The Seven Page 8

  ‘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 visib
le. 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.

  He walks up winding stairs to the battlements, dragging Delta after him, her heels ringing against each step.

  Beta follows and, after a pause, Epsilo
n, Theta and Eta do the same.

  Past bowed heads and trembling bodies, Alpha goes, ignoring all. Displeasure radiates from him in waves, driving people from his path like iron filings from a magnet, flipped the wrong way.

  Raising Delta over the edge, he draws his sword. Its eye is open, glaring balefully at Delta as she dangles, a puppet, stringless.

  When Alpha draws back the weapon the light around it sparks so brightly that the blade turns black within it.

  And then, Beta is at his side, one hand on his wrist.

  Alpha looks down.

  Their eyes meet.

  One Thousand and Forty-Nine Years Ago

  Massassi lets the slab take the weight of her body, groaning with pleasure as it lowers her into the vat. Nutri-fluid oozes between toes and into armpits, thickening at the base of her neck and the points along her spine, supporting, warming.

  Damage sustained long ago has led to a regimen of treatments. Injections, tablets and organ stimulation are all daily routines. Some to manage the pain, others to keep her alert. Such things have taken their toll, however. Her hair is gone and her nails have fallen out. The metal studs she used to plug old wounds were not her best work, a rushed solution, plaguing her with regular inflammation and infection.

  For years she has endured such things, a small price to pay for the safety of the world. No longer. At last she is able to rest. Alpha is here now, and he is more than able to run the Empire, giving her a well-earned break.

  She tries to remember the last time she felt this relaxed and finds she cannot. The Nutri-fluid has eased her physical aches and Alpha has taken away the awful responsibility. It may have cost her the best years of her life but she has done it.

  Hours pass, happy dozing punctuated with periods of self-satisfied reflection. Normally, her quick mind would be getting bored but she feels no need to move. Perhaps this is part of getting old, taking pleasure in the smaller things. Perhaps it is just that she is tired. For once, Massassi feels no desire to dig deeper. Understanding is not necessary. She could lie here until the end of time.

  Her slumber is disturbed by knocking, insistent, on the side of the vat. Massassi wakes unwillingly.