensse your mind consssolidating around that name. What doesss it mean ?”

  The Psi-Judge felt her mental defences—what was left of them—bow under the witch’s pressure. Evidently, this information was something Nausea wasn’t aware of, and was intrigued to learn more. Cafferly tried to push back, but couldn’t hold on to the name and repel the psychic advances at the same time; it kept slipping from her.

  “What doesss thisss name mean to you?” Nausea persisted. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “You do. It’sss there in your head, hidden from usss. Let me in…”

  “No, keep out… s-stay away…” But Cafferly was faltering, she could feel herself falling apart.

  “You can’t deny me,” Nausea rasped angrily. “Let me

  (in)

  2 May

  I THINK NOW that

  Misha stopped in mid sentence, her pen paused above the page of her journal. Her hand was shaking as a chill suddenly swept through her.

  “Sister,” she murmured.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  NAUSEA DID LOVE to dance. She suspected it was a hangover from the human form she’d adopted, a trace personality trait that hadn’t been fully extinguished. They’d been young women, she and Phobia, when they’d made contact with the beings across the veil—little more than teenagers—so it was hardly surprising that youthful pursuits should still play a part in their lives, no matter how much they’d given over of themselves to the dark arts. For all the magic and power they wielded, they were still juveniles, occasionally susceptible to a certain immaturity—she and her sister had exhibited an unfortunate level of brattishness at the start, quick to show off and bicker childishly. The entity that was now Nausea would’ve expected to have fully assimilated all of what the girl had once been, shrugging on her physical body like an overcoat and absorbing her identity, but the desire to dance never entirely faded, as if it were the faint ghost of an imprint on what her blank soul had become. It had never been able to rid her of it entirely.

  As such, she could see why unique cases like Cafferly emerged—the human spirit was remarkably stubborn. You could bleach it, burn it, blitz it and purge it, and still those echoes would prevail. Nausea’s lingering character was like a scar she wore, or a limb that ached in winter that she’d had to grow accustomed to, but the Psi-Judge’s mind had actively fought back against the Dead Fluids, reclaiming a lost past and slowly reinstating her old self. It was unheard of, a development that couldn’t be allowed to continue. The toxicity of life meant that mankind had to be purified; there could be no elements of it left remaining. Cafferly needed studying to ensure the Fluids were working properly, that the human stain was sufficiently wiped clean.

  She twirled down the corridor, jigging from foot to foot. She was barely conscious that she was doing it, if she was honest; the shade of the girl that once was sliding back into the driving seat when Nausea wasn’t looking. She raised herself up on her bare toes and pirouetted, arms held out so her fingertips brushed the grime-encrusted walls, her smock flaring wide around her, then leaped from floor tile to floor tile like a ballerina, theatrically bowing with each landing for the benefit of an unseen audience. All the while she hummed discordantly, a tuneless melody that sounded half remembered, dredged from an earlier existence, and even though it was under her breath, such was the silence in the Hall that it carried in the stillness.

  She was well aware that De’Ath didn’t care for her eccentricities; he felt that too much of the teen had been retained, and she was too frivolous, too unpredictable. It was possible that he considered her and her sister touched by madness. She found herself caring little what he thought—though he was their champion of the apocalypse, their totaller of worlds, in whom they’d personally seen the potential to be elevated as the great leveller, he was a crashing bore. She and Phobia had been impressed initially by his zeal, his drive, his ruthlessness, but let loose upon this population he seemed to be all about the numbers. It was all work, work, work with him—he didn’t seem to appreciate the beauty of the charnel pit even as he delivered body after body into it. She hated to admit it, but Cafferly had had a point—off the leash, their pet was turning against his mistresses, forgetting who made him, where he came from. He was increasingly insecure,
believing all those around him were either conspirators or lacked his vision.

  As the Psi-Judge had predicted, there may well come a reckoning, Nausea thought, spinning on one foot and pushing her shoulders back, arching her spine for a final flourish, and if there was a challenge to the hierarchy Sidney could soon discover that he was eminently replaceable. It was the witch-siblings that had created the Fluids, the post-mortem animus that was the font of all that had been created here, and that was where the power really lay: down here, in the bowels of the Grand Hall, as far from Sidney’s lofty perch as you could imagine.

  “Sssissster,” she called, entering their chamber. “Have you made progressss?”

  It was part laboratory, part workshop—the pair had relocated their magical devices from their woodland retreat into the Hall of Injustice once the authorities had been overthrown. In truth, they weren’t fans of urban surroundings and slunk back here to this den at any given opportunity, content in each other’s company and the business of spellcasting. An array of pipes and tubes fed multiple containers dotted around the space, beakers of ingredients lining the shelves, but central was the enormous cauldron that dominated the room, its flickering green light bathing the walls and ceiling in an emerald hue, a fire smouldering beneath. Phobia was standing over it, peering into its contents, her underlit features appearing goblin-esque. She glanced up at Nausea’s entrance, eyes dark and menacing.

  “The elementsss are in the right proportion. The invocationssss have been recited. The energy buildssss.”

  “Good.” Nausea looked up. “And Judge Cafferly—are you ready to begin?”

  The Psi’s severed head didn’t answer aloud, but her lower jaw ground slowly in a bovine manner, drool pooling from her bottom lip. The head was affixed above the apex of the cauldron by a pair of struts holding it in place, and the steam—sparks flashing and twisting within it—curled around it. What was emerging from the cauldron seemed to have a life of its own, teasing at the Judge’s hair, vanishing into her nose and ears.