The Seven

Even without attending to the essence echoes around them, she can tell their end was abrupt, anguished, and at the hands of her brother, Alpha.

A compulsion makes her walk around the ruins of Greyspot Three. Where normal eyes see only the present, pyres, ashes and charred buildings, Delta’s see shimmering where the power of her kin was used. Her ears attend to the fading hum of energy, her body sensitive to the softvibrations in the air. Together, these sensations allow her to follow in her brother’s footsteps. She stops at each place he sang, identifying the corpses he has made, choking on her brother’s righteous anger that still lingers, remorseless.

There are so many dead. So many of her people, dead, that it overwhelms her. Finally, on the edge of Greyspot Three, she stops, and thinks.

Her role is to love her siblings, to make a better world with them, and yet she cannot feel love for what has happened. Cannot help but judge.

She has asked how it came to this, and they have pointed to her brother. But this is unsatisfactory. She knows that Alpha did this, knew it the moment they arrived. What she does not understand is why he did it, nor why it was done in such a manner.

The need for answers bubbles in her, converting despair to action.

Jem pulls on the Vagrant’s sleeve, lowers his voice. ‘How long do you think She’s going to be gone for?’

The Vagrant looks in the direction Delta went, shrugs.

‘Then let’s go before She comes back.’

The Vagrant nods and strides off towards the docks.

Reela strides after him, little legs working double time to keep up. With a last glance at Delta, Jem follows her.

The air here is smoke-heavy, smelling of burnt rubber and cooked meat. The Vagrant covers his mouth and, for different reasons, the two behind do the same.

The ragtag array of ships usually found in port are gone, their wrecks thickening the water. Most are sunk, some still sinking, the odd stray mast protruding from the surface in final salute.

The Vagrant looks out to sea. Alpha’s sky palace has already lumbered from view, leaving an empty, peaceful vista.

After a moment’s contemplation, he frowns and walks along the corrugated jetty, amber eyes searching.

‘What are you doing?’ asks Jem. ‘We need to get out of here. If we follow the coastline far enough we’ll hit another port. Maybe we could get passage on a ship there. Or we could go inland, find somewhere remote, where nobody else goes. Somewhere with lots of goats!’

The Vagrant pauses to direct a hard stare over his shoulder.

‘What? You love goats!’

The Vagrant turns back to his task, dismissive.

‘Look, it doesn’t matter what we farm or even if we farm. We have to get out of here, now. The Empire will be coming for Delta and we don’t want to be here when they arrive.’

Jem checks again to see if he can see Delta, only to find she is a hundred metres away, and that he is staring directly into her eyes. She seems purposeful, angry, and he looks away quickly, shame dousing him like a sudden blast of icy water. ‘We have to go,’ he says, then again, louder. ‘We have to go!’

He hears a splash, turns back. The Vagrant is reaching down, pulling objects from the water like a magician from a hat. Each one is tossed onto the jetty. Jem examines the objects, seeing nothing more than broken junk.

The Vagrant plunges his arm under, pulls hard. The water nearby bubbles and a small sea-shuttle bobs up from the depths, cheerful. No longer bound to its stricken mother vessel, the sea-shuttle floats easily, only a few dents marring its flanks. Built for speed and short-distance travel, the sea-shuttle resembles a triangular dart, a shallow deck cut into the topside.

Reela looks wary of the boat but allows herself to be lifted onboard. Jem needs no encouragement, jumping on as soon as there is space to do so.

‘How do you turn this on?’ asks Jem.

The Vagrant frowns at the blank display.

They try a few experimental prods at the screen and search around the sides of the steering column. Neither of them are familiar with the design.

Nearby, Reela carries out her own experiments, touching places at random.

The Vagrant smacks the steering column.

Nothing happens.

‘Don’t break it!’ says Jem.

Reela smacks the side wall.

‘Reela, stop that!’

With a sudden hum the steering column activates. Lights sparkle on its surface, diagnostic checks begin, and on the underside, steering flaps open, close, open and close again.

The Vagrant, Jem and Reela all share a smile, each taking credit for their good fortune.

There is a ping, and the lights of the steering column display blue and green in all the right places. The sea-shuttle is ready to sail.

As the hum of the startup sequence fades, they begin to hear a second hum, identical in pitch, coming from behind them.

The collective smile fades away. Reluctant, the three turn round as Delta steps onboard.

The Vagrant kneels, Jem presses himself against the far side of the sea-shuttle. Reela just stares up, mouth open, her eyes as wide as they will go.

Delta stares back. ‘Go,’ she says, and the word jars through them all. Jem wonders if she wants him to leave but does not dare to move. In any case, she is blocking the exit. Perhaps, he wonders, bitter, she expects him to jump over the side.

The sea-shuttle’s engine starts up, eager.

The Vagrant stands. He turns to the steering column and places his hands into the moulded surfaces on either side. Mutigel adapts to the contours of his fingers, pressing snug against his skin. He adjusts his footing, squares his shoulders and tilts his hands forward.

The sea-shuttle begins to move, parting the debris around it with ease. The Vagrant tilts his hands further, the sea-shuttle accelerating as it clears the worst of the wreckage.

With the Vagrant steering and Reela busy pretending, Jem is left alone to worry about Delta. He tries not to look at her but cannot help himself. He sees she still carries the bones from the pyre, poised between her index finger and thumb. The slightest use of her strength would reduce both to powder. Jem wonders at her restraint, applies a pattern to the behaviour, knowing it is foolish. So long as she does not break those bones, he decides, they will be safe.

Vesper feels her hand move to the hilt of the sword. She doesn’t fight the compulsion, allowing herself to be guided. Drawing the weapon, she sees that the eye is already open, staring straight up. She follows its gaze, sees nothing but cloud-smeared sky.

She looks down at Scout. ‘Does anything seem wrong to you or Samael?’

Scout sniffs the air, while behind him, at the wheel of The Commander’s Rest, Samael looks around. Neither have anything to report.

But the sword is insistent, concerned even. Vesper sighs. The sword has been concerned ever since the Shining City. Reading her thoughts, the sword vibrates in her hand. No, it seems to say, this is different.

Silvered wings point, underlining the sense of there being something above them.

Vesper closes her eyes, letting the sword see for her.

The physical world remains as she saw it, there are no sky-ships, no winged figures, no threats of any kind but the currents of essence, usually invisible, are disturbed.

There is a communication, a song, that travels from her pursuers up into space. She cannot fathom its meaning but has the sense of an order being given, recognizes that it comes from Alpha of The Seven.

Though the immortal is far away, separated by miles of ocean, she can feel him reaching out, almost as if he could touch them.

And then, as she watches, something does become visible: a tiny glint in the sky, like the first star of the evening arriving early.

Without knowing why, Vesper’s heart beats faster. Eyes still closed, she calls back to Samael: ‘We’ve got trouble incoming!’

She barely hears his reply over the ocean. He is asking for clarification. Does she want him to change course? To slow down? To speed up?

‘I don’t know!’ she shouts. ‘Just be ready!’

Scout barks an affirmation.

The buck’s dark eyes twitch from left to right. He senses the change in mood but cannot see the cause.

Around her, knights prepare their weapons, their lips moving to prayer, automatic: ‘Winged Eye, watch over us, protect us, deliver us.’

They do not appreciate the irony, for an eye is watching them, a sphere of silver-steel high in orbit. But its attention does not herald salvation.

An answering song is given, emotionless, flat, directed back to Alpha.

Vesper opens her eyes again, runs to Samael. ‘The Seven! They know where we are!’

‘Yes,’ replies the half-breed, unsurprised. ‘You hold the Malice.’

She remembers what the sword was trying to tell her. ‘This is different. They know exactly where we are. Signal the First.’

Samael does so, then adds, ‘We’re already at top speed and there is no sign that they can match it. Could this be a way to make sure we don’t lose them?’

‘No. Well, it could be but that doesn’t feel right. The sword knows The Seven are in that direction.’ She points without thinking. ‘They must sense where we are. Why bother with anything else?’

‘To know our strengths.’

‘That makes sense but …’ She trails off, looks at the sword. It is looking back the way they came, across open ocean, expectant.

Then she sees them.

A cloud of missiles, each one spinning, air playing across fluted surfaces to create a collective buzz. Their approach is so fast that by the time Vesper’s brain has made sense of what she is seeing, the missiles begin arcing down, splitting into clusters, each one targeting a specific vessel.

The First’s fleet springs into action. None of the sky-ships are targeted, leaving them free to fire on the missile clouds, thinning them. Warships submerge, leaving countermeasures in their wake.

Meanwhile, Samael turns The Commander’s Rest as tightly as he dares, the whole ship tilting, threatening to flip over. Knights are thrown against their harnesses, forced to watch and hope.

Vesper runs to the back of the ship, staggering as the lean of the deck sharpens. Slamming into the back railing, she gasps down a breath and holds up the sword, singing. Air flashes blue around her and the nearest missiles tremble, their spinning suddenly erratic.

An eye flashes, angry, and missiles veer away, crashing into the sea.

In spite of this, in spite of everything, many missiles find their targets, puncturing hulls, ripping holes, and fire flares underwater. With each detonation comes a smaller pulse of essence. None trouble Vesper, but within its many shells, the First pauses, momentarily stunned. Samael flinches, pressing a hand to his head, and Scout howls wildly.

The First’s fleet remains intact but four of the vessels have been forced to return, smoking, to the surface, and one of them has stopped entirely, its engines ruined.

Vesper grips the railing, catching her breath as The Commander’s Rest slows to a crawl. She doesn’t relax, the sword won’t let her, and when the second wave of missiles comes, she is already straightening, drawing breath to sing again.

As they travel, the Vagrant pushes the sea-shuttle faster, until his hands meet resistance on the column, feedback from the mutigel informing him that he has reached the craft’s safety limits.

The water is choppy here, the sea-shuttle launching from one wave-top to another, haphazard. Jem hunkers down in a corner, holding Reela to him. Hard surfaces smack against his back and legs with each new impact. Delta unfurls her wings, for balance.

The Vagrant squints at the empty horizon, scowls, and presses his hands forward again, until his fingers are curling against the back edge of the steering column.

A humming engine becomes a whining one, though the sound is barely heard over the wind. Emergency flaps open at the front of the sea-shuttle, bravely trying to prevent the high speed from flipping the ship over.

Onward they go, the sea-shuttle so fast now it threatens to defy gravity. Water soaks them all, whipped cold, numbing hands and stinging eyes.

The Vagrant grits his teeth.

Jem tries to talk to him, but the words are torn away. Terrified, but more scared of moving than staying, Jem reverts to watching Delta’s hands and the bones within them.

At last, Alpha’s sky palace comes into view. Such is its size that it confounds the mind, like a half-rendered image where the mountain that surely supports the structure has not yet resolved itself. But there is no mountain, no ground beneath it.

Ahead of them, on the water, they see rows and rows of Alpha’s ships, an armada, too many to count. War cruisers, frigates, scouts, all moving in perfect formation. Such a fleet has not been assembled since the Battle of the Red Wave.

And then, from the battlements of the palace, a glimmering cloud issues, a swarm of missiles streaking away, soon lost to sight.

Jem shouts, his voice an insect’s whine against elements and engine. ‘Now what?’

The Vagrant ignores him.

‘You’re not just going to sail through that? You can’t!’

The Vagrant ignores him.

‘I won’t let you do this to Reela!’

A shadow looms over them, making both men turn.

Delta has stepped forward, she steps again, so close that the hilt of her sword nearly pokes Jem’s chest. Knees bend and she leaps skyward, the sea-shuttle lurching dangerously in the opposite direction.

Seawater briefly rises above ankles, diving over boot-tops to chill toes.

Delta’s wings beat, the downdraught plastering the Vagrant against the steering column, and Jem and Reela against the floor.

Spluttering, Jem sits up, looks up.

Delta’s wings beat again, long and fluid, propelling her, catching currents that draw her swiftly away, a silvered arrow pointing unerringly at Alpha’s palace.

CHAPTER FIVE

Delta looks at the ships beneath her. They carry the same troops that razed Greyspot Three, the ones that turned the people living there to the bones in her hands.

She looks at Alpha’s palace in the wake of its just-launched volley of missiles. Distantly, she feels their tiny impacts. Deep inside her, the misery grows until it becomes too much to contain.

Her mouth opens in song.

The air shakes with it. Nearby clouds weep, and below, waves pause, collapsing in on themselves.

Without being ordered by their commanders, the pilots of each of the ships cut their engines.

Everything stops.

But Delta is not done.

She turns her gaze to the sky, singing out as her brother has done, connecting with a distant orbiting body. But her order is different. The satellite glimmers one final time, and is gone.

Silver wings carry her over the top of the battlements, soldiers gasping at the sight despite themselves, awestruck. She ignores them, diving into the courtyard where Alpha is emerging, followed quickly by Beta, Epsilon, Theta and Eta.

He glances past her as she lands, sky-blue eyes darkening with rage. As that stare turns on her, she feels his displeasure, like fists pushing at her chest. Bracing herself, Delta raises her hands, opens them so that they can all see the charred, misshapen bones in one and the small skull in the other.

‘How did it come to this?’

Three volleys have come, each a rain of singing missiles. Vesper waits to see if there will be a fourth. Around her, the crews of the First’s ships swarm over their decks, putting out fires, plugging holes, pumping out unwanted water.

The interlude of peace continues, extending well beyond the rhythm of the previous attacks. An eye closes, and she puts the sword away.

Two of the nine ships escorting The Commander’s Rest have been sunk, another five damaged and unable to submerge. The Wavemaker has sustained hits to one of its engines, slowing it substantially.

Unlike conflict on land, there are no other scars of battle visible. If anything, the water is calmer than before.

Vesper takes a drink to soothe her throat. Use of the Malice has left it raw, and it complains each time she speaks. She watches in silence as her knights, of the Order of the Broken Blades, tip one of their number into the sea. There is time to see the shrapnel wound, to appreciate the misfortune, before the sea claims the body.

A gloom falls across her people. They are used to death and struggle but they are not used to this. One of them raises a hand.

‘Yes?’

‘That attack, it came from the Empire.’

It isn’t phrased as a question but Vesper answers it anyway. ‘Yes … and it was directed by Alpha of The Seven.’

Dismay does not sit well on the usually stoic faces. Eventually one of the older knights says, ‘If The Seven wish us dead, should we not oblige Them?’

‘No,’ replies Vesper. ‘It’s not that simple. Alpha started the attack but the sword, Gamma’s sword, protected us and another of The Seven stopped it.’

‘But … The Seven speak as one! What does this mean?’

‘It means They don’t speak as one. Perhaps They never have.’

Another knight speaks, full of despair, though his courage has never failed before. ‘What will we do?’

An eye flicks open at Vesper’s shoulder and her own widen with anger. ‘What will we do? What will we do! We’ve lived our whole lives without The Seven, up till now. Gamma helped us before and she’s still helping us now. We survived the Usurper and the Yearning without Them. We’ve just started making sense of everything and I’m not going to stop now.’ She looks at the crippled ships around her and her scowl only deepens. ‘Damn Alpha! How dare He attack the people who faced it all alone while He wept in the dark!’

The knights don’t answer, shocked by Vesper’s defiance. They are utterly loyal to her but they are also loyal to The Seven. Up till now they believed these loyalties to be one and the same.

There is a whisper that reaches Vesper’s ears. ‘We’re not worthy, we have failed Them. We have broken our oaths.’

‘No!’ replies Vesper, her voice cracking. ‘No. Don’t you see? They have failed us, but we need to keep going. If we don’t, then thousands of people are going to die. Can you do that? Will you stand with me?’

She looks at them. One by one they meet her eyes, nod. She nods back, relieved, proud.

As she returns to Samael, she notices how unsteady he is on his feet, one hand pressed against the side of his battered helmet. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes,’ he replies.

Vesper suspects that there is a longer and more complex answer but doesn’t press for one. Scout whines nearby, lying flat on his belly, paws over his head. ‘And him?’

‘He’ll recover.’

‘Glad to hear it. Have you seen my goat anywhere?’

Samael points down. Tucked between his legs and the wheel of the boat is the buck. Only an act of desperate contortion has enabled his large frame to fit within such a small space. The buck’s head sticks through a gap in the bottom of the wheel, the angle awkward.

‘There you are. Now just stay still a moment and …’ she trails off, her attention taken by the First. It moves towards her in leaps, launching from the deck of one ship to land on the next, an armoured flea.

‘Don’t worry,’ she says to the buck. ‘I’ll come back.’

By the time she has stood up, the First is landing in front of her. ‘There is conflict among The Seven. Do you perceive it?’

‘I do,’ she replies.

‘We should leave before it resolves.’

‘Agreed.’ She checks in with Samael for confirmation. ‘We’re ready, are you?’

‘Our mobility has suffered. If they pursue again, they will catch us easily.’

‘Then we’ve got no time to lose.’

The First returns to its ships, Samael goes to the wheel and Vesper goes back to trying to liberate the buck. Moments later, engines stir in the still water, and eight ships continue their journey.

Though not as impressive as Alpha’s sky palace, the armada sailing beneath it is comprised of the Empire’s finest ships. Greatest of these is their flagship, Resolution.

Functioning as a launch station, command ship and artillery platform, Resolution would appear massive if not sailing in the shadow of something greater. The bridge is raised above the main deck on an articulated mast of steel, S-shaped, like a dragon’s head drawing back to breathe fire.

Standing within is the Knight Commander, highest military authority in the Empire of the Winged Eye. Around him are officers, crew, all poised at their stations, all waiting for him to say something.

But for once, he has nothing to say.

‘Knight Commander,’ says one of his officers, ‘the Bearer and the First’s ships are moving away from us.’ They consult their screens before adding, ‘They are two down.’

He turns toward the officer. ‘Only two?’

‘Confirmed, sir. Two down.’

Unlike his predecessor, the Knight Commander has seen nothing of the battlefield during his tenure. He is, therefore, unduly troubled by the way simple things are rarely as plain as they appear. The missiles, for example, should have wiped out the enemy entirely.

But the failure of missiles to live up to expectations is the least of his worries.

‘Knight Commander, they are still moving.’

‘Understood,’ he replies, irritated at the needless update and the nerves that prompted it. ‘Inform me if this changes.’

He clasps his hands behind his back and checks the impulse to pace. He of all people must appear calm.

Alpha’s orders are clear. Their purpose is to purge the world with fire and song. They are to become legend, immortalized in canon for future generations. Or so he thought. Delta’s order was equally clear: stop. In the absence of specifics they are forced to err on the side of caution. They have stopped their pursuit, powered down their engines. Now there is nothing to do but wait.

The Knight Commander looks up. Beyond the metal above his head, somewhere in the floating sky palace, The Seven are together and, as far as he can tell, they are arguing.

The thought is ludicrous, going against everything he was taught, from his earliest days in his choir, through to his squire training, even the many lectures received from Obeisance. For the first time in his life, the Knight Commander feels the bedrock of his certainty crack and begin to crumble.

In the courtyard of Alpha’s sky palace, two essences rage back and forth, a pair of storm fronts colliding, colliding again.

Delta’s and Alpha’s argument is elemental, made up of words, will and song.

For the humans unfortunate enough to witness the display, it is too much. Blood runs from ears overwhelmed with furious song, pupils gape wide, blown forever. They are not dead but there is little of life left in them.

Others distributed throughout the palace are merely driven to their knees in terror. Some weep, some cover their faces, others pray, enacting the rite of mercy. All responses are equally irrelevant.

Beta of The Seven watches, aghast, while Epsilon, Theta and Eta simply wait as they have always waited.

The bones that Delta brought with her from Greyspot Three have been destroyed. Too fragile to be exposed to such energies, they have been reduced to ashes that swirl briefly about the two immortals to be scattered, forgotten. She came with a question and it has been answered. This leads to more questions, each a stab in the eye, and more answers, like slaps across the face, coming faster and faster, rising in volume and anger until even Beta looks away.

Abruptly it ends, with Alpha’s hand on Delta’s throat. At the contact something in her seems to break and her eyes half-close, body flopping, going slack. Alpha does not let her fall, not yet. His anger is not done.