The Hammer and the Goat Read online

  Published by

  HarperVoyager an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2016

  Copyright © Peter Newman 2016

  Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

  Peter Newman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © October 2016 ISBN: 9780008180218

  Version: 2016-08-17

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Hammer and the Goat

  About the Author

  Also by Peter Newman

  About the Publisher

  The Hammer and the Goat

  The Hammer that Walks wakes up, her mouth dry. It is often that way after the dreams come. The Hammer’s dreams are not the same as other people’s, more like memories viewed over and over. A silver-green face stretched wide, split by horns, a stub-winged shadow that looms over her, holding her fears in one hand, her anger in the other, making them one.

  Making her.

  It is true to say that she has not seen the Usurper for almost a year now, but it is also true to say that she sees the Usurper every day. That its imprint is seared so deeply into her essence that she cannot help but see it whenever she closes her eyes.

  Sweating, she tries to sit up. Underneath fresh bandages, scabs pull tight on her skin, blotches of brown marking her flesh from collarbone to toe, freshly plugged holes where rivets once sat. She is not used to feeling weak, does not like it. As with most obstacles, the Hammer tries to fight, growling at her new opponent: herself.

  The struggle is brief, painful, but at the end of it the Hammer is upright. She paws the area immediately around her, growing more frantic until her thick fingers find the coin.

  Aware of the tremble in her limbs, the Hammer moves carefully, curling her right index finger as if there were a gun in her hand, invisible, and placing the coin on top. She touches her thumbnail to the underside of her finger, and makes some final adjustments. Fixated on her work, she does not notice the tip of her tongue peeking between lips.

  The coin is tossed and the Hammer looks up, hopeful. It wobbles as it spins, humming softly. She cannot make it sing the way the man does but even the hint of song is enough to bring her blunt teeth out of hiding.

  For the few moments it is airborne and alive, the coin distracts her, and the Usurper’s presence feels further away. Three blinks of relief before it lands, smacking softly into her palm.

  Then, almost immediately, the sense of rage returns, knotting muscles in her shoulders. Quickly, she places the coin on her finger, tossing it, watching, enraptured, savouring each second of distraction before catching it, tossing it again.

  Her lack of finesse begins to irk, the coin not quite resonant enough to satisfy. Movements become more hurried, the need to make song all-consuming.

  But the Hammer is tired. The coin slips through her green fingers like water, clattering on the floor.

  The Hammer hangs her head and moans. The man can make the coins sing. He should be here! The one called Harm with soft voice and softer bones should be here too. They claim to be her friends but they have left her here, alone.

  An indignant bleat makes her look up.

  The Hammer is not alone. The goat remains, watching her with dark eyes, uncharacte‌ristically kind.

  ‘Goat,’ says the Hammer.

  The goat trots forward, allowing the Hammer to stroke her flank. The two share a little food and some water, provisions left by the two men. Are they truly friends, she wonders, then shakes her head. They will not come back.

  The room she sits in is sparsely furnished, with a dusty, curving window, a puffy plasglass blister on the side of the ageing tower. There are many rooms identical in size and shape to hers, the people that lived here evicted by oversized rats and tainted spiders, skin-hungry.

  Aside from provisions and the smell of the Hammer’s blood, the room has few possessions. The Hammer’s armour is stacked in a corner. It needs cleaning and reworking, and a new way to hold to her body. A scowl develops on the Hammer’s face, an indicator of thought. Plans to manipulate the shape of the plates form in her brain while her hands make fists, clenching around the handles of tools she does not have.

  Unimpressed with this display, the goat walks to the door.

  ‘Goat.’

  The goat turns her head to look round.

  ‘No.’

  The goat bleats.

  ‘Goat, no.’

  The goat snorts and trots out of the room.

  ‘Goat, no!’ she says again.

  But the goat is gone.

  The Hammer sits back, suddenly too tired to argue, too tired to fight. Eyes close and though she does not sleep, the image of the Usurper’s face is waiting for her, as always, with knife-edged memories, keen to cut.

  She is a child again, hiding in the basement. It is not like before. Normally there are only a few of them, given work when it suits the owners.

  The owners do not like her. They call her names, saying she is stubborn and stupid. Then they beat her. But the child knows she is not stupid. In fact, it is her intelligence they try to smother with their threats. They have a role prepared for her that demands she not think too much.

  She is stubborn however, undeniably stubborn.

  So when the other children, the ones with the colourful clothes come to join them, she says, ‘Why?’

  And when the owners shush her and tell her to keep quiet, she asks, ‘Why?’

  And when they slap her face: ‘Why?’

  Even when they give up, worried looks going to the ceiling, she asks them.

  No answers are given, most of the owners vanishing into the world where two suns light the sky, the red and gold far more preferable to the dusty lamp and its weak yellow pallor.

  She watches the adults go, leaving the two groups of children behind, and considers their flight a victory.

  Time passes, the new arrivals bringing a sense of novelty as they cluster together, the older ones hugging the younger.

  She folds her arms, making it clear that she does not need any hugs. She is four years old for suns’ sake. Pride tilts her chin, taking her gaze above the ones huddling, rabbit-like, to the older children. They are of far more interest than the little ones. Soon, she thinks, they will see her bravery and come and talk to her.

  The pose is held for a while, the desire to not be lonely outweighing the need to sit down.

  Nobody comes but being ignored has its advantages. The older children talk of things above, interesting things. Many of the words are unknown to her but she savours the sound of them nonetheless: ‘Breach … Enlisting … Contact … Catastrophic … Annihilati
on … Mutation …’

  The next part she understands too well.

  ‘What are you staring at?’

  The question comes from a boy with wide-set eyes and a nose like a blob of glue. He is large: she thinks he must have reached nine years at least, possibly even twenty-seven. Never one for messing around, she answers truthfully. ‘You.’

  ‘Well stop it, alright? I got enough to worry about without a stupid kid like you getting in my face.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ He pushes her backwards, making arms fly out to either side, an impotent flap that does nothing to stop bottom hitting floor, hard.

  Her face creases, not in tears, she has not shed any of those since she was three, but in anger. She gets up to find the boy has already turned his back to her, saying something to another boy about a fire.

  ‘No,’ she says, pushing him. He does not go far but the one step bumps two heads together, making both boys call out in pain.

  The child shakes her head at him as he whirls round.

  ‘Right,’ he says, rubbing at an already swelling lip. ‘That’s it!’

  She is pushed over a second time, then kicked. The boy seems keen to do more but the second boy intervenes. ‘Don’t mark her, dad’ll be angry if you mark her.’

  ‘Who’s going to notice one girl with what’s going on?’

  The second boy grabs the first, looking very serious. ‘My dad.’

  ‘Fine,’ mutters the first, spitting at her instead of kicking, before allowing himself to be led away.

  She waits on the ground a while this time, hugging the hurt in her belly until the raging fades to a dull ache. A few tears are blinked away and the child is happy none spill onto her cheeks. It only counts as crying when other people can see, this she knows.

  Something thuds on the ceiling above, something heavy. Several of the babies start to wail, the children looking after them covering their mouths, hurried. A couple cry out in surprise, only to be hissed quiet by the others.

  Sure that nobody is looking at her anymore, the child gets up.

  A few seconds pass and the room begins to relax, relieved looks passing from one young face to another.

  Then, as if waiting for them to let their guard down, there comes a sound from above, a rending shriek of metal. Massive hands punch through the ceiling, swollen silver fingers tipped with hooked claws, glistening, green.

  This time, everyone screams.

  The hands withdraw and a face appears. Once a thing of awe and beauty, it has been stretched monstrous by the Usurper’s presence. The possessing infernal forcing Gamma’s body into new shapes to accommodate its essence.

  The face pulls back and the hands return, widening the hole.

  With nowhere to go, children run in pointless circles, screaming at the walls, at each other.

  Except for one child. She does not run. Unlike the others, she already understands that running will not help.

  The Usurper drops into the basement and wastes no time, reaching out with a long arm to grab a girl by her head. It would be a small matter for it to squeeze, ending the girl instantly but it does not. Instead the massive infernal, the Usurper, known also as Ammag and Green Sun, tilts its horned head, watching.

  The child also watches.

  And soon there is something to see. For an invisible aura wafts constant from the Usurper, called the taint. While the taint itself cannot be seen, it changes anything it comes into contact with, twisting and mutating. In seconds, the girl dangling from the end of its arm begins to shift, skin going pale, then green, veins rising over her body. Muscles swell like balloons, tearing where the strain is too much, and bones stretch to adult size and beyond.

  When the Usurper lets her go, there is no girl that the child recognises, a newborn monster in her place.

  The screaming of the other children changes pitch in appreciation of the spectacle, becoming frenzied, frantic.

  Around and around the Usurper goes, tagging children, making them into half-breeds, their souls no longer fully human. The transformation takes a harder toll on some than others, but all survive, a growing gaggle of Usurperkin.

  Through it all, the child does not run. Despite the strangeness of it, she recognises this for what it is, that she is changing one set of owners for another. And when her turn comes, she is waiting, and she is angry.

  The Usurper looms over her, its small wings flickering with pleasure.

  She glares up at it, hands on hips and asks a question: ‘Why?’

  The Usurper’s clawed hand catches her face, puncturing it under the chin and behind one ear. Essence flares like a thin mist from its nostrils, reaching out, infecting, an answer of sorts.

  The child begins to change.

  Forcing her eyes open again, the Hammer picks up the coin, tossing it repeatedly until breath becomes regular. She squeezes it in a massive fist, focusing on the reassuring feel of metal.

  Calm again, it becomes clear that something is wrong. ‘Goat?’

  A quick study of the room reveals nothing. She calls louder this time but there is no answering bleat. This in itself does not mean anything, as the goat does not always deign to answer, but the Hammer’s face folds into a scowl.

  She waits a while, picks at some more food, managing to smear nutrient jelly on both cheeks. Some water is drunk, the coin is tossed a few more times, dropped once.

  She stops. ‘Goat?’ Her head is tipped to one side, listening. There are deep voiced squeaks and the whisper of small feet on smooth walls, but no goats.

  With a grunt, she gets up. There is some pain but she is used to pain. Her wounds have already started healing but the feeling of weakness remains. Even infernally blessed bodies need time to recover. She knows she should wait, rest. Harm and the man said so. She looks at the dust collecting, fuzzy, on each chunk of the broken door. Hoof prints have been captured there. ‘Goat?’

  Ignoring the way the world seems to wobble slightly with each movement, the Hammer walks out of the room. It is the first time she has been without her armour in years.

  Outside, the air is cool, tickling exposed skin. She stretches out her arms, letting it play under armpits and across gaps in her wiggling fingers.

  People toil in the circular gardens on either side of her. Little dots in bigger ones, working hard for a sickly harvest. The sight of the Hammer, blood-smeared, bandaged, makes them stare.

  The Hammer stares back at them, and instantly, the people are working again.

  She wanders to the nearest set of plants. It does not take long to find one with a bald patch. The Hammer nods to herself. ‘Goat.’

  Another butchered stalk is found nearby. She nods a second time, following the trail.

  Further ahead a man is staring at something in the ground. Whitened knuckles squeeze the handle of a gardening tool that is held the wrong way up, turning it from a device to tend the earth into a blunt instrument. Oblivious of the Hammer’s approach, he shakes his head, one hand tugging at his beard. ‘My dazzlefruit … it was perfect … gone … all of it gone.’

  ‘Heh. Goat.’ She gives the man a gentle slap on the back, catapulting him into the muddy remains of his plants. He splutters something, spits, but when he whirls towards her, any insults die on his lips.

  ‘Ah,’ says the Hammer, raising open hands. ‘You soft.’

  A few scattered hoof-prints suggest the goat has run rather than walked away. The Hammer examines them, sees that they point towards another set of thick towers, and walks on, leaving the man to languish where he is.

  She finds more gardens, these ones filled with a failing crop. Old pipes rise in the middle of each one, the water they used to share reduced to a dribble, then to rust. The locals tend to them anyway, every last resource needed from all of the surrounding villages to satisfy Slake’s collectors. Like the goat, the factory-city is always hungry.

  At some point she loses the trail and is reduced to meandering from one tower to the next. The red sun is directly
overhead, the gold moving to join it, one of her shadows chasing the other, like hands on a clock. It is getting hot. The Hammer is getting thirsty. Her cool room, with its meagre rations seems suddenly appealing.

  She is considering turning back when another sign presents itself: fresh droppings deposited in a doorway, already stepped in several times.

  She points at them, grinning. ‘Goat!’

  At the edge of the village now, the Hammer considers the possible places the goat could have wandered to. Shells of broken vehicles moulder in the landscape, offering shelter. A copse of trees, discoloured by disease, is not far either. Then there is one of the struts that once supported the rings that orbited Slake, connecting the villages together.

  She has to squint against the sunslight but there appears to be a familiar silhouette balancing on top of the strut, stable where it should be precarious.

  The Hammer lumbers towards it, her bounding gait more restrained than usual. Partway there, old instincts warn of something else, something watching. The horizon is given a quick look, as are several nearby clumps of earth. Nothing else presents itself. As she nears her destination, she hears the sound of crying.

  A boy, no more than ten years old, stands in the shadows of the strut, clutching his chest. Wheezy sobs escape from his mouth. The taint has touched him but lightly, making the hair on his arms thick and curly, like a thousand baby spider legs waving in the breeze. The effect is enhanced by a roughly shaved head and face. An old vest is worn, and trousers rolled thickly at the ankles.

  He is watching the goat, hateful.

  The goat is ignoring him.

  Such is the boy’s anger that the Hammer gets quite close before she is noticed.

  ‘Why cry?’ she asks.

  The boy leans back to look at her properly. An expression of surprise flits over his stubbly face, followed quickly by fear.

  ‘No kill you,’ adds the Hammer.

  The fear melts a little, not going away completely but hovering close by in case it is needed. The boy points a bitter finger at the goat. ‘It kicked me!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was only playing with its ear.’