The Seven Read online

  The Vagrant raises an eyebrow but stops paddling.

  While tired arms get a brief respite, the Vagrant checks the navpack. The display suggests they are veering off-course. He shows it to Jem, stabbing a finger, accusing.

  ‘What? It’s not my fault. You’re paddling too fast!’

  The Vagrant rolls his eyes.

  ‘If we’re going to keep straight, you need to match my rhythm.’

  They try again, the strokes more synchronized. When Jem pauses to look at Delta, he falls out of time. The Vagrant taps his paddle on the side of the sea-shuttle.

  ‘Sorry,’ mutters Jem and gets back to work.

  Reela forgets about the paddling, focusing her attention on Jem. Every time he slows, an imperious tapping sounds, Reela prompting him to redouble his efforts – and to mouth something dark. Each time, the smile on her face grows and the urge to giggle gets harder to resist.

  For once, the Vagrant’s face mirrors hers.

  Time passes.

  ‘It’s no good,’ says Jem. ‘I have to stop.’ He points at the Vagrant. ‘Don’t say anything. And don’t give me that look either. I’m doing my best, I’m just not very good at this. If you hadn’t ruined the engines then it wouldn’t be a problem, would it?’

  He notices the Vagrant has stopped paddling, and is resting his head on his palm.

  ‘Are you alright? You look … awful.’

  The Vagrant glances up at Jem, revealing a face lined in sweat.

  ‘You’re burning up!’

  By way of confirmation, the Vagrant slides from his position at the rail, flopping onto the deck. He holds up a finger, then passes out.

  Jem and Reela rush to his side. A quick investigation confirms a fever. Jem digs out some of the old meds from the sea-shuttle and shoots them into the Vagrant’s arm with a medgun. He then gathers some cold water and soaks a cloth, applying it to the Vagrant’s forehead.

  Reela watches his every move, chewing nervously on her fingertips.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Jem. ‘He’ll be fine. It’s just exhaustion … I think.’

  Uncertainties go over her head and she nods, content, snuggling in next to the Vagrant.

  Jem goes to the sea-shuttle’s navcom. It suggests that they are close to Ferrous now. He takes out the scope, checking for any breaks in the ocean and, to his surprise, finds one. A slender tower is just visible. Thick plastic cables hang from a crown at its top, synthetic dreadlocks, uneven. Lights wink like flawed jewels along its surface. Several are missing.

  He takes up his paddle again, but alone he makes no headway against the waves. He tries signalling to the tower, lighting up the scope and waving it repeatedly.

  All the while, the sea-shuttle drifts in the wrong direction.

  Getting desperate, Jem goes back to the medgun, loads it with a cocktail of stims and uppers and presses it against the Vagrant’s thigh. He pulls the trigger.

  Amber eyes spring open.

  Soundlessly, the Vagrant’s mouth springs open.

  The Vagrant is sitting up.

  The Vagrant is standing up.

  The Vagrant is looking around, left, right, up, down, left and right, and …

  ‘Over there!’ says Jem, pointing to the tower.

  Together, they paddle the sea-shuttle towards it. The Vagrant works like a man possessed, sometimes running to Jem’s side of the sea-shuttle to straighten them out.

  As they draw close, the cables skirting the tower begin to twitch, magnets bringing them to life. Of their own accord, they slide across the water to clonk into place on the sea-shuttle’s hull, gathering the small vessel in a machine’s embrace.

  Stiffening, the cables raise it out of the water until it’s level with a hatch in the tower’s side. Next to the hatch is a circular plate of darkened plasglass. Tiny green LEDs play across it, sparkling.

  The Vagrant moves up to the hatch and looks into the panel. Light maps his face, highlighting scars. There is a pause, then a buzz of rejection.

  Jumping back onto deck the Vagrant picks up Delta’s sword. It just has time to open its eye in surprise before the Vagrant leaps over to the hatch again, pressing the crosspiece against the panel.

  There’s a muted hum of alarm from the blade, followed by a resonant ping of acceptance.

  The hatch swings open.

  With a grin, wild, the Vagrant turns back to the others. He holds up a hand to them and then steps into the hatch.

  ‘Hold on,’ says Jem. ‘I think we should stay together.’ He moves to the Vagrant’s side and adds in a lower voice, ‘I don’t feel safe with Delta here.’

  They both look at Delta and nod.

  As they’re about to leave, Reela holds up a hand.

  Bemused, they watch her cover Delta with the Vagrant’s old coat, tucking it in around silver shoulders.

  The Vagrant nods four times in approval, excess energy shifting him from foot to foot.

  ‘Ah, how are you doing?’ asks Jem.

  The Vagrant gives him a thumbs up and plunges through the open hatch.

  A moment later, a smaller thumb is also raised as Reela runs after him.

  Jem pauses to mutter something under his breath before following.

  As they enter, lights come on inside the tower, blink off, stutter a few times, then stabilize, casting the space in harsh white light. The room is circular, empty, with featureless walls and a studded metal floor.

  Behind them, the hatch swings shut, its seal sucking into place. They all jump.

  ‘Now what?’ asks Jem.

  Reela and the Vagrant shrug.

  They don’t hear any movement but they feel it in their bellies. A sudden lessening of gravity as the room begins to fall.

  Reela holds out her arms, Jem steadies himself against the wall and the Vagrant crouches down, fingers resting lightly on the floor for balance.

  There is an ugly screeching sound and the room shakes, slows, then resumes its progress.

  Down it goes, into the depths. Like an iceberg, only the tip of Ferrous is visible above the surface, most of its bulk spread across and under the sea bed.

  Stomachs return to their normal positions and, on the opposite side of the room from where they came in, a new hatch opens.

  Any lights that once worked in this part of the station failed long ago. Jem switches the scope to torch mode and shines it nervously into the corridor. The beam of light shakes as it describes the way ahead. A ridged tube stretches before them, the opaque surface mottled with shadows. A few of them move, suggesting life of a sort on the outside.

  Fixing his gaze firmly at his feet, the Vagrant sets off, holding Reela’s hand in one of his, Delta’s sword in the other. Jem keeps close, twitching every time something moves beyond the curved walls.

  At the other end is another hatch. This too opens for them. In the darkness revealed on the other side, something screams.

  At the sight of it, Jem screams too.

  Delta of The Seven remains where she was placed on the deck of the sea-shuttle. The sound of Alpha’s song, far away, carries on essence currents.

  Eyes of storm-cloud grey open.

  Motionless, she stares up, listening, understanding, re-flecting.

  And tears of stone slide down the sides of her face.

  The Knight Commander straightens at the incoming call and, on the bridge of Resolution, officers pause in their work, sensing the incoming change.

  Obeisance’s smooth features project in the air before him and her voice is fed like a balm into his ear. ‘Knight Com-mander, I trust you are well.’

  ‘I am, and ready to serve.’

  ‘As are we all. I have resumed my place at The Seven’s side and They have spoken. Prepare yourself, old friend, there is much work to do and The Seven are keen to hunt down the traitors.’

  The Knight Commander braces himself. ‘I am sorry to report that the quarry has eluded us. We believe the First and the Bearer have separated from the other ships but we’re unclear as to
where either is going.’

  ‘You are mistaken. Our Lenses in the south have already told us their destination. You are to make your way there with all haste, stopping en route only to purge the locations I am sending to you.’

  Her face is replaced with maps, full of blinking lights. The Knight Commander responds, ‘It would be most efficient if I split the fleet, dividing the targets between them.’

  ‘Proceed as you see fit. We trust you to make the right decision.’

  ‘You honour me.’

  Her face reappears. Even across a link, he finds her scrutiny wearing. ‘There is one other thing. Assemble a squad of your most experienced troops and dispatch them to Ferrous at once. Consider them at my disposal. It is unlikely they will return.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Pick only those whose faith is unshakable.’

  ‘Understood.’ But he does not truly understand. Surely all of them have unshakable faith? Why say that unless there was reason to doubt? Or perhaps she has reason to doubt his people. Or doubt him. Unpleasant thoughts about Obeisance swim to the surface of his mind. Unworthy but insistent, they plant a seed of doubt that forms quick roots. None of it shows on his face.

  ‘Good. We will rendezvous with you on the coast. May the Winged Eye watch over you.’

  ‘And also over you,’ he intones.

  Cutting the link, he addresses his officers. Minutes later the armada splits into four fleets and a sky-ship peels off, its passengers loaded with secret purpose.

  Trembling torchlight sketches features. A half-breed, nearly as wide as it is tall. Skin so pale the veins look like wounds. Even internal organs are visible as watery impressions. Rolls of rubbery fat strip the figure of sex, tufts of hair sprouting in all the wrong places and none of the right ones. A thin membrane covers the spaces between lips and ears, the nostrils reduced to two shades in the skin.

  Thick arms end in fat fingers, webs of flesh hanging between them. They are pressed in horror against its face as it screams.

  Jem screams back, prompting it to scream again, prompt-ing Jem to scream again, a game, passing back and forth until the Vagrant holds up a hand, firm.

  Jem stops. A scream later, the other stops too.

  The Vagrant looks at Jem, gestures towards the half-breed.

  He takes the hint, clearing his throat. ‘Er, hello? We’re not here to fight. My name is Jem. Do you understand me?’

  There is a pause, then a grunt. ‘Ehrn?’

  ‘I said, do you understand?’

  Another pause. ‘Ehrn?’

  Jem looks for support but the Vagrant repeats his previous gesture.

  ‘Hello,’ he says slowly. ‘I’m Jem.’ He points to himself for emphasis, then repeats: ‘Jem. We are hungry.’ He rubs his tummy a few times. ‘Hungry. Understand?’

  Cautiously, the half-breed approaches Jem. The Vagrant steps out of the way. Reela does the same.

  Jem flinches as the fat webby fingers reach out, moist where they touch him, like being rubbed with wet jelly. ‘What are you …?’

  It stretches the membrane of its mouth wide, then snatches the torch out of Jem’s hands.

  ‘Hey!’

  Prize in fist, it turns away to lope off down the corridor.

  ‘I …’ Jem says to the Vagrant, spreading his hands. ‘That wasn’t my fault.’

  The Vagrant sets off in pursuit, pulling Reela with him.

  ‘It wasn’t,’ he mutters, hurrying after, before the light leaves him behind.

  Torchlight shows slivers of rooms, suggestions of the overall state of Ferrous. Something of the sea has found its way inside. Spores nestle in corners, glowing softly in the damp air. Crates lie scattered on their sides, contents spilling out and abandoned. The sound of a pump can be heard, working, rhythmic, getting louder.

  Boots begin to splash as they step, seawater sneaking in through a tiny crack that is never fixed, then pumped out only to sneak back again, a stalemate.

  The half-breed leads them deep within the station, until they reach a heavy looking door, hexagonal, lined in pulsing neon. With a hiss, the door opens, revealing a small room. The walls and floor are blank. No exits, nothing of note. The half-breed jumps straight in.

  ‘Do you think it’s another lift?’ asks Jem.

  The Vagrant doesn’t answer, stepping inside with Reela. When Jem has joined them, the door closes.

  Seconds pass and the walls lose their density, going from dark grey to light, to transparent. Revealed on the other side are rows of cylindrical tanks. There are fifteen in all. Four are broken and dark. The remaining eleven are filled with a pale yellow liquid and three of them contain bodies. These last three glide forward on hidden means of locomotion until they press against the glass, the faces within magnified and distorted. A man and woman with old wrinkly skin and another man, younger, almost as wrinkled.

  From a speaker somewhere a simple tune plays and the half-breed flops down. The tune repeats and the half-breed’s head lolls forward. A third repetition and it is asleep.

  Jem bends down and picks up the torch.

  The speaker crackles and then a voice can be heard, matching the movements of the older man’s mouth. ‘Apologies for the lack of a proper welcome but as you can see, we have some difficulties here. I hope Giblet didn’t cause you any troubles. He’s well-meaning but he gets over-excited sometimes.’

  Jem points to the sleeping half-breed. ‘That’s Giblet?’

  ‘Yes. When they’re born, they look like giblets. He can’t talk much yet but he understands a lot. Not bad for a twelve-month-old.’

  The Vagrant and Jem exchange a look and the speaker distorts with laughter. ‘Oh I know! Imagine what we said when we first found out. I’m sure you’re full of questions. Actually, we have a few of our own. I hope you don’t mind but we will expect you to answer them all.’

  ‘Before that,’ Jem replies, ‘is there any chance of something to eat? We’ve come a long way and …’

  The speaker snaps off but it is clear that the man is still talking. The other two tanked figures interject occasionally, the fluid wisping around them, making expressions and lips hard to read.

  A minute passes while the Vagrant twitches with unused energy.

  Reela yawns.

  Giblet begins to snore, the air catching some loose flap of skin inside his throat, making wet vibrations.

  The three figures turn towards them again and, with a slight pop, the man’s voice returns. ‘Yes. This will suit us all. Giblet will bring you food and you can eat and rest while we discuss our position on your arrival amongst ourselves.’

  ‘Your position?’ asks Jem. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Problem? No. Not a problem. Not even close to a problem. Nothing to worry about, just some little kinks to straighten before we decide what to do with you.’

  As the walls darken, removing him from sight, the man in the cylinder puts a hand to his mouth, his expression that of a naughty child caught with a hand in the sweet jar.

  A simple tune plays and Giblet jerks awake.

  ‘Feed our guests,’ comes the man’s voice. ‘Use only the special stock. Feed them, Giblet, only from the special stock. Feed them well.’

  Giblet is gone for some time. When he returns, he is carrying a bulging plastic sack under one arm and a tube with a nozzle under the other. When the sack is put down, there is an audible squelch.

  With practised ease, Giblet fastens the other end of the tube to a valve on the top of the sack and then offers the nozzle.

  ‘After you,’ Jem murmurs.

  The Vagrant takes the nozzle and lifts it up to the eye in Delta’s sword. It opens, obliging, and stares into the nozzle. It looks up at the Vagrant, indifferent, then closes again.

  Satisfied, the Vagrant puts the nozzle to his mouth and Giblet gives the bag a squeeze.

  A thick gel eases from the end, the yellow hue remarkably similar to the liquid inside the tanks. Giblet waits for a curly pile to collect on the Va
grant’s tongue before releasing the sack.

  The Vagrant closes his mouth. He looks up at the ceiling as if searching for something, then swallows.

  ‘Well?’ asks Jem, holding Reela back as she reaches for the nozzle.

  The Vagrant raises a thumb.

  ‘Really?’

  The Vagrant nods and Jem lets Reela past.

  Giblet squeezes the bag for her and then Jem has a turn. ‘It … It’s really good!’

  Reela is already reaching for nozzle again.

  They take turns, uneven, stuffing as much of the nameless substance into their mouths on each rotation, until the sack is empty and three bellies stretch happily to capacity.

  When they are done, Giblet takes the sack away, the large door opening just long enough for him to leave.

  Soon, they are all sat against the wall. Jem looks at the Vagrant. ‘I hope we don’t come to regret eating that.’

  The Vagrant yawns.

  Reela yawns.

  ‘I suppose we didn’t have much of a choice.’

  Reela starts to flop over but the Vagrant catches her and leans her against his side.

  Jem clutches at his stomach in panic. ‘Do you think it was drugged?’

  The Vagrant frowns, then shakes his head.

  ‘But how can you be sure?’ He fights the sudden urge to yawn. ‘I don’t like it here. At least one of us should stay awake.’

  The Vagrant nods slowly.

  ‘I think it should be you.’

  A smile twitches at the corner of the Vagrant’s mouth, then amber eyes close.

  ‘I hate you,’ whispers Jem. He holds the scope close, taking comfort from its light. He cannot be sure but it seems as if the walls are losing their colour. Not completely transparent but different somehow. Another yawn threatens, is stifled. He thinks about the stims he injected into the Vagrant, wonders if they have lost effectiveness due to age or whether they have been neutralized by other, stronger medication.

  The next yawn gets past his guard. The one after that overcomes him completely.

  One Thousand and Forty-Six Years Ago

  Massassi wakes with a start. She is sitting in her control chair, a comfortable enough design but hardly built for sleep. How long has she been dozing? She looks at the globe of screens all around her, each one monitoring a different corner of her vast empire. Even so there are not enough to show every relevant feed and so the images flicker, moving to whatever seems most important, the globe revolving to bring the newest developments to eye level.