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The Seven
Peter Newman


‘An exciting new writer – sharp, compelling and original’ Mark LawrenceYears have passed since the Vagrant journeyed to the Shining City, Vesper in arm and Gamma’s sword in hand.Since then the world has changed. Vesper, following the footsteps of her father, journeyed to the breach and closed the tear between worlds, protecting the last of humanity, but also trapping the infernal horde and all those that fell to its corruptions: willing or otherwise.In this new age it is Vesper who leads the charge towards unity and peace, with seemingly nothing standing between the world and a bright new future.That is until eyes open.And The Seven awaken.









PETER NEWMAN

The Seven










Copyright (#ued3c2f49-a49e-5f4c-9269-37c145dae5c1)







HarperVoyager

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2017

Copyright © Peter Newman 2017

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

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.

Source ISBN: 9780008180171

Ebook Edition © April 2017 ISBN: 9780008180195

Version: 2017-12-11




Dedication (#ued3c2f49-a49e-5f4c-9269-37c145dae5c1)


To my parents,

for your unfailing support.


Table of Contents

Cover (#u69293c5d-d461-50dd-92d3-546790da3bf7)

Title Page (#u3e02627d-590b-5b42-8d63-efbe445001b1)

Copyright (#ub146088a-46d7-5401-b90d-04195e33c347)

Dedication (#u732bb9b0-ddb3-5b94-83f4-5c5ca951eaef)

Chapter One (#u2f67e7ae-a4c7-5922-8d5e-4a77c7baccac)

Chapter Two (#u4d61bbe5-6719-5b58-8302-58bf827f6803)

One Thousand and Fifty-TwoYears Ago (#ucc33b7ac-55fa-5cab-8edb-180b5af095a7)



Chapter Three (#uc508a983-7413-5994-aa8f-96cbc1933ce4)



One Thousand and Fifty-One Years Ago (#u4c1f4dd1-a876-5a95-bdb8-a3fb7c939c74)



Chapter Four (#ub984cc94-88a3-520f-83fd-b9cf8dab4c8f)



Chapter Five (#u40396d60-7bf4-5acb-93f4-959845a6f41b)



One Thousand and Forty-Nine Years Ago (#u0c2650fc-043d-5bda-ae30-cb8ecb901061)



Chapter Six (#u6cf5234b-aa61-524f-8114-71dcde5695c4)



Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)



One Thousand and Forty-Six Years Ago (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)



One Thousand and Thirty-One Years Ago (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)



One Thousand and Twenty-Seven Years Ago (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)



One Thousand and Twenty-Three Years Ago (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)



One Thousand and Nine Years Ago (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)



One Thousand and Nine Years Ago (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)



Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)



Also by Peter Newman (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ued3c2f49-a49e-5f4c-9269-37c145dae5c1)


Alpha of The Seven stands in an alcove, encased in rock that is eggshell thin. A fragile prison made of grief, of stone tears that flow briefly, hardening, smothering.

For a thousand years, he and his siblings have dwelled in their chamber, wallowing, their gaze turned inward, falling further and further from humanity. It was not always this way.

Once, when the Breach first stirred, they sent their sister, Gamma, to aid their people. It was her time to shine, to do the creator’s will and do glorious battle against the infernal.

But there was no glory. Only death.

When Gamma did not return, The Seven wept anew, a river of tears for the life that should have been. Endless.

And when a lowly vagrant returned Gamma’s living sword, the relic had changed. They offered it rest at their side and it rejected them. It judged them.

So they retreated from pain and grief, returning to a haven of memories.

Years passed and a new threat arose from the Breach.

The Seven turned their backs.

And Gamma’s sword ventured into the world once more.

This time a girl bore the sword back to them, and where the man had been silent, she had plenty to say.

Alpha remembers her words. They sting and stir, making grief into anger, inaction into action. Rage shakes him. Cracks form in the eggshell-thin layer of stone. Individual chunks fall, like a jigsaw of a man unmaking itself, each piece revealing a glint of silver, a hint at the form that dwells beneath. Wings stretch: a cascade of stone as Alpha steps, shining, from the alcove, a halo of flying dust around him.

As his essence flares into life, so too do his brothers and sisters. They wake slowly, reluctantly. Compelled but hesitant, curious but afraid.

Alpha’s eyes are the blue of the sky. He looks to each of the alcoves, to his brothers, Beta and Epsilon, and his sisters, Delta, Theta and Eta. Silvered wings flex, and stone crumbles away, revealing bodies that gleam. The fragments shatter in a cloud. A wing-beat, two, and the cloud is dispelled.

They stare at one another for a long time as dust settles and thoughts begin to form. Then, one by one, they step out from their alcoves to join Alpha in the centre of the room.

Six metal figures, perfect, gather together in a circle. Their voices are music, each weaving with the others, harmonious. Slowly, they sing of what has happened while they slept, of all that has gone wrong, and begin to debate what is to be done and how many will have to die.

Nearby, Vesper fidgets as feathers are woven into her hair. ‘Is this really necessary?’

At her question, hands pause, and three sets of eyes flick to the other authority in the room.

Overseeing the team of people dressing the girl is Obeisance, the only human allowed within The Seven’s inner sanctum. Wrapped in her feathered cloak, her skin is hairless, her toes and fingers without nails, her life and body dedicated to service. Obeisance’s voice can soothe immortals, it has no trouble with Vesper. ‘You do not approve?’

‘It’s not that,’ says Vesper. ‘I’m sure it looks … lovely. But it’s not really me. I think they should see me as I am.’

‘Do you believe you are defined by your appearance?’

She scratches at a cluster of tiny white scars on her cheek, thinking. ‘No.’

‘Then appear to them as a leader. You are the chosen of The Seven, Bearer of Gamma’s sword. It will be your voice that leads us into a new age. Change is unsettling, and the people of the Shining City must put their faith in you. This,’ she gestures to Vesper’s outfit, ‘will make it easier for them.’

Vesper shrugs, Obeisance gives a nod, and the team get back to work.

Adjustments are made, tiny details agonized over. Her long coat is carefully arranged, the plates on the shoulders given a final polish. Vesper’s boots add an inch to her height, her hair another two. She does not feel any taller.

‘Are you ready?’ asks Obeisance.

She is not. ‘Yes,’ she replies, lifting the sword and putting it onto her back.

Obeisance gives a rare smile. ‘Good. It is time.’

They gather around the steps leading upwards to the sanctum of The Seven. Thousands of them: a ceremony to welcome the Bearer back from her travels. Prominent residents of the Shining City and proud members of the Empire of the Winged Eye. The Seraph Knights in their gleaming armour, the soldiers in their perfect formations, and the citizens, modestly dressed, uniform in appearance and thought. Even the children are here, organized by choir, synchronized and silent.

Like a living sea they swell around the great silver steps. A dazzling monument of seamless metal, fifty feet high, that ends, abrupt, in mid air. Another thirty feet of empty space separate the steps from the great floating cube that is the sanctum itself, turning slowly, featureless, suspended above by powers no longer understood.

A small opening appears at the base of the cube, two figures framed within.

Far below, the assembled crowd lower their heads in reverence and the knights draw their singing swords in salute.

One of the figures, Obeisance, steps out, her feet finding purchase in the air, descending, her weight borne by The Seven’s love. This is an act of faith she makes daily. The second, Vesper, draws the sword and holds it out. Silver wings unfurl from the hilt, feeling the currents of essence mixed with the air. An eye is revealed set within the crosspiece. It opens and Vesper looks into it.

The young woman gives a half smile and steps out after Obeisance.

Neither falls.

One walks gracefully, the other with a quiet confidence.

When they arrive on the uppermost stair, Vesper frowns. The eye in the sword has not closed, instead, staring up over her shoulder, it is wide and worried. She risks a glance but sees only the side of the great cube and the two suns above.

Such concerns are soon banished from her mind, for the eyes of the Shining City are upon her. When she speaks, they will listen. And, at her request, every word will be spread throughout the remains of the Empire, via chips whispering into the mind, via runners, traders and all of the networks at the disposal of the Lenses.

Her own chip feeds the words of the speech to her now. She knows what to say but, as Obeisance tells her, only the ear hears the words. It is up to her to win their hearts.

She looks for support, a last boost of confidence before beginning.

She finds it in a pair of amber eyes watching from several steps down. Her father appears strange dressed in armour. Even groomed in the style of the city, he stands out, uncomfortable. Despite all the honours, she knows he’d much rather be at home, tending goats and making wonky additions to the house.

The thought makes her smile. She is both surprised and warmed to see him there.

Her father smiles back.

It is enough.

She takes a breath and begins to speak, holding up the sword. ‘Our war with the infernals has been over for ten years. The Breach remains sealed. But the wounds from those times still linger.’ For the briefest of moments, she pauses, searching for any kind of reaction. There is none. ‘The south has been ravaged by war. When the demons first came our people called to the Shining City for aid and we did nothing. Time and again they repeated that call. Time and again, we did nothing. Now, we have to put that right.

‘Some of our colonies, like Sonorous, felt abandoned by the Empire, and so they left us. And they were right to be angry because we let them down when they needed us the most. We’ve lost Sonorous now, just as we’ve lost the southern Empire. But it isn’t too late to form bonds with them again and make amends. They don’t need our swords anymore but they do need our help.

‘You see, the world out there has been forced to change. There are new powers across the sea, human, demon and half-breed, and wonderful mixes of all three. Some of those powers stood with me against the worst the Breach had to offer.’

She falters, her gaze travelling across the hundreds of staring faces. Only her father’s head moves as she speaks, nodding, encouraging. The others, in their multitude, are motionless, their expressions frozen. Do they agree with what she is saying? Do they even understand?

‘We can no longer see the infernal simply as our enemy. Some are hostile, yes. But not all. And some of them have extended their hands to us in peace.

‘In New Horizon, our people were made into slaves and it was not the might of the Empire that freed them. It was an infernal. It was not the Empire that tended their wounds or saw them fed and clothed, it was an infernal.

‘I’m going to go south again soon to visit our estranged people. But I won’t be marching at the head of an army, I’ll be going there as a friend.

‘If we want to find our place in the new world, we need to change too. We need to find a new way. To that end, I’ve arranged a gathering of the greatest leaders of the age. Together we will find a way to live and work alongside each other. Put the past behind us and make a better future for our families and friends, together.’

There is no applause when she finishes, no sign from the crowd that they have heard.

Her father smiles up at her, eyes scrunched with pride.

She wonders whether to go off-script, to say more, find some way to reach past the numberless masks, inscrutable, and get a reaction.

In her hand, the sword begins to hum.

She looks at it.

It is looking past her, looking up.

So is Obeisance, her father, and the crowd.

Twin shadows lengthen, falling across her, making her shiver. Behind her, something moves between her and the suns, red and gold, something vast.

As realization dawns, the assembled drop to their knees, a great wave of dominoes, toppling together.

Vesper does not need to turn round to know what is happening.

She turns anyway.

The sanctum of The Seven, a cube of shining metal – one mile across – is rising. Turning slowly as it goes, the Sanctum blocks out the suns.

Everyone watches the ascension, open mouthed, confounded.

A curve of blood-red light peeks from beneath the cube, glimmering, then a second of gold can be seen. Clouds part long before the cube reaches them, seeming to bend away, reverent.

Still higher the cube floats.

None dare take their eyes from the sight. Unspoken questions hover on the edge of lips. What does this mean? Is it a sign of The Seven’s triumphant return, or of worse things to come?

Like a balloon on an invisible string, the colossal cube continues its journey, straight up, until it appears smaller, a silver moon joining the stars.

When it is nothing more than a glinting speck in the sky, attention returns to the top of the steps. Vesper looks across the sea of faces, licks lips suddenly dry. She has no idea what to say. No pre-prepared speech is fed to her via her chip, and she has no insight into The Seven’s actions.

Seconds tick by, agonizing, slow.

A bead of sweat appears on Vesper’s forehead and runs down to her ear.

Her father gives her a nod, then, after a beat, raises his eyebrows and circles his hand three times.

She opens her mouth, takes a breath … and then Obeisance speaks.

‘People of the Empire, attend to me. For truly, today is a day of greatness. The Bearer stands before us all and asks us to rise and meet the challenges ahead. And behold! The Seven have risen, an inspiration to Their people. For Their eye is upon us, and They expect only the best. We must not disappoint. Go now, back to your duties, and carry the words of the Bearer with you, and the grace of The Seven in your hearts, and know that They are watching.’

In orderly rows, the crowd disperses. Fervour fizzes within measured steps.

Obeisance turns to Vesper. ‘It seems The Seven do not leave you to toil alone any longer.’

‘It’s true,’ she replies, forcing a smile. ‘We’re very lucky.’

But the sword in her hand suggests otherwise, its eye still staring at the sky, troubled.

Vesper meets her father on the outskirts of the Shining City. It is the first time she has been alone with him since she left on her great tour five years ago. It takes a moment for her to marry up the man standing before her with the image of her father. The amber eyes are the same but they seem to have been transplanted into a different face, a younger one. Long hair has been trimmed short, stubble banished. Though the collar is loosened, his clothes are crisply cut, a symbol of the Winged Eye woven into the shoulders. The scarring on the side of his head has been treated. There are still stripes running into his hairline but they are less stark than she remembers them. His frame is fuller too.

‘Wow,’ she says.

When he steps towards her there is no sign of his limp and when he hugs her, she is lifted from the floor, just as she was as a child.

For a few precious moments, the worries of the world disappear, unable to break through her father’s arms. She hugs him back, fierce.

The sound of a nearly human shout makes her jump. It comes from the other that has been waiting for her to come out of the city, and Vesper’s face shifts instantly to delight. The kid has grown, become a buck. The buck stands tall, struts proudly where once he scampered. Where the kid’s bleat was cute, endearing, the buck’s is a thing of horror. Sometimes a shout, sometimes closer to a scream, not quite a goat’s call but neither a man’s. An awkward, ugly, in-between noise. Vesper alone finds it charming.

The buck dashes over to her side, eager, his mouth already watering.

She doesn’t disappoint, popping a thick, fibrous shoot into his mouth. ‘You’re looking magnificent today.’

The buck’s eyes sparkle, though whether this is due to the food or the compliment is unclear. Jaws set to work and the shoot squeaks, indignant. Vesper chuckles, ruffling his ears. The buck whimpers and her fingers retrace their path slowly, until they come to rest on the edge of the buck’s right ear, finding a jagged edge where things were once smooth. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll be talking to that monster when we get home. She won’t bite you again.’

The buck’s expression is forlorn.

Vesper sets off, arms waving as she talks to her father, while the buck trots alongside, chewing, enthusiastic. On her back the sword’s eye is open, staring hard into the horizon.

‘You really think the speech was good, then?’

Her father nods.

‘I know I keep asking, it’s just …’

He reaches out, putting a hand on her arm.

‘Thanks. And The Seven coming back now, what do you think it means?’

Her father shrugs.

‘Obeisance says it’s a sign of Their favour. That’s what she’s got the Knight Commander to tell everyone anyway. I’m not so sure. When I looked up, I didn’t feel hopeful, I felt … scared.’

Her father frowns, stays quiet.

Vesper slows as she approaches the hill. She expected to be excited, perhaps a little nervous, but in truth she is reluctant.

It has been ten years since she sealed the Breach. Ten years of rebuilding, renewing, trying to restore some of what was lost during the war with the infernals. During that time, she has grown into herself. Though the Empire of the Winged Eye is dedicated to The Seven, the immortals have been silent for as long as she has been alive. Her orders, given in Their name, are what shape the future now.

For the last five years she has travelled the world with her knights, the Order of the Broken Blades, meeting with demons, half-breeds and humans, a disparate group of leaders forged by misfortune and hardship. Not all of those meetings were pleasant, but through a combination of persuasion, natural enthusiasm and, where necessary, a demonstration of power, she has managed to establish working relationships with most of them.

Progress at home and abroad is slow but she is close now, so close to realizing her vision. And yet coming here that sense of triumph fades. She has been away too long, neglected things at home to work on her great vision. Now she has to face up to that.

She feels a squeeze on her shoulder and glances down to see a small silver wing draped across it. She brushes it with her fingers and smiles.

As she walks, the grass beneath her feet becomes shorter, neater, testament to the work of many goats. They dot the landscape, dull whites and patchy browns against the green, big and small, nearly twenty generations of them. There was a time when Vesper knew every goat by name. That time is long gone.

Two buildings come into view. She stops to marvel at how they’ve changed. The first, the house she grew up in, has grown. A new extension has been built on the side, lopsided. Clearly this was not built by the Empire’s engineers. Each brick is placed by hand, laboriously. But to Vesper, the imperfections add charm.

She turns to her father. ‘You’ve been busy.’

He looks at his work, then away again, embarrassed, before going into the house. She does not follow. She is not quite ready to face what awaits, not yet.

The second building is smaller, a shelter for their animals and a storehouse. As Vesper walks towards it, the buck slows, lagging further and further behind.

Inside it is dark, ripe with aged and musty smells. Vesper peers into the shadows until she makes out a shape in one corner.

Hands go to hips. ‘Wake up, you miserable thing.’

A head raises slowly, unsteady on a scraggly neck. The dark eyes do not see as well they used to but hate just as hard as ever.

‘Now, I don’t care how old you are, if you don’t stop biting everyone I’ll have you turned into stew, okay?’

The goat’s eyes narrow.

‘I’m serious this time.’ Vesper points a finger for emphasis, then reaches into her bag. ‘But I got you this. I don’t know why I bothered though, you ungrateful monster.’

She tosses a leathery strip to the goat and pats her on the head. The goat sniffs at the offering and then starts to eat it, ignoring the affection as best as possible.

Vesper goes back to the house and stops at the door. Her hand lifts as if to knock but hovers there, uncertain. She can just make out sounds from inside. Adult voices talking, and a younger voice rising above them. Yelling? Is it play or some kind of argument?

A knot forms in Vesper’s stomach and her hand remains poised.

At her back an eye opens and the wing squeezes her shoulder again. Vesper does not need to turn round to see the sword’s silent encouragement.

‘Alright,’ she murmurs. ‘I’m going in.’

She knocks once, so soft as to be inaudible. The sword frowns at her back and the wing squeezes more firmly. Vesper knocks a second time, louder.

The sounds on the other side stop.

She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, then opens the door and goes inside.

Vesper passes through the hall quickly. Each glance is bittersweet, conjuring childhood memories and showing their inaccuracies. Cupboards are the wrong colour, the walls show signs of age, and everything is smaller than she remembers it.

Except the kitchen. One of the walls has been knocked through to make space for a new table. Around it, four faces gawp at her.

She waves and smiles, awkward. ‘Hi.’

As one, they rise to greet her.

It is hard to know who to attend to first. Before she can decide, Jem is on his feet, moving in close. He leans in, kissing her, arms circling her shoulders only to stiffen as they knock against the sword.

She has barely had time to register the kiss or enjoy it before he is pulling away.

They study each other, noticing the little changes. She has grown as tall as him but seems taller, standing straight where he slumps. His eyes are as sharp as ever but there are smudges underneath, hinting at sleepless nights. A good diet has softened his features, save for his smile which remains feral.

Looking at his face, she cannot tell if that smile is aggressive or not.

Before either of them can speak, another voice interjects. ‘Vesper, is that you?’

Her Uncle Harm is reaching out for her, tentative. She takes his questing hand in both of hers and squeezes. ‘It’s me.’

They embrace, and Harm’s fingertips move up to her face, skimming over cheeks, the bridge of her nose and her forehead. He nods, content. ‘No new scars. That’s a good sign.’

‘I could say the same to you.’

He chuckles. ‘It’s good to have you home.’

Of all of them, Harm has changed the least. A few extra laughter lines, a couple of grey hairs. Taking comfort from that, Vesper turns to her father and the little girl standing next to him.

She looks down.

A small face is staring back up at her.

Dark curly hair frames sullen eyes and downturned lips. The girl’s skin is darker than hers but lighter than Jem’s. The swirling lines that cover her body have become more pronounced in the intervening years, not less as Vesper had hoped. This is why her daughter has been kept away from the Shining City. The people of the Empire of the Winged Eye are not ready to deal with such obvious signs of the taint, however slight. Inwardly, she swears that will change in her lifetime.

The girl glances up to Vesper’s father, nervous.

‘Hello, Reela,’ says Vesper. ‘It’s me, your mother. I’m back.’

There is a pause. Her father gives a reassuring nod to the little girl before gently nudging her towards Vesper.

Vesper goes down on one knee and opens her arms. ‘It’s okay, I won’t bite.’

The girl comes forward and accepts her mother’s hug. Vesper wonders if perhaps things will not be as bad as she feared.

They all flinch when Reela screams. Ducking under Vesper’s arms, she runs past, the scream bouncing up the stairs until it is silenced by the slam of an upstairs door.

For several minutes, Vesper talks, banishing the rejection of her child with talk of bigger things. Increasingly, her arms wave with enthusiasm. Three men sit round the table, listening: her father, her uncle and her lover.

Reela remains upstairs. From time to time she can be heard jumping around her room and squealing. The sound of boards creaking and high-pitched laughter grow steadily louder.

Vesper tries to ignore it but her right eyelid twitches in time with each new interruption.

‘And,’ Vesper concludes, ‘it means we’ll have a place to meet and solve problems, but more than that, we’ll be creating another way to live, where we talk first instead of fighting.’ Another bang from above makes Vesper wince. ‘Where children like Reela can grow up without knowing fear.’ She pauses but nobody speaks. ‘Well, what do you think?’

She looks at each of their faces. Harm’s is a delicate balance, support laced with concern. Her father looks down at the table, frowning. Jem just looks angry.

Several thuds and a shriek from the heavens do little to break the tension.

Harm leans forward, his voice soft. ‘I think it’s very brave what you’re trying to do.’

‘But?’

‘But I’m not sure the Empire is ready. Have you thought about how it might hurt Reela?’

Vesper shakes her head. ‘I’m doing it for Reela and all the others like her. She shouldn’t have to hide in the shadows because the Empire is too small-minded to deal with change!’

‘I agree but you risk making her into a target.’

‘But when you came to the Shining City, Uncle, you didn’t hide.’

Harm smiles sadly. ‘That’s true but I came of my own free will and I knew the risks. And I wasn’t accepted until I’d been purged of taint, and even that is conditional on me living out here.’

‘It shouldn’t be that way. I’m going to put it right.’

‘The people of the Empire have followed you this far because you’ve moved slowly but if you start to directly contradict The Seven’s law … Well, it could end badly for all of us.’

An awkward silence descends. Vesper’s father continues to frown at the tabletop.

‘We saw the cube rising,’ Jem says. ‘Did The Seven do anything?’

‘No. They just flew off, into space maybe? I don’t know, and to be honest, I don’t care. We’ve waited for Them long enough already.’

‘What are you going to do now?’

She looks at him, puzzled. ‘Exactly what I was going to do before. If The Seven decide to make things better, maybe I’ll come back and live here. Until then, the Empire needs us.’

Jem swallows. ‘But … aren’t you afraid?’

She closes the gap between them and takes one of his hands in hers. ‘Of course I’m afraid. But it isn’t going to stop me.’

‘Us,’ adds Harm. ‘It isn’t going to stop us. We’re in this together. A family.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Actually, it’s a relief. I don’t think my plan’s going to work without you.’

Harm smiles. ‘This sounds ominous.’

She smiles back. ‘I want you to guide the people here, the way you guided me.’

‘I’m no instructor.’

‘No, and I don’t want one. I want someone that can tell them about life across the sea. And, I want you to help them get the idea that not all infernals are the same. That’s what I tried to tell them in my speech but I don’t think they understand. It’s too big.’

Harm nods slowly. ‘It won’t be easy but I have a few ideas. Perhaps I’ll tell them some of my old stories.’

‘Yes, tell them about the city of Verdigris and about Tough Call.’

‘Alright.’

‘Oh, and you have to tell them about the Usurperkin there and how they’re part of the city.’

‘I will.’

‘And I think –’

Harm laughs and Vesper swiftly joins him. And then the two of them are recalling old times, trading names back and forth, swept up in the excitement. Vesper doesn’t notice Jem slipping to the back of the kitchen to make himself a strong drink. Her father does with narrowing eyes.

‘And don’t worry about Reela,’ adds Harm. ‘She’s not usually this bad.’

‘I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.’

‘She’ll come round.’

‘Was I … like her? You can be honest.’

Harm shakes his head. ‘No, you were easier. But don’t worry, she’ll get through it. I think she just misses you.’

‘She’s got a funny way of showing it.’

‘Love can make people behave in very odd ways.’ He coughs, polite. ‘I can’t imagine where Reela gets it from.’

Jem clears his throat, the glass in his hand already half empty. ‘When are you leaving us?’

‘Soon.’

‘And how long will you be gone this time?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘A month? Six months?’ His lower lip curls down as he speaks, ‘A year? Another five years?’

‘I told you, I don’t know.’

‘Harm’s right, you’re going to put us in danger. The Shining City hates us.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Is that why the Lenses spy on us? They’re probably listening in right now.’

‘The Lenses have a whole world to monitor. They barely know you exist!’

Jem drains his glass, gets up. ‘Sounds familiar.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Nowhere. If you change your mind, you’re welcome to join me.’

Vesper blinks back tears. ‘I have to do this, don’t you understand?’

‘Yes,’ replies Jem, bitter. ‘I do.’ He walks out of the kitchen. Shortly afterwards the front door slams.

The rhythmic bouncing from upstairs is interrupted by a loud thud, a brief pause, and then crying, shrill and persistent.

Vesper’s father glances towards the sound, then looks at Vesper.

She buries her face in her hands. ‘Not now … I can’t.’

With a sigh, her father rises. He touches Harm’s arm briefly, walks around the table to rest a hand on Vesper’s shoulder, then leaves.

They hear footsteps on creaky stairs, a door opening and closing. The crying becomes muffled, begins to move slowly from left to right above them. Gradually, it subsides.

Harm speaks into the quiet. ‘Why don’t you go up and see her? She misses you.’

‘Alright. Then I need to talk to Jem while there are no other distractions. There are things I need to say, in private.’

‘Good luck.’

She starts to head upstairs, giving Harm a grim nod. ‘Thanks.’

Somehow dealing with her daughter is more exhausting than managing an empire. Handing Reela back to her father and leaving the house is a relief.

She finds Jem standing by the base of the hill, looking out towards the Shining City, reminding her of when she used to do the same.

‘Here goes,’ she murmurs to the sword, strolling down until she stands alongside him. ‘Hi. Mind if I join you?’

He shrugs, sullen.

‘Look,’ she says, taking the sword from off her shoulder and laying it down. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around.’

A guilty look crosses his face and he seems to deflate. ‘Ah Vesp, I’m sorry for what I said in there. Ever since we got word you’d returned to the Shining City I’ve been waiting for you to come back, and at the end of each day I couldn’t understand why you hadn’t. I’d tell myself that you’d be coming tomorrow, or the day after, and look forward to us being close again. Believe it or not I’ve been excited. I even had plans for some nice things that we could do together.

‘And then when you did show, you started talking about leaving barely five minutes after you arrived. Another long trip overseas … I just couldn’t believe it. That’s when I lost my temper.’ He gives her a lopsided smile. ‘But I suppose you’ve worked out that last bit already.’

She matches his expression. ‘I had a bit of an inkling.’

‘You know, the last thing I wanted was to push you away again.’

‘I do. That’s why I’m here.’ He nods, the last of the tension ebbing from his stance. ‘Would you like to start again?’ she asks. ‘Pretend I’ve just got back?’

‘Please.’

They talk, fingers occasionally touching, tentative, negotiating the bad feelings to find their way to the good. By the time the suns are setting, the conversation flows more easily. Inevitably, it becomes nostalgic, returning to their early days together. There is laughter, genuine, and when it passes, an earnestness in Jem’s eyes.

‘I’ve missed you.’

‘I’ve missed you too.’

‘I hate to sour things,’ says Jem, ‘but I need to talk to you about Reela.’

‘Okay. She was tough today. Was she always this noisy?’

‘Yes. But it’s not her fault, it’s your father’s.’

‘How is it his fault?’

‘For one thing, he treats her too much, and for another, he lets her get away with murder. If she breaks something, or is naughty and I’m telling her off, he just picks her up and gives her a cuddle. It completely undermines me. And he gives me one of those looks, you know the ones?’

She sighs. ‘I know the ones.’

‘As if I’m the one that’s done something wrong.’

‘Have you tried talking to Uncle Harm?’

‘Yes, but he’s just as bad as your father. Most of the time he finds Reela’s behaviour funny. They’re getting her into bad habits and stopping me from sorting it out.’

‘I’ll talk to them before I go, okay?’

‘Okay. Thank you. Look, it’s getting dark. We should probably get back inside.’

‘Let’s just stay out here a bit longer.’

‘It’s getting cold.’

She takes his hands in hers. ‘But I’m warm, remember?’

A different kind of glint appears in Jem’s eye. ‘I think so, but it’s been a while. I’m going to need some serious reminding.’

Vesper steps in close, sliding her hands around his waist, kissing him. His nose is like a lump of ice against her cheek, his hands startling on her hips.

She kisses him again, pulling him more firmly to her.

It turns out that Jem does not need much reminding at all. In fact, his memory is very good on the subject. Despite this or perhaps because of it, they stay out long after the suns have set.




CHAPTER TWO (#ued3c2f49-a49e-5f4c-9269-37c145dae5c1)


Vesper leaves the next day. Her father watches her march towards the coast with the buck and her personal guard of Seraph Knights, the Order of the Broken Blades. Each member is devoted to Vesper, owing her a personal debt. Their armour glints in the sunslight, pride adding crispness to their movements.

When they are nothing more than a spot on the horizon, he remains, and when that spot has vanished entirely, he remains.

Finally, when even that memory of it has undeniably gone, he sighs and turns back towards home.

Business resumes in the Shining City, each denizen returning to their appointed tasks. But something has changed, excitement infusing even the simplest of actions. The twin statues of Duet that stand either side of the southern road are cleaned. The gardens that curl, unkempt, around the great platinum pillars are cut back. Buttons are polished an extra time, bodies held slightly straighter, a mix of worry and excitement fuelling the drive towards perfection.

Without anyone explicitly arranging anything, the choirs of children meet for additional devotion sessions. When squires train, they lament their mistakes far more, and the knight instructors punish them all the harder.

In quiet industry and whispered speculation, a few days pass.

Like most of the citizens of the Shining City, the Knight Commander spends his spare moments looking up at the sky. Sometimes, at night, he thinks he sees the Sanctum of The Seven, a new star glimmering in the heavens. With the Bearer of Gamma’s sword abroad, and Obeisance in silent meditation, out of his reach, it is up to him to prepare the Empire for whatever is coming next.

And there is an undeniable sense that a change is coming. He likes to think that the return of The Seven is a reward for their good work, that finally he and his people are worthy to receive the blessings of their immortal guardians again. He does his best to ensure that worthiness, exhorting his people to work harder, to be better, than they ever have before. Each day, the Shining City behaves as if it were on parade, its citizens outfitted in their best, moving purposefully through corridors that gleam. Every corner is scoured, every piece of equipment cleaned, and any inhabitant that does not come up to the Knight Commander’s high standards is given tasks that keep them out of sight.

When the call finally comes, he is prepared, his armour finely polished, and a score of officers are on standby to be given the word, whatever word that will be.

The familiar form of Obeisance is projected in front of him, lines of light describing her shape. Despite the magnitude of the occasion, she does not seem any different, but then he does not expect her to. Obeisance communes with The Seven daily, her life a string of abnormal events threaded together by brief periods of sleep. Their wonder is her mundanity.

‘Knight Commander.’

He salutes. ‘Obeisance.’

‘Do not look so solemn, old friend. Rejoice. For we live in glorious times. The Seven have spoken, Their light shines upon us again, and we have been chosen as the instruments of deliverance.’

‘How can I serve?’

‘You are to gather the fleet for Their pleasure and prepare Alpha’s sky palace for travel. Have them assemble on the southern coast, at Greyspot Three.’

‘If I may, Obeisance, Greyspot Three is a civilian port with a troubled history. Skylanding would much more suitable for such a historic occasion.’

She does not reply immediately and he wonders if she is considering his words or if there is interference.

‘You misunderstand, Knight Commander. You are being given an order, not a recommendation. In any case the sanctum has begun its descent, and Alpha has already taken wing. He is on His way to you as we speak. I trust everything will be ready when He arrives.’

‘He’s coming here? Now? I don’t see how –’

But her image has already winked out. Cursing, the Knight Commander blinks the flickering afterglow from his eyes and starts barking orders.

Minutes later the Knight Commander is standing at the base of the silver steps. Somewhere high above is the Sanctum of The Seven, and in the space between them, diving through the ether, is Alpha.

He has had to run to get here, and beneath his armour the Knight Commander is sweating. Behind him a row of Seraph Knights have formed up, hastily, several rows of soldiers rushing into position at their backs. He hears the last stamp of boots, the snap of people standing to attention. Then silence.

They all stand in perfect formation, watching the sky for the first sign of Alpha’s arrival.

Though his body is still, the Knight Commander’s mouth continues to move, organizing, giving orders via comms link, coordinating the fleet. To meet Alpha’s needs he has taken from all over the Empire, stripping the coast and the nearby colonies of protection.

He checks in to see if Vesper’s father, the Champion, remains in the Shining City but he has already left, on foot. The Knight Commander shakes his head at the bizarre custom. The Champion has not gone far, is only just reaching the gates but he does not call him back. This is to be a historic moment, and he has no wish to share it.

With magnification from his visor, he makes out a speck directly above, growing quickly, and his heart starts to pump faster. Despite the fact he is standing still, he continues to sweat.

In the scant time that remains the Knight Commander considers what kind of greeting would be appropriate, and how best he can appear both humble and strong at the same time.

Meanwhile, Alpha continues to dive.

Thoughts flicker, disjointed, through the Knight Commander’s mind.

Perhaps I should have summoned Alpha’s sky palace here instead of sending it to Greyspot Three.

Would it be better to sing in honour of Alpha’s arrival or remain silent?

Is it odd that I have not called the citizens here to greet Him? Surely it is better to have a small, perfectly formed greeting, than a great, ugly one. There were too many to organize in the time. This is better. I’m sure this is better.

A song would be more appropriate, I think. Yes, a song would be best, and I should lead it. The image of him singing, his knights a supporting chorus, is pleasing. It seems right. But which song? He wonders.

Alpha is close now, wings drawn tight to his sides. The Knight Commander takes a breath, still unsure which note to begin with.

He’s coming in awfully fast. A nagging sensation begins to build in the Knight Commander’s stomach, a sense that something is wrong. He’s not going to stop. He’s going to crash into us. Is this some kind of test? A test of our resolve?

He can almost hear Obeisance admonishing him for trying to predict the actions of The Seven. If Alpha were a sky-ship or even a bird, then perhaps there would be a danger of him not slowing down in time. He is far beyond either of those things, far beyond anything the Knight Commander can imagine. Shaking the doubt from his mind, letting the awe grow within him, the Knight Commander begins to sing.

Flawlessly, as if rehearsed, the knights join in.

Alpha continues to dive, to accelerate.

He’s not going to stop! He’s not going to stop!

Ignoring the growing terror, the Knight Commander continues to sing, clinging to his faith.

And at the last, Alpha’s silver wings unfurl, and he moves from dive to glide, cutting over their heads, cutting through their song, silencing, and carrying on, leaving the Knight Commander and his followers behind.

On instinct, they have all turned to watch the immortal’s progress, a line of confused faces.

‘Sir?’ asks one of the knights, an irritating quake in her voice. ‘What does this mean, sir?’

A good question, he thinks. What does it mean? ‘Get me airborne!’ he shouts. ‘Where He goes, we follow.’

The journey to the landing pillar takes too long. The capsules that spirit them up to the pillar’s top take too long. The Knight Commander can feel Alpha moving further and further away. He berates himself for not having predicted this. What a fool he was to imagine that The Seven would care for welcomes or parades. They are above such things. Alpha must have come ahead of his brothers and sisters for a reason, to do something glorious for the good of the Empire. And while the Knight Commander cannot guess what that is, he is determined to be a part of it.

Only a handful of Seraph Knights fit into the hold of the sky-ship with him, the rest forced into land vehicles.

They race south, over neatly ordered hillsides and lines of trees, tall and straight, that look like points on a grid when viewed from above.

Reports of Alpha’s progress come in fits and starts. Brief sightings reported in terms of wonder directly into the Knight Commander’s ear. The immortal is flying in a straight line, but when his course is plotted on a map, the Knight Commander is surprised to find it is not taking them directly to Greyspot Three.

A call comes through from one of his soldiers. ‘Report.’

‘He’s here, sir. I can see Him!’

The Knight Commander confirms the soldier’s location. A small village known as Diligence to its inhabitants. There is little to recommend it. In fact the place is not connected to any major settlements, forcing traders to walk hard paths to get there. A backwater, mostly forgotten.

Could Alpha remember it as something more? Is this a site of significance that we have unwittingly neglected?

He turns his attention back to the soldier. ‘What is Alpha doing now?’

‘Circling, sir.’

‘Just circling?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then hold your position. We’ll be there shortly. Keep me informed if there are any changes.’

‘He’s seen something, sir. He’s … diving.’

The soldier sets a flare off from his position, and the sky-ship zooms in on it. Diligence is a grim and rocky place. The power stations and main gathering areas are built under the earth, along with half of the housing, but it has grown over the years, simple extensions jutting directly from the walls. None of these extensions appear to be to standard and the number of them indicates a much higher population than is currently registered.

Even without the flare to guide them in, it is easy to see where Alpha has landed. A circle of charred grass surrounds a new hole in the ground, a new entrance to Diligence’s underground network of tunnels.

They set down, leaping from the hatch the moment the sky-ship has settled, and rush toward the hole. The footing is unsteady near the edge, and more than one knight wobbles, graceless, as they try to stay upright.

Around them the air feels charged and angry, making it hard to breathe.

Suddenly nervous of what he will see, the Knight Com-mander peers over the edge. Below he sees Alpha of The Seven, his sword drawn, shimmering as the echoes of song slowly fade.

At the immortal’s silver feet is a smear of ash, making the loose shape of a body.

Alpha holds up his other hand. In it is a visor, black, featureless. The Knight Commander has seen pictures of it before. It is the kind of armour preferred by the First, largest and most powerful of the remaining infernals.

He finds his eyes drawn to Alpha’s. Their blue is like a second sky, a better horizon. When Alpha speaks, each word strikes deep, a hammer to his chest.

‘Diligence is tainted.’

‘We will evacuate the town at once, destroy it, cleanse the ground, and send the inhabitants to the purging centres.’

The visor crumples in Alpha’s fist. ‘Destroy, yes. Cleanse, yes. But send none away.’

The Knight Commander swallows at the thought. He has just looked at the population figures for Diligence. They number in the hundreds and are likely conservative. Surely the majority are in ignorance? Surely it is only a few that have been colluding with the First?

Even as he thinks this, he is drawing his sword. His knights have already done so. Anything else would be an act of defiance.

There is no further reflection. The Seraph Knights begin to sing, their swords flaring to life, and Diligence begins to burn.

Vesper’s father nods to the soldiers as he makes the long walk out of the city. An endless cycle of salutes and responses, nods and smiles, polite. They have become especially sharp of late, exhausting in their exactitude.

His lips move as he walks, silently counting steps until he is well beyond the outer boundary. Then he stops, pulling eagerly at his collar, loosening the straps on his armour.

A deep breath and a long sigh follow as his body settles, changing posture, relaxing.

The next part of the walk is taken at a more leisurely pace, thoughts of the day playing across his face in a series of frowns, raised eyebrows and the occasional smile.

Many times, the Knight Commander has offered him a room at the city or transportation home, and he has refused them. The Knight Commander doesn’t understand why but tolerates the decision out of respect for past deeds and honours.

Vesper’s father slows, stops. He glances over his shoulder but nothing is there. Then, gradually, as if lifted by an invisible hand, his head tilts towards the sky.

He lifts a hand to shield his eyes, squinting against the light of the evening suns. A shape is just discernible, des-cending, distant, yet getting closer. A cube.

The sanctum of The Seven returns.

There is something different about the way it comes down compared to its ascent. Not faster but more purposeful.

He stares at it, face darkening despite the glare.

Because of this, it takes him far longer to notice the movement at ground level. From the Shining City comes another shape. A snake of metal, mechanized, a machine of war to carry Seraph Knights and soldiers. Caterpillar tracks pull it swiftly across the countryside, towards him. Towards his home.

He stops staring, turns, and runs.

A few miles away Jem stands on a hill holding a battered scope to his eye. Through it he sees high platinum pillars capped in green, gardens decorating their sides in leafy spirals. These pillars visibly mark the Shining City’s border. Another border, invisible, runs along their perimeter, a fizzing screen of energy to keep the infernal at bay. Jem cares little for the screen or the pillars, his interests lie deeper. But his attempt to find the sanctum of The Seven is doomed to failure. Even at full magnification it is nothing more than a vague shimmering.

He begins to wander down the hill, leaving Harm and Reela at the house. Twice he stumbles on uneven ground, his attention kept on the air.

Finally, the cube comes into focus, and something else. At first he thinks it is a bird, but it is too close to the Sanctum for that to be true. And it is the wrong shape, far larger than any of the wildlife at this end of the world.

One of The Seven has left the Sanctum.

It is flying towards him.

Directly beneath it, keeping pace, is a metal snake. At this distance it seems to slide over the hills like a boat riding waves.

Jem nearly drops the scope. Fear grips him, an old friend embracing hard. He has but seconds to act. If they have not seen him already, it is only a matter of time. He looks back to the house, thinks of Harm, of Reela. The fear grips tighter. There is nothing he can do. If they see him, they will judge and find him wanting. If they see Reela – he shakes his head, cutting off the thought.

Fear leaves no time for deliberation. Keeping low, moving between the hills, he makes for a destination. Not towards the Shining City and the approaching forces, not towards home, but away, to a hiding place where the trees grow wild. From there he watches, shivering among the leaves.

His daughter is in danger. She needs him! An impulse to go to her is checked by an older, more cynical one. He cannot get to her in time and any act of heroism on his part would be suicide. What could one man hope to do against an immortal and the armed might of the Empire?

Nothing.

He has stood up before, for his mother, and paid for it in years. The memories are knife sharp, cutting still. Jem has learned from past mistakes, been shaped by them.

But Reela needs him!

He shakes his head, knowing that he cannot go to her, hating himself for it. Better to wait, to choose the right time. And if that time does not come, better to live. He repeats the words a second time, silent, bitter, and forces himself to swallow them.

On silvered wings, Delta of The Seven soars. It has been a long time since she has flown, too long.

Behind her, mirror-like, is her brother, Alpha. He flies away from her towards the coast, in search of other prey.

Orders have been given, the worthy have been mobilized. Soon, the purge will begin. The thought of it weighs heavy in Delta’s mind. For it is their failure as much as their people’s.

She does not disagree with Alpha’s plans. He is the first of them, the strongest, and she admires his purpose. And yet … she wishes there was some other way to restore the creator’s perfect vision.

Though she is awake and active once more, the weariness remains, and a sadness, deep, that she carried even in the earliest days.

A dwelling comes into view. Two houses, ugly, messy shapes. The sight displeases her. Why would the remnant of her sister choose to be here rather than at their side?

She comes down to land, feet making gentle contact with the earth, wings folding behind her like a cloak.

Unmoved by what she sees, yet curious to find its hidden appeal, she looks around while her knights catch up, the hissing of the snake that bears them half a mile distant.

The smaller house has no door. She approaches to find it is a home for animals, nothing more. Despite the space, only one ancient goat seems to dwell here.

Irritated by the disturbance, the goat looks at Delta.

With eyes like bleak winter clouds, Delta looks at the goat. She sees fading strength and many flaws, but all are natural. No taint clings to the creature. It is not the source of wrongness that she senses hidden close by.

She moves away, towards the main house.

Behind her, the goat snorts, derisive.

She ignores it, drawn by lingering echoes of her sister’s essence. Metal fingers brush an uneven wall. Once, Gamma’s sword rested here. She feels a faint sense of contentment, of peace.

Greedily, she lets the experience wash over her. All too soon it is over. And it is not enough.

She moves to the door and opens it.

Running footsteps approach and a voice, loud, high pitched. ‘I’m bitey goat! Baaa! Baaa! Bite! Bite!’

A girl comes into view. Unruly, messy, tainted.

Delta’s hand moves to the living sword at her side, grasping the hilt.

The girl sees her in the doorway, skids to a stop, her babbling voice cutting off in shock.

Delta finds her sword, herself, reluctant. She cannot imagine Gamma permitting this tainted thing to exist. It makes no sense to her.

The girl finds her voice and starts to scream.

A man walks slowly over to her, his voice soft, soothing. ‘It’s alright, Reela, it’s alright. I’m here now.’ He keeps one hand lightly on the wall, letting it guide him to the weeping girl.

Through Delta’s eyes his essence is scarred. Hints of taint remain at the edges, a sign of something far worse that has been burned away, something centred where his eyes once were.

He pauses, head tilting in her direction. ‘Hello? Hello? Is someone there?’

Delta does not answer, her hand makes a fist around the hilt of her sword. Gamma spurned our love, for this?

‘I know you’re there. What do you want?’

Shaking her head, Delta turns away.

The metal snake comes to a sliding stop nearby, disgorging knights from its open mouth. They kneel before her, waiting for her to pass before carrying out their orders. She has seen nothing to make her interfere with them.

As the knights advance on the house, she sinks to her knees, dragged down by misery.

Raised voices soon reach her.

‘I will not stand aside! And I will not leave my home! I took your trials years ago and I passed them. I earned my right to be here.’

The knight’s reply is amplified by his helmet. ‘This house is tainted. It will be purged. If you do not leave, you will be purged with it.’

‘Contact the Bearer, she will not stand for this!’

‘The Bearer serves The Seven in all things. Our orders come direct from Them. Strip off your clothes, step away from the house and report for re-purging immediately.’

‘Just contact her, please.’

‘You have sixty seconds to get out of our way.’

‘Don’t do something you’ll regret.’

Delta listens despite herself.

‘You have fifty seconds, failure to obey will be seen as rebellion.’

‘I will not leave. If you’re going to hurt an innocent girl you’ll have to go through me.’

‘Thirty seconds.’

‘Wait!’

‘Twenty seconds.’

The knights charge their lances.

‘Ten seconds.’

A tear of liquid stone rolls down Delta’s cheek.

Flames dance, reflected in amber eyes that widen, horrified. He slows on the hillside, taking it in. When he sees Harm’s charred body in the doorway, he stops completely. Tears well, falling fat and fast down creased cheeks. One hand claws at his chest, stricken. No sound comes from his mouth but it twists open, grief shaped.

His home has become a pyre. Those he loves, ashes. Himself, a vagrant again.

But above the crackle of fire, almost buried, there is a sound, a voice, familiar, wailing.

Teeth bare, fists clench, and he is running again, past the kneeling winged figure, past the circle of knights with lances, spewing fire. They call out a warning, too late, too surprised to intercept him.

He veers from the front of the house where the heat is strongest, diving in through a side window. Shoddy joinery is, for once, an asset, his body punching the whole plasglass sheet from its frame.

With a heavy thump, he lands. Smoke already clouds the room, making the space strange. The Vagrant keeps low, covers his mouth and moves forward.

Heat buffets from all sides, pressing on exposed flesh, making breath painful.

The Vagrant pauses, enduring discomfort to listen.

Like a siren, the voice comes from the kitchen. He follows until he crouches by the dining table. Ducking under, he comes face to face with Reela.

She stares at him, howling, incoherent, snot bubbling from nostrils to mix with tears and soot.

The Vagrant lifts a finger, puts it to his lips.

Still sniffling, she copies the gesture.

The Vagrant nods, then looks round, squinting against the smoke until he finds what he is looking for. Leaving Reela where she is, he pulls his old coat from its hook and moves to a tank of water. Coughing now, he kicks the tank, then kicks again, and again, until it splits open. As the water gushes out he holds his coat underneath, turning it, soaking it, before rushing back to Reela’s cowering form.

It is harder to see her, the smoke encroaching ever lower. She has not moved, her finger still pressed, firm but shaking, to her lips.

He reaches under, grabs her arm and drags her to his side. Desperate, she flails, trying to cling to him, but before she can get a grip, he sweeps the sodden coat over her head, bundling her up.

Reela gasps but does not cry out.

Lifting the bundle in his arms, the Vagrant runs for the nearest window. He can no longer see it, the smoke forcing him to navigate by memory alone.

His recollection is off by an inch, and he jars painfully against the wall before diving out, through fire, through cracked plasglass that shatters, rolling smoking into the last of the evening light.

For a moment he crouches on the grass, breathing heavy. His armour is blackened but not broken, steaming but not alight.

Parting the coat, he checks that Reela still breathes. She does, in ragged gulps. Picking her up again, the Vagrant starts to run.

The Seraph Knights surrounding the house see him. Commands are relayed from chip to chip, the ones furthest away running over, the others closing ranks to cut off escape. The nearest knight steps into his path. ‘We have no quarrel with you, Champion! Drop the – uhnn!’

The Vagrant’s elbow connects with the knight’s helm and, as the woman staggers back, the Vagrant takes stock. There is nowhere to run, no allies to turn to.

He runs anyway.

The knights raise their lances and a gout of fire shoots out to his right, turning him left, then another comes from his left, trying to pin him.

Ducking his head, raising an arm, he goes under it, mostly. Ignoring the way his backplate sizzles, the Vagrant presses on until he reaches the kneeling figure of Delta.

This close to one of The Seven, the knights do not dare to fire. They put their lances away, and draw their singing swords.

The air trembles with sudden song and Reela flinches in the Vagrant’s arms, stung by the sound.

As the knights move into a circular formation, the Vagrant looks down at Delta on her knees. She seems oblivious, a line of stone drying on her face.

He swings Reela under his arm and reaches down, carefully.

‘Step away!’ orders one of the knights. ‘It is a sin to touch Her!’

When it is clear the Vagrant is ignoring them, one of the knights closes in, sword raised.

He grits his teeth, takes the hilt of Delta’s sword.

Nothing. No pain, no reaction.

He pulls Delta’s sword free, swinging it up and out, opening his mouth to direct its power.

The knights pause, the nearest one stepping back in shock.

Unlike their swords however, Delta’s doesn’t sing. Silver wings wrap tight around its eye and the weapon feels heavy in his hand, dull.

Quickly, the knight recovers himself and moves to attack.

The Vagrant frowns, glares at the sword, then shakes it hard. In answer, the wings tighten even more.

There is no more time, he parries the first attack, then the second, each blow jarring his arm. Only the proximity of Delta holds the other knights at bay. They are painfully careful, terrified of bringing harm to their beloved immortal.

One of the knights keeps the Vagrant occupied while the others move in behind, advancing together.

He glances over his shoulder at them, barely making the next parry. Forced down to one knee by the impact, Reela slips from his grasp, rolling away.

The knight he has been fighting steps back, raising his sword over Reela’s body. The others are now behind him, ready.

‘Surrender, Champion. This is your last chance.’

The Vagrant grips the sword in both hands and points the tip at Delta’s neck.

There is a pause. Such blasphemy has never even been considered before. A whispered conference is had within the knights’ helmets. Would he dare? Could he do Delta actual harm? There is no precedent, no protocol to follow.

The Vagrant makes eye contact with Reela, beckoning her with a twitch of his head.

Without a sound, the girl stands up.

Dumbstruck, the knights watch her as she walks past them, dragging the old coat like a blanket behind her.

When she reaches the Vagrant, Reela wraps herself around his leg.

There is a pause. The knights dare not attack, dare not report what is happening. Too afraid to act, they become spectators to a tale of horror, unfurling slowly in directions they cannot fathom.

The Vagrant touches the point of the sword to Delta’s throat.

There is an audible clink, then he lifts the sword under her chin, levering her to her feet.

Two of the knights cover their eyes, five others begin to recite the litany of the Winged Eye.

Silvered wings spring open on the sword’s crosspiece, alarmed, and an eye opens wide in surprise.

At the same moment, Delta’s eyes open, locking with the Vagrant’s, forcing him to look up.

Softly, Delta begins to hum. Her sword takes up the tune. The Vagrant finds his hands starting to shake. Muscles lock all over his body, trembling in time with Delta’s melody. Stiffly, against his will, he rises on tiptoe.

Delta raises her hand and the Vagrant’s mouth opens. She reaches inside, fingers finding the old scars there. As if reading music, her song changes as she traces the lines, learning their history and that of the man marked by them. Her voice and her sword’s fall to disharmony, becoming a thing of grief and pain. The air around them darkens, tints blue. Briefly, it threatens to spark, then dies down, the hand leaving, and Delta covers her eyes, her song little more than a moan.

Released, the Vagrant slumps down, clutching at his throat.

After a few moments, his vision comes into focus again. He sees Reela looking up at him, afraid and hopeful. She clings to his leg, a dark-haired barnacle.

He blinks at her, then nods, reassuring.

Switching to a one-handed grip, he takes Delta by the arm and starts to walk. Delta does not resist, allowing herself to be dragged alongside him.

The Vagrant moves with an exaggerated limp, Reela still firmly attached to his leg. In other places, the image would be comical but the knights see nothing funny in it. They give ground to him, and when he points for them to step aside with Delta’s sword, they comply.

Delta is manoeuvred into the metal snake. The driver is pulled out. Reela is unpeeled and belted into one of the chairs in the snake’s head. The Vagrant sits in the other. He looks at the controls, frowns.

A button is pressed, a stick twisted. Nothing happens. More options are exhausted, manipulations becoming increasingly forceful until, at last, the hissing of the engines grows in volume and the snake turns away from the burning house and the staring knights, making towards the coast.




One Thousand and Fifty-TwoYears Ago (#ued3c2f49-a49e-5f4c-9269-37c145dae5c1)


The Empire of the Winged Eye holds power, undisputed. A great engine made of millions of people, machines and essence-fuelled weapons. Its purpose is simple: protect the world from infernal threat.

The Empire stands ready to do its duty. Spheres of metal orbit the globe watching for trouble, and the Lenses, the Empire’s watchers, have agents on land and sea, ever vigilant. Legions of knights train daily, keeping senses and swords sharp. Harmonized humans, their souls linked to better withstand infernal possession, train with them as living shields. Armies of soldiers march with essence guns and launchers, keeping constant patrols on the Breach.

There is but one problem.

The Breach has not yet opened.

Massassi, who alone was able to perceive the threat, created the Empire of the Winged Eye in answer to the coming invasion. But she was born too early, has readied humanity too soon.

While her loyal servants keep watch, other voices whisper dissent in the shadows. They question the reality of the threat and if the huge resources required to maintain the military could be better spent in other ways.

She knows that none will dare oppose her now, but after she is gone is another matter. And Massassi already feels her years of struggle, feels each weary pump of her scarred heart.

Despite her godlike power, she is getting old. She will be dead, the skin rotted from her bones, long before the infernals find their way into her reality.

But she is as much a mechanic as a deity. The Empire is simply a complex solution to a complex problem. She has already modified it many times as new data came to her. This is no different. As the problem evolves, so too must her creation. Only politicians and idiots ever think that things are finished or perfect. Massassi is neither.

Leaving the world in the hands of her commanders she returns to her workshop, one last project in mind.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_bfb02323-6040-530e-8a49-b0348ea6854e)


A metal snake moves effortlessly over hills, matching their undulations. Inside the head, the Vagrant works the controls. Anger manifests in his gestures, making course corrections sharp.

He looks over his shoulder often but Delta of The Seven remains folded in the space behind them, a placid statue. Her sword is on the floor by the Vagrant’s side. It too, has gone quiet again, its eye closed tight.

Reela sniffles quietly in the seat next to his. As he works, she tries to get closer to him but straps hold her tight, thwarting the effort. A hint of a storm crosses her features and she begins to wail.

The Vagrant glances over, touching a finger to his lips.

Reela copies him.

Her stormy expression abates and he goes back to managing the vehicle. Calmer now, she attends to the Vagrant. She positions her left hand like his, her fingers hovering over imaginary buttons. With her right, she mimes holding the control stick. She straightens her back, raises her chin, and after another glance at his face, adds a frown.

When the Vagrant looks through the viewing screen, staring intently, she leans forward to do the same. When, briefly, he presses his fist to his forehead, the frustration is mirrored in miniature.

The Vagrant does not notice.

Gradually, the hills flatten out and the snake winds its way over flatlands and between trees planted in orderly rows, wide spaced, with branches that only start high up, shade-making and unobtrusive.

There is a scratching sound from behind the head of the snake.

Instantly, the Vagrant tenses. He releases the straps that hold him then turns, one hand still on the controls, the other reaching down for Delta’s sword.

Reela’s eyes light up with new knowledge. She presses the central buckle where the straps cross over her chest but nothing happens. She presses it again, using two fingers, then again with her fist. With a soft click, the straps spring apart.

The scratching sounds again. It is close, coming from the other side of the metal that separates the head section from the body of the snake.

The Vagrant raises Delta’s sword, his eyes flicking between where Delta sits and the intruder’s location.

There is a click, then a soft exhalation of machinery, and the panel slides back to reveal Jem. He has mud on his face and in his hair but appears untouched by sword or flame.

‘It’s me! It’s just me! I was out tending the goats when the knights came. By the time I got here it was … too late. I managed to climb in the back while they were all distracted with you.’

The Vagrant stares at him for a moment, then places Delta’s sword back on the floor.

Jem’s face splits in a relieved smile. ‘Reela! You’re alive. Thank—’ he notices Delta, springs back against the wall. His voice is much softer when he speaks again. ‘Is that …?’

The Vagrant nods.

A moment later, Reela nods.

‘But you can’t just take Her! What are you thinking?’

The Vagrant shrugs.

Reela shrugs.

‘What are we going to do?’

The Vagrant holds up a hand. Jem’s face sours as Reela does the same. Before he can comment however, something over the Vagrant’s shoulder, on the other side of the viewing screen, grabs his attention. ‘Look out!’

The Vagrant whirls back to the controls to see they are heading directly towards one of the great pillars. Proximity alerts rapidly ramp up in volume, streams of numbers representing distance and time to impact appear on the view screen, flashing to show their urgency. He jerks the controls, throwing the snake to the right and everyone inside the cockpit to the left.

Only Delta does not move, her serenity untouched. Jem is thrown into the opposite wall, Reela and the Vagrant hurled from their seats.

A musical array of flesh smacking against hard surfaces follows.

While the humans recover, the metal snake continues to veer to the right, until it catches sight of its own tail, making circles of muddy brown in the grass beneath its tracks.

The Vagrant hauls himself back onto his chair, one hand pressing against the new bump on his skull, the other taking the control stick, pointing the snake forward once more.

Jem also gets up, going to where Reela curls on the floor. ‘It’s alright,’ he says, gathering her into his arms. ‘It’s alright. Ohh, you poor thing.’

She begins to cry and Jem holds her tighter. ‘Are you hurt? Does it hurt anywhere?’

Reela blinks, looks over to where the Vagrant is, then takes a deep breath. She squeezes her face, squishing the tear on her cheek and forcing down the other ones.

‘Reela?’ Jem asks. ‘Are you okay?’

She nods.

‘Does it hurt anywhere?’

She shakes her head and Jem moves her over to the empty chair. As he fixes Reela into place, he glances at the Vagrant, mutters, ‘She should have been strapped in.’

The Vagrant’s mouth opens in protest but he says nothing.

The snake travels on, its eyes lighting the dark ahead. On the viewing screen, green lines fill in details for frail human eyes. The gradations in the landscape, the outline of trees and, on the horizon, the line where the sea begins.

Unlike the vast majority of the citizens of the Empire of the Winged Eye, no one in the cockpit is in possession of a working chip. The Vagrant has never had one, neither has Reela. Jem does have one but it is poorly made, a cheap replica of those in the Shining City. It malfunctioned years ago. Now it is a purposeless lump, a little bit of junk in his brain. Because of this, none of them hears the broadcast.

Delta does. She does not need a chip to translate the sounds for her. She hears all, understands all. Her head tilts to one side, her mouth opens, ‘Obeisance.’ Even speaking, there is resonance to her voice. It fills the cramped space, charging the air.

The humans are rendered motionless by its beauty.

Fluidly, Delta rises to her feet. ‘I am here,’ she says. ‘Exactly here.’

As if in answer, new lights flash on the viewing screen, and something ripples in the sky above, a ship dropping out of cloak.

It matches the metal snake for speed, flying directly overhead.

The Vagrant points at Jem, then towards the gun turret on top of the snake.

‘I’m not going up there! It’s suicide.’

The Vagrant points again, Reela joins him.

‘I can’t. I don’t know how.’

The Vagrant sighs, pushes the snake to go faster.

The sky-ship has no trouble adjusting its pace.

A warning flickers on the screen: there is an incoming object. Before the Vagrant can react there is a thunk of something attaching itself to the snake’s roof.

A patch as wide as an adult’s palm distorts above their heads, turning red, then white, so bright that all but Delta are forced to turn away.

When the light fades, a hole is left behind, just the right size for the sphere to drop through. It rolls a few inches until it is perfectly positioned in the centre of the space, then lasers project from every point in its surface, making grids of green fall like nets over every object in the room, mapping and highlighting all at once.

The Vagrant abandons the snake’s controls and picks up Delta’s sword. The grid over his face fades from green to red. The ones over Jem and Reela do the same, though Delta’s remains green, vibrant, safe.

The Vagrant raises Delta’s sword as squares on the grid fill with colour, specific, marking in the locations of major organs.

He tries to sing as he brings down the blade but no sound comes from his mouth and the sword does not wake. The blade makes a dull thud as it hits the sphere.

The laser grids stutter, fizz, and return to life.

At the control panel, new proximity warnings sound. Everyone ignores them.

The Vagrant hits the sphere again.

Delta’s sword wakes with a start. It tries to close its eye again but the Vagrant has other ideas. He hits the sphere, singing, and this time the sword reacts, the sound passing down the blade, shimmering as it parts the sphere neatly in two.

Instantly, the grids die out.

The Vagrant stabs a finger in Jem’s direction, then stabs it towards the controls.

‘But I …’ Jem begins, but stops as soon as he meets the Vagrant’s eyes. He moves instead to hover by the controls, ineffectual, as the Vagrant runs deeper into the snake’s belly.

The Vagrant reaches a ladder and climbs up into the turret. The plasglass dome that normally covers it is nothing more than jagged shards around the base, the guns reduced to slaggy tubes. As the Vagrant looks up and down the length of the snake, he sees plumes of smoke where the other weapons are. They have taken away the snake’s teeth.

Above him, the sky-ship descends, getting so close that the figures leaning out of hatches are easy to see as they prepare to jump.

Taking a breath to sing, the Vagrant checks on Delta’s sword. As soon as it realizes what is about to happen, the sword squeezes its eye shut. He bangs it against the side of the turret until the eye opens again, then admonishes it with a finger.

The eye in the crosspiece trembles but doesn’t close.

Again, the Vagrant takes breath, thrusting the sword straight up as he sings. Delta’s sword sings with him, and the air burns blue around it, the force of the song travelling beyond the reach of the metal, surging up until it meets one of the light drives in the sky-ship’s wing.

There is a muffled explosion, followed by a whine as the engine gives out and the sky-ship falls sharply to the left, scattering its cargo of soldiers onto the ground below. The Vagrant watches their brief fall and the individual bounces and tumbles as they land. The sky-ship only bounces once before grinding to a halt.

Satisfied, he climbs back down.

Jem is happy to relinquish the controls, moving to stand behind Reela’s chair.

The Vagrant drops Delta’s sword on the floor with a clatter, frowning at all of the new warning lights on the screen. The display on the screen is no longer augmented, forcing him to squint against the plasglass to try and penetrate the dark. With a shrug, he takes the control stick and pushes it as far forward as it can go.

Delta continues to stare at the hole in the ceiling. She speaks so softly, as to be barely audible. ‘Obeisance, where have you gone?’

The eye in her sword gives her a guilty glance before closing.

Delta’s lips move one more time, soundlessly. ‘Obeisance?’

The Knight Commander stands on the edge of the cliff, soldiers and knights forming up behind, ready. Greyspot Three spreads out below him, a ramshackle sprawl. He sees the metal walkway that leads down into the shelter of the rocks. He sees the buildings, noting again how many have been built without authorization and without reference to any guidelines. They will find more undesirables here, those that operate outside of imperial law, tainted souls, criminals, the enemy.

His head shakes, disgusted, involuntary. He had not realized how bad things had become, though he is sure the Lenses know, which means Obeisance knows. If the First dares to walk their lands, what other monstrosities might they find here? How has this been tolerated for so long? And, foremost in his mind: why didn’t she tell me?

On the edge of Greyspot Three he sees the docks, and beyond them, the Empire of the Winged Eye’s armada, gathering. Their presence forms a floating wall, cutting off escape by sea, just as he and his forces block the cliff paths, sealing the port.

Shadows fall across him and he looks up. Alpha’s sky palace has arrived. It drifts over his head, a vast battle platform defying physics, defying explanation. He does not hear the huge light engine, its thrumming at a pitch beyond mortal ears, but he feels it, the short hairs prickling on his neck and arms. He exults at its majesty, another miracle, the likes of which has not been seen since Gamma’s great exodus. Somewhere inside are Beta, Epsilon, Theta and Eta of The Seven. With them is Obeisance. Delta is conspicuous by her absence. He has heard that she is attending to some other business inland but Obeisance has been typically obscure on the matter.

Alpha is already down on street level. As the Knight Commander and his troops march down the walkway, boots clanking in synchrony, he sees the immortal moving from house to house. Seraph Knights struggle to keep up, forced to scurry to match Alpha’s giant strides.

By the time the Knight Commander has reached the base of the cliffs, he sees a number of people have been pulled from their homes, rounded up and pushed to their knees.

He raises a hand and all of his troops come to a fluid stop, their discipline impeccable. The Knight Commander feels a tiny morsel of relief. No mistake is permissible when The Seven are watching.

A single Seraph Knight hurries over and salutes.

‘Report.’

The knight points to the kneeling citizens. ‘Alpha says these ones are to be spared.’

The Knight Commander does a quick head count, his chip confirming the details as he tries to ignore their calls for help, for reassurance, for any kind of recognition. There are one hundred and thirty people here, less than one percent of Greyspot Three’s population.

‘I see.’

‘What should we do, sir?’

His voice quivers. The knight is young, barely more than a squire. He has never seen battle before, but then, neither has the Knight Commander.

‘What we always do when we receive orders: we follow them.’ He turns his head slightly, speaking to officers further away via comms. ‘Captains, have your troops form a perimeter around the port. Nothing and no one gets through, understood?’

Within his helmet, a chorus of affirmation echoes.

The knights form up with him, their lances charged, ready, their eyes on him, waiting for the order.

Doubt flickers within the Knight Commander’s chest. He wonders if they are really about to destroy an entire port. Is this some kind of test? Surely we must be able to save more than these few? Even the tainted can be purged.

Doubt turns to fear as Alpha’s gaze falls upon him. If he does not act now, and immediately, he will be judged and found wanting. Perhaps he already has been.

The Knight Commander swallows in a dry throat.

He gives the order.

The knights level their lances.

By now, the people of Greyspot Three have realized what is coming. Those with weapons ready them. Those without take cover. Despite the lack of time or cohesion, a resistance forms quickly. Houses become bunkers, windows gunnery ports. Those without conventional firearms resort to throwing whatever comes to hand.

It is a swift and spirited response.

The knights’ lances spew fire, a wave of destruction, setting buildings and people ablaze. The rebels return fire, less spirited than before.

Back and forth it goes, three times, with the resistance fading more and more. And then, Alpha sings. It is a long note, sharp, that seems to go on forever.

A migraine starts behind the Knight Commander’s eyes, the sudden pain throwing off his aim. The other knights struggle too, their sword-points lowering, wilting. While, further back, the soldiers stop firing altogether.

In one of the houses, a half-breed begins to scream. She is not tainted badly, not on the surface. But, behind her skin, the blood vibrates, burning up. Similar cries join her from scattered locations, and through it all, Alpha sustains the note.

The Knight Commander is not sure how much more he can take and he is not the target of Alpha’s song. The rebels have stopped firing now, hands too busy, covering ears or staunching blood that flows from nostrils, to handle weapons.

Three streets away, on a roof, a lone woman stands. Her clothes are well-worn, faded, but something in her posture speaks of command. Though the sound buffets her just as much as the others, she finds the strength to stand. In her hand is a Slingpistol. She points it at Alpha, putting his silver face in her sights, and fires.

A single shot, flung at a giant. For a moment all attention goes to it, soldiers and citizens alike forgetting their pain as they gape at the unlikely attack.

The Knight Commander cannot believe what he is seeing. He has time to realize that the woman’s aim is true, time to pose the question of what he would do if Alpha fell, but not time to answer it.

Set into the winged crosspiece of Alpha’s sword is an eye. It tracks the incoming projectile. The Knight Commander is not sure whether it is sword that moves arm, or arm that moves sword, but one moment, Alpha’s blade is at his side, the next it is arcing up, swatting the shot from the sky.

Alpha stops singing, and three eyes turn to the woman on the roof. As the immortal’s sword swings in her direction, the Knight Commander sees her turn, jump down, trying to put the house between them.

Alpha sings a second note, and for a moment it is too bright to see anything, the Knight Commander is forced to shield his face from a world turned searing blue. When he looks again there is no house, no woman, no resistance. Just a pile of ashes smouldering in the breeze.

Then Alpha is moving towards the next house, and the Knight Commander is shouting orders, mobilizing his forces. This time, when the soldiers and knights fire, the rebels have no answer.

Hours pass as the metal snake continues to work its way towards the coast. Despite its size, the vehicle moves swiftly. Smoke trails at sharp angles from shattered turrets, and the caterpillar tracks make short work of the uneven terrain.

Delta of The Seven blinks, returning from thoughts of the past. She has been staring at a tiny hole in the ceiling, waiting for Obeisance to come. But Obeisance has not come. Her brothers and sisters are expecting her return. Alpha will be displeased at the delay. The thought concerns Delta, for she has always tried to be in harmony with the others, prided herself on it.

She realizes that no immediate aid is coming and that she should take action herself. But what action? More information is needed.

In turn, she regards each of the people sharing the cockpit with her.

The child, Reela, sleeps badly. Straps meant for an adult ride up under her chin, digging in. Her dreams are reflected in Delta’s eyes. She is trapped in a house that burns, and visored faces stare at her through windows, blocking escape.

Studying her essence, Delta sees little to cherish, and the proximity of the taint, however slight, is unpleasant.

The smaller man, Jem, is looking at her. He is afraid. He is right to be. She sees his mind making its petty calculations, the network of small lies that permeate his being and, beneath them, a heavy sense of bitterness and regret she cannot help but feel empathy for. But more than all of this, she sees that he is tainted, spoiled by years of infernal contact.

The other man, the one that once bore Gamma’s sword, and has now dared to use hers, is not tainted. Though he is easy to read, a simple example of the species, she does not understand where he fits. Like a spare part left in the box after construction is completed. There is a temptation to keep him around, just in case, but really, there is no need for him. She lingers briefly on the freshness of the man’s grief, how it threatens to overwhelm him, the tidal surge of it held back by adrenaline, fear and the demands of the moment.

Delta knows what is expected of her. She closes her eyes, imagines Alpha giving the order. So easy is it for her to picture her brother, it is as if he were there, demanding their destruction.

Her hand opens as she turns to where her sword lies. It is next to the Vagrant’s chair, feigning sleep. It does not respond to her summons. She considers picking it up. Certainly, none of the humans present could stop her. And yet, she does not pick it up.

Even as the outrage runs through her that it has not responded, she realizes she does not want it to. Delta has always carried weariness within her and she has little spirit for fighting. She did not leave the sanctum to bloody her hands. She left it to investigate her sister, to understand why the last fragment of Gamma acts the way it does.

She tells herself that these humans are not worthy of her wrath. Tells herself that it is only a matter of time before the Empire comes to collect her, and so it is not worth the effort of leaving. She tells herself that she is choosing to wait because it suits her.

And then, because it is habit and because it is easier, she sits down and closes her eyes.

Both suns are in the sky, casting lights, sparkling, across the sea. Water dominates the view now, from the unbroken line of the horizon to the waves smacking against the shore.

Throughout the dawn and early morning, the metal snake continues its journey, tireless. Thinning smoke leaks from ravaged turrets but, despite the battering, it moves as fast as ever.

Jem comes over to stand next to the Vagrant’s chair. He glances at Reela, asleep in the straps, and lowers his voice. ‘We’re making good time.’

The Vagrant doesn’t register the words at first, his attention elsewhere, in the past, on things lost. Amber eyes focus again. He blinks away tears, nods.

‘Do you think we can get to Vesper before they do?’

The Vagrant shrugs and Jem looks past him, towards their destination.

Up ahead is a port, but not the great northern sea base that Jem expects to see. ‘I thought you’d be taking us to Skylanding.’ He leans forward, squinting, trying to recognize a landmark. ‘It’s not Northwing either. Where are we?’

The Vagrant points at the navcom, shrugs.

‘You don’t know?’ asks Jem, incredulous. The display is damaged but he is able to make out enough detail to guess. ‘It’s taking us to Greyspot Three, isn’t it? But Vesper will be going to Crucible. We should be heading to Skylanding, that’s the most direct route.’

The Vagrant gestures back to where Delta sits and shakes his head.

He imagines the kind of welcome they’d get from the Empire’s forces at Skylanding or Northwing and reconsiders. ‘Alright, you have a point, but we can’t take Reela to Greyspot Three. It’s not safe. It’s full of refugees and rejects from the Shining City. For suns’ sake, I’ve even heard rumours that the First’s nomads use it as a trading spot!’

Reela stretches, yawning, and whatever Jem is about to say is bitten back.

The Vagrant pulls gently back on the control stick and the metal snake eases to a stop. He rubs at his eyes, bloodshot, before resting his hands on the dashboard. There is a pause, long enough to take a breath, to sigh, and then he is pushing himself out of the chair.

Jem goes to unstrap Reela but finds she has already stood up, a big frown on her little face. ‘What’s wrong?’

Reela looks up at him, solemn, but says nothing.

The Vagrant collects Delta’s sword from the floor and opens the hatch. There is a hiss, and fresh air wafts into the stuffy room, enlivening.

Jem moves to his side, pulling Reela behind him. He leans in close. ‘What about Her?’

Both men look at Delta for a moment. If she is aware of their scrutiny, she gives no sign.

‘Maybe we should just leave Her here?’

The Vagrant thinks for a moment, nods, and takes a step towards Delta.

‘What are you –? Actually, I don’t want to know.’ Jem retreats towards the exit hatch. ‘Before you do anything, I’m going outside.’ He looks down, adds hastily, ‘To keep Reela safe.’

The Vagrant nods.

Jem ushers Reela out, turning briefly before following her. ‘Whatever you’re going to do, be careful.’

The Vagrant raises an eyebrow.

Alone, save for Delta, the Vagrant seems to sag, the weight of recent events folding over his shoulders like a cloak. He pinches the bridge of his nose, knuckles tired eyes and walks to where Delta sits.

Carefully, quietly, he kneels down opposite her. The top of his head barely lines up with her shoulder.

She does not stir.

With reverence, he returns her sword, leaving it at her feet. He glances up, but her eyes remain closed. Neither sword nor immortal show any sign of having noticed each other. He stands slowly, leaves quickly, and doesn’t look back.

Outside, Jem and Reela are waiting. The three of them walk towards the cliff’s edge. Up here, they are exposed, the wind knocking at them, playful, tugging hair and making speech difficult. The smoke that rises from the other side is whisked away as soon as it peeks above ground level.

The Vagrant sees the smoke and his frown burrows deeper.

‘I don’t like this,’ murmurs Jem.

They move nearer to the edge, battling the wind for balance. Jem holds one of Reela’s hands, the Vagrant holds the other.

Slowly, by inches, Greyspot Three comes into view. Houses smoulder below, glowing red, a scattered cluster of dying stars. Jem pulls out his old, battered scope. He sees details he could have done without, a high heap of bodies, stacked, blackened limbs rigid. Shattered buildings and bomb-scarred streets.

The Vagrant takes the scope, his jaw clenching as he takes in the details.

Reela’s scope is imaginary, but the grim set to her face is convincing nonetheless.

‘Oh no,’ says Jem, tapping the Vagrant’s shoulder.

He looks over and Jem points, back to the metal snake. ‘Look!’

Delta of The Seven stands between them and the vehicle. She is watching them, her expression unreadable. One of her silvered hands rests on the hilt of her sword.

‘What do we do now?’ asks Jem.

The Vagrant looks over the edge of the cliff. The walkway that leads down the rock face is mostly intact. He runs for the nearest platform, pulling Reela behind him, pulling Jem behind her.

‘But,’ Jem protests, ‘we can’t go down there!’

The Vagrant ignores him, and when Jem gives a second look over his shoulder, he sees that Delta has started to follow them, and his protests die.

Rusted walkways clank with every step. The top layer has disguised the damage further down. The side of the cliff has chunks blown out of it and there is blood caked in the lattice of metal either side of them. There are no bodies here, however. Each has already been taken, fuel for the pyres in the port below. As they pass the worst of the damage the walkway leans out, alarming. Four of the main supports have broken free of their housing, leaving power cables to hold up the structure.

The Vagrant stops.

Reela stops.

‘Go on,’ urges Jem.

The Vagrant looks down, very quickly looks up again, leaning back against the rock.

‘You know what they say, you should never look dow— Wait! Don’t you look, Reela! I said don’t look!’

The girl begins to overbalance, sliding towards the side. Tugging on an arm each, the two men pull her back. There is a long creaking sound as the cables adjust to the shifting weight.

They all freeze until it settles, clinging to the wall, to each other.

Jem is the first to move, pushing the others into action.

They work their way down, zigzagging back and forth along the rock face. About three quarters of the way, a cable twangs loose.

There is a lurch, brief and fast, then the remaining cables catch.

As the three of them ease their way along, the lean of the walkway becomes more pronounced, slowly succumbing to gravity. Like a drunkard falling over, it takes its time.

‘Run!’ shouts Jem.

And they do.

The Vagrant scoops Reela into his arms, head low as he accelerates, Jem at his heels.

Their feet hammer fast, raindrops on a rooftop, echoing loud all around them. Only two levels up now, the Vagrant’s feet start to slip, unable to cope with the acute angle of the floor; he leans back, trying to keep from falling over. Jem, unable to stop, unable to get past the slower man, shouts, ‘Come on—’

Rock groans, final cables come loose. The entire walkway falls away from the cliff, bellyflopping into dirty sand and stone.

The three inside it slam together against the mesh wall, then bounce, to fall again, a tangled heap of arms and legs.

For a while, all is still.

Reela sits up, her younger body managing the impact better than the adults. She holds up a hand and inspects it. The crisscross imprint of the walkway runs up her palm and the outside of her little finger. There is blood where a nail has been torn. At the sight of it she starts to shake. A bottom lip falls from formation, trembles.

Jem springs up, suddenly alert. He presses his face against the mesh trying to see through it, then turns back to the others. ‘Is everyone alright?’

With a sigh, the Vagrant levers himself up onto one elbow.

Reela shows them her hand with a look of infinite woe.

‘Ouch,’ says Jem. ‘That looks painful.’ He goes back to the mesh. ‘I think we’re safe. I can’t see anyone else nearby.’

The Vagrant looks at her hand and, with a flourish, produces his own. Amid the calluses are new bruises, a bleeding knuckle and a thumb twice as big as its counterpart.

Reela nods, impressed. She takes a deep breath and her lip settles again.

Climbing out of the wreckage of the walkway, they see Greyspot Three from ground level. Aerial bombardment has destroyed any sense of landscaping the place might have had. Craters have given buildings new shapes, added ugly valleys. Lumps of churned earth make new hills, some of them still burn, slowly melting into puddles of slag.

It is a dead place but not everyone here is dead. Survivors sit and stand, united in shock, blending with the debris. They barely notice the newcomers, barely even notice their surroundings.

Jem does. He picks up on glints in the rubble, moving from one to the other, searching for treasures amidst the chaos. He finds a few coins, one of them platinum, precious, and a bonding gun with half a cartridge still intact.

While he does this, the Vagrant looks back up to the top of the cliff. Sunslight glints off a silver figure as she steps off the edge. Wings open, dazzling, turning a fall into a dive, then a glide as she swoops low over the ground, heading straight towards them.

The sight of her returns the survivors to life. As one they scream, scattering in all directions.

Jem, Reela and the Vagrant run too, but do not get far before her shadows rush overhead. The three come to a stop as Delta lands in front of them. She looks from left to right, her eyes bleak as she surveys the wreckage, before coming to rest on a nearby corpse pile.

Jem starts to edge away but the Vagrant takes his arm, gripping tight. He drops slowly to one knee, pulling the other two with him.

Delta pulls out a body from the pile. The arms are asymmetrical, one thicker and longer than the other. She pulls out a skull, ordinary, small, and raises it in the palm of her hand. ‘How has it come to this?’

The question is rhetorical but the Vagrant stands, drawing her gaze. He points out to sea, and when she looks, she sees a set of receding specks riding distant waves. A fleet bearing the symbol of the Winged Eye. Above them, ponderous, floats Alpha’s sky palace.

Delta closes her eyes.




One Thousand and Fifty-One Years Ago (#ulink_64560bbd-5af4-56af-9371-039b3ef79e26)


Massassi makes the final adjustments to the metal by hand. Somehow, this feels appropriate, as this is to be the most personal of her creations.

The work is a slow race. It does not matter if she finishes today or tomorrow, in a year or three years. The Breach is quiet and her empire is stable. The threat here is internal rather than external: Massassi is racing her own degeneration.

For some, this would lead to depression or collapse but for Massassi it is a spur. There is a clearly defined challenge and a theory on how to meet it. She’ll be damned if something irrelevant like her physical body is going to get in the way.

The main shell that she works on has already been shaped by powerful machines. The form of a man cast in metal. She knows people respond instinctively to height and so she has made him taller than any normal human, imposing, authoritative. The kind of shape that demands obedience.

Broad shoulders are added, and the suggestion of curves, muscular. Such things are unnecessary and bear no relation to her creation’s actual ability, but she is making a symbol as much as a tool, one that should inspire confidence.

She works long hours, finding hidden reserves of energy now that she has removed herself from the demands of politics and rulership.

As she hammers and smooths, a face begins to take shape beneath her tools. A strong face, proud, regal. It is only when she is finished that she sees the amalgam of her past in there. Features of her supervisor blend with Insa’s, which in turn blend with the Neuromaster she met decades ago, and with the first man sent to kill her when she was still a child. A disparate group to draw upon but all were confident in their abilities, many of them opposing her, and all were bent to her will.

Standing back to look at the shell, she cannot escape the sense that something is missing. It is not enough that the chosen form be large, impressive. She needs it to be bigger than humanity, something to stand above, to provoke wonder.

Then it comes to her: Wings. She will give her creation wings. She intends to instil many qualities and gifts, practical, important, why not add something for fun? A rare smile finds its way to her face as she begins the modifications.

One change soon leads to another, a whole set of new challenges presenting themselves: the need for aerodynamics and the practicalities of functional wings on a humanoid shape.

Good, she thinks. Her life has been one long series of challenges. Why change things now?

Time passes in a blur of thinking, designing, working and sweating, cursing and smiling.

As the shell nears completion, Massassi starts work on its weapon. She has made swords before for her Seraph Knights. Each carries a tiny fraction of her essence, activated through song. She has kept them simple, limited in scope by the skill of the users. No such limits apply here. She intends to make something with its own consciousness. Part ally, part extension, a connected but separate entity.

Metal is folded in on itself, again and again, the edge honed to cut, the blade tuned to focus and discharge essence.

She gives the sword an eye, setting it into the winged crosspiece. Her idea is that the connection will run both ways, allowing the sword to inform its wielder of new developments on the battlefield and, if necessary, guide their arm in combat.

The empty sword is placed in an empty hand, lifeless fingers curled around the hilt.

When all is ready, she climbs onto the scaffolding and raises her metal arm. The iris in her palm opens, and she places her hand over her creation’s eyes.

Drawing deep, Massassi directs her will. Her aim is perfection, a being that will have no equal, that will have the power to do whatever is necessary. Essence surges from her, infusing the shell with light, with life. Some of this plays through its arm, flowing into the sword and back again. Like a child in the womb, the shell draws sustenance from Massassi, taking on aspects of her nature. She tries to hold back the regrets and the doubts, projecting only the strongest parts of herself.

The essence within the shell takes shape, harnessed through lenses and cables, flowing like water through internal channels. It finds its own rhythm, becomes self-sustaining.

Massassi releases her hold, falls hard against the scaffolding. All of the late nights, the long hours catch up with her in a rush. Bones suddenly feel their age and it is all she can do to wheeze, more human sack than godlike empress.

As she exhales, the figure in front of her inhales and the air crackles with energy. Three eyes open together and Alpha is born.

A silver hand reaches down, offering its support to Massassi. She has never accepted anyone’s help before but without hesitation she takes it, is lifted gently to her feet.

For the first time, she is not alone.

Looking up, she sees eyes of clearest blue, like the sky on a perfect flying day. They gaze at her in wonder, full of love.

She checks Alpha for cracks, faults and essence leaks, finds none. ‘You’ll do,’ she says.

Alpha’s chest swells, picking up on buried praise. He speaks and his words reverberate through the workshop, making metal chime and blood sing. ‘I am ready, creator. Shall we begin?’

‘Oh yes,’ she replies, ‘you’ll do nicely.’




CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_9726a7de-e893-5e0e-84ad-2cf2958461c0)


The Commander’s Rest skims across the sea, trailing a tail of light. Vesper’s special unit of knights, the Order of Broken Blades, pack the space above and below deck. They have seen much over the years, endured much, and now they are bonded by experience and respect. Though old prejudice runs deep, their time with Vesper has stretched their minds somewhat, enabling a grudging acceptance of the ship’s pilot.

Samael is at the wheel. Like the other knights he wears armour but his is a battered collection scavenged from an old battlefield. A mish-mash of pieces, a mess, functional. Entirely appropriate. For Samael is a half-breed, unique, changed late in life, his human essence mixed with that of the Knights of Jade and Ash’s commander. Once a great man, the commander was corrupted, his soul near burned away by a fragment of infernal essence, making him a slave. And like many who have suffered, he passed this suffering on, binding Samael to his will.

And Samael served, mindless, until the commander was destroyed. Since then he has wandered, sometimes serving others, sometimes himself. Now he serves Vesper, and for the moment this pleases him.

A descendant of the Usurper itself, Samael has little love for infernals, save for the one joined to him by an essence thread. Invisible to most, this thread connects him to a Dogspawn, red-furred and mangy, one ear torn off in its prime. The Dogspawn goes by the name of Scout and one of Samael’s eyes is in its skull, just as one of its eyes is in Samael’s. The exchange of eyes is a bond, permanent, allowing them to share vision and sensation.

At this moment Samael is aware of his hands at the controls of TheCommander’s Rest, but he is also aware of Vesper’s hand scratching a spot on the back of his neck, and a tummy that needs feeding.

Vesper stands at the prow, the wind making streamers of her hair. Scout sits next to her on one side, the buck on the other. All three seem to take equal pleasure from the feel of the breeze on their faces.

She raises an eyebrow as Samael joins them. ‘Not like you to step away from the controls.’

‘No,’ he replies, his voice dry, cracked, like a man in need of water. ‘But we are here.’

Vesper looks over her shoulder, sees the light drive powering down, feels The Commander’s Rest slowing to a gentle drift. Frowning, she turns on the spot, searching the horizon until she has gone full circle. ‘Are you sure? It’s kind of quiet.’

‘These are the coordinates. Do you think the First is going to come?’

‘Why bother to go to all this trouble and then not show up?’

Samael makes a dry rasping sound. ‘Lots of reasons. To draw you away from the Empire so that it might strike elsewhere. Or to attack you in a place where you cannot bring the Malice to bear.’

‘Well, when you put it that way …’

Scout whines softly and Vesper looks down. ‘What is it?’

‘He was enjoying your attention,’ replies Samael, ‘and that itch still isn’t quite satisfied.’

‘Sorry, Scout,’ she says, resuming her grooming duties. ‘The thing is, I know the First has every reason to want me dead. My knights aren’t exactly pleased about the situation, and if the people back home knew I was out here,’ she shakes her head, ‘I’d never hear the end of it.’

‘They don’t know?’

‘Well, they know the broad strokes. I’ve told them I want to make a lasting peace and that we need to think differently about infernals.’

‘But you haven’t mentioned the First by name?’

‘No. I don’t think Obeisance, or the people of the Shining City,’ she grimaces, ‘or my father are ready for it.’

Samael nods, slowly. ‘I agree.’

‘At the moment, they can’t even imagine the changes I want to make. I’m hoping that if I can pull this off, they won’t need to. It’ll be there for everyone to see.’ She looks directly into Samael’s mismatched eyes. ‘I’m going to do this, whatever it takes.’

‘And the Malice is happy with your plans?’

Vesper touches the sword’s hilt and it hums beneath her fingertips. ‘I don’t know if the sword can ever be happy. But we’ve talked about it and we’re of a mind.’

They fall to a companionable silence. Time passes, the knights talking quietly amongst themselves, Vesper playing with Scout while the buck and Samael watch the waves.

Then, around them, the water begins to darken.

Samael looks up but there are few clouds in the sky, and none of them block the sunslight. He and Vesper move to the rail and lean over.

The shadow is beneath them, growing rapidly as it ascends. Though the taint has made denizens of the deep big enough to match what comes, it is too solid and too static for a life form. This is a ship, made in the Empire’s glory days: a Wavemaker. True to its name, it sets the water around it to motion, rocking TheCommander’s Rest. Under their feet, the deck shakes, then a dull boom sounds, and Vesper’s boots lift briefly into the air. She grips the rail tight while the knights wait, stoic, strapped into their positions.

Magnetic locks activate within the Wavemaker, attaching it to the smaller vessel. Untroubled by the extra weight, it continues to rise, until the blunt nose breaks the surface, pushing itself and the smaller ship into the air.

Foam sprays in all directions, and the rocking falls into a steady rhythm, decreasing as the two ships and the water around them settle.

A hatch opens in the Wavemaker’s side and a black-clad figure emerges, its loose robe flowing easily over fitted armour. With a single leap it sails up, twenty feet, to land on the rail, a boot either side of Vesper’s hands.

Knights detach themselves, rushing forward to support her. Samael draws his battered sword, and, at Vesper’s shoulder, an eye springs open, angry.

‘Wait!’ she shouts, holding up her hands. ‘All of you, wait! Stand down.’

Immediately, they stop, though all remain prepared. Samael’s sword returns to its sheath.

The First looks down at them. ‘I see that your natures remain … violent and I am unsurprised.’

Vesper takes a step back from the rail. ‘You haven’t changed either.’

‘This is true. I remain … reasonable.’

‘Is that why you ambushed us?’

The First raises a gauntleted hand to point at Vesper. ‘You are displaying your power. I am simply displaying mine. It interests me that you have told your followers not to attack and yet you have drawn the Malice.’

Vesper blinks, surprised to find that this is true. The sword is in her hand, humming, ready to act. She thinks quickly. ‘Not drawn in anger. The Malice is part of this discussion too.’

She closes her eyes, letting the sword show her a different vision of the First. Through its eye, she sees the infernal dwelling within the human body. Swirling essence that moves in alien ways, discomfiting. Within the strangeness lurk more recognizable emotions. Rapid fluctuations that betray anxiety, a lightening of colour one moment, perhaps curiosity, in the next a change of shade that suggests bitterness. There is no sign of aggression, at least not yet.

Opening her eyes again, Vesper beckons the First forward, inviting it on deck.

Lightly, it steps down. ‘Are you ready to begin?’

‘I am.’ She lowers the sword but does not sheath it.

‘You do not wish to discuss our … business in private? If you wish, we could return to my ship.’

‘No. We can talk freely here. My knights understand what we’re trying to do.’

The First reaches up, unclasps its featureless helmet, and removes it. A face is revealed, hard, female, the features rendered slightly odd through a lifetime of minor alterations in service to the Empire of the Winged Eye.

Vesper gasps. She knows that face. Once it belonged to two people, both called Duet. The face stirs many memories, of her betrayal of one of them, of being betrayed by the other. Ultimately, Duet was taken by the infernals, though only one of her went willingly.

At the sight, Scout throws back his head and howls.

The First studies Vesper. ‘You may be wondering why it is I chose this particular body for our meeting. There are many reasons. I wanted to remind you that people of your Empire have desired alliance with me in the past. I wanted to acknowledge the … history that exists between us.’

‘Is she still,’ Vesper waves a hand, ‘in there?’

‘No. Her body was fresh enough for me to occupy, but by the time I arrived, her essence had already dissipated.’

Vesper looks down. ‘Good.’

‘Is it? For whom is it good? Had you not interfered, the woman would have realized her dreams through me. Now she is nothing more than a memory. Look at this face and remember the past. If you do not accept my offer, only death will follow.’

The threat makes the knights tighten their grip on their weapons. Unlike the other orders of the Seraph however, these knights no longer carry singing swords, having sacrificed them long ago. As such, they pose little threat to the First.

Scout glares up at the infernal and begins to growl.

‘Stop that!’ snaps Vesper, shaking her head at Samael. The half-breed does not reply but the Dogspawn lowers its head, abashed. ‘You were saying something about an offer?’

‘Yes. I have no quarrel with your kind. Many of them live … happily in my cities. For years now, we have proven an ability to coexist. It is only your Empire that resists me. Disband it, destroy the weapons made to cause my kind suffering, and I will make peace.’

Vesper bites her lip and looks out to sea. In her hand, the sword begins to shake. ‘That’s it? That’s your offer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I agree on one thing; if we can’t negotiate, there will be war.’

‘Then let us negotiate.’

‘Alright. I don’t have any quarrel with your kind either.’ She gestures to Samael. ‘I can, how did you put it? Coexist. I’m on good terms with New Horizon, West Rift, Red Rails, Verdigris and Slake. That’s only a first step. I intend to negotiate with all of them, not as individuals, but as a collective. I want you to be part of that collective. Come south with me. Take part.’

‘I have heard of this gathering of yours.’

‘It’s no secret.’

‘These things are not mutually exclusive. If you agree to my offer, then I would come with you.’

An eye narrows and Vesper’s voice rises. ‘How can you be so blind?’ She holds up the sword and the First flinches away. ‘The Malice is alive, just as much as you are! It deserves to live just as much as you do. The Seraph Knights’ swords that you try so hard to break also live. They’re not as complex or as clever but they are alive. If you want me to look at you and see more than just an enemy, you have to do the same for me.

‘You’re offering me the chance to submit to you or be destroyed. That’s no choice at all. I’m offering you the chance to be part of something bigger.’

The First’s face does not react, its expression disconnected from its feelings. ‘This is … surprising.’

Vesper allows herself a small smile. ‘The Usurper is gone and I speak for the Empire now. There’s no need for us to fight anymore.’

‘So you say. I remain unconvinced but, I am intrigued.’

Vesper shifts the sword to her left hand and holds out her right. ‘A truce then? You’ll come with me and take part?’

‘I will travel with you, I will observe. Perhaps I will engage. I promise no more than that.’

‘That’s all I’m asking.’

The First takes her hand, mimicking the human gesture perfectly. ‘I accept.’

A few days pass as the Wavemaker and The Commander’s Rest speed along the sea together. From under the water, a new vessel moves to join them, then another. Both part of the First’s fleet.

Vesper and the sword exchange a concerned look.

It does not stop there. A fourth ship comes, a fifth, and so on, until a war fleet of nine follows them, just under the surface. When a half dozen sky-ships drop from the clouds to fall into position above, Vesper demands another audience with the First.

It comes in multiple bodies. Some arriving from the sky-ships, others swimming up from the depths. Vesper watches them through the sword’s eye, and begins to appreciate how big the First truly is. A single being, divided into bitesized human chunks. Though the First has a diverse collection of shells, they dress the same, move the same, making the differences in height and weight hard to remember. Vesper guesses that perhaps a quarter of its strength is here, the rest of the infernal spread out across the world.

They line up along the rail, like a line of ravens watching, waiting for an animal to die.

Vesper gestures to the ships all around them. ‘What is this?’

One of figures breaks from the others, jumps down. It removes its helmet, revealing Duet’s face. ‘You wished for me to come south with you.’

She frowns. ‘For talks. We don’t need an invasion fleet.’

‘I am not here to invade. We have made a truce.’

‘I just don’t understand why we need all of these ships.’

‘You seem displeased. I do not understand. Surely your gathering is important enough to warrant my full attention.’

‘Wait. You’re calling all of, um … you, here?’

‘Yes.’

The sword looks at Vesper, its hum felt more than heard, whisper-like. She nods. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

‘You once promised to stand between me and the Malice, do you remember?’

‘Yes.’

‘And while we are at peace, do you promise to stand between me and rest of The Seven?’

‘Yes.’

The First leans closer, bracing itself against the invisible force of the Malice’s anger. ‘You truly don’t know, do you?’

‘What are you taking about?’

‘The Seven. They have awoken and the fires of their rage burn in the north.’

‘But there’s no hostile force in the north.’

‘They see it differently.’ Vesper’s face falls and the First continues to speak. ‘The Seven are gathering Their strength. They call out to Their agents, who in turn call out to others. Factions within the colonies that came over to me have already begun to rebel.

‘They are coming south. I believe They are coming for me.’

Vesper’s hand goes to her mouth. She thinks of her family, despairs. Have they become another sacrifice? And what will The Seven do to her? What kind of example will they make? Such thoughts are dispelled with a shake of the head. ‘You knew this all along. That’s why you came to speak with me. You’re afraid!’

‘Yes. I am afraid. We are united in fear.’

She looks up, defiance colouring cheeks. ‘No, we are united in more than fear.’

But when the advance scouts of The Seven’s armada appear on the horizon, she goes straight to Samael, and he pushes The Commander’s Rest harder until it seems to fly across the wavetops.

The First returns to its fleet and they too accelerate, doing their best to keep pace with the sleeker vessel.

The scout ships fade from view but they are not forgotten.

Delta forces herself to look. In one hand she has a skull, in the other, part of a skeleton. The skull is ordinary, that of a human male, the skeleton belonging to a different man, one that has experienced the touch of the taint, turning the bones asymmetrical.

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 TheCommander’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 (#ulink_c66601f9-a0ce-518e-8a91-50556cef82d3)


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.

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

Beta follows and, after a pause, Epsilon, 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 (#ulink_d0a8b2be-c476-5050-98fe-41d243e5ba5b)


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.

It is Peace-Fifteen. One of the best of the new generation. Massassi only has to glance at the girl’s essence to know that something serious is going on. A bad tempered command sets the slab into motion, raising her from the vat into colder, more miserable air. ‘What is it?’

Peace-Fifteen bows, making the sign of the Eye. ‘It’s Alpha.’

She forces herself upright, ignoring her protesting back. ‘Well don’t just stand there! Help me up!’

Massassi is quickly wrapped in a self-sealing robe and ushered out of the chamber. She sees the fear in the girl, and some of it begins to leach into her. ‘What’s happened to Alpha?’ A flurry of possibilities already runs through her mind. Has her beautiful creation broken after a fall, a miscalculation on her part allowing the essence to slowly leak from him? Or perhaps she has failed to calibrate his wings properly. They worked well at low altitude but what if he has gone higher, trusting to her designs? What if she has made another mistake as she did with the Breach?

Peace-Fifteen shakes her head. ‘Nothing’s happened to him, Your Imperial Majesty. I have come to ask you to stop him.’

The relaxed feelings have evaporated and Massassi feels a familiar dread return. ‘Show me.’

Along corridors and through transport chutes they go, rushed along by automated platforms and assisted walkways, until they reach a set of doors that lead to a comms tower.

At Massassi’s approach the doors open, revealing the full extent of her failure. Four bodies litter the room, utterly broken. A fifth person makes muffled noises, his skull stuck between the wall and Alpha’s hand.

Unprepared for the sight, Massassi stops to stare for a moment. In that moment, Alpha squeezes and blood streaks stark red against silver skin.

Too late, her lips move. ‘What is this?’

Alpha turns, his eyes lightening with love. ‘Creator!’ He strides over the bodies towards her, opening his arms.

Massassi raises her hands, warding him off. ‘I said, what is this?’

He stops, arms still open while Massassi looks into his essence. It is easier to read than most, brighter, purer, and he makes no effort to hide from her.

The first man died because the calculations he presented Alpha with were imperfect, a reduction of zero point three required to balance it again. The second died because he dared to judge Alpha’s action monstrous, which, in Alpha’s mind was a suggestion he had made a mistake. This was of course a criticism of his creator as much as himself, and he could not allow such words to stand. The third and fourth died for much the same reasons as the second, and the fifth had been unable to cope with what he saw. His essence was showing signs of fracture and Alpha had decided it best to terminate him immediately to avoid the danger of the man cracking in an unsupervised space.

Replacements are already being summoned. Within the hour, the mess will be cleaned away and perfection restored.

Massassi finds no concern for any other ramifications of these actions and no regret over the deaths. For Alpha lacks the capacity for regret, having been created without any. He is perfect and he expects perfection in all things. He can neither understand nor tolerate anything that fails to meet those expectations.

She sees a new future for the Empire when she is gone. One where Alpha slowly destroys it from the inside. She feels a slight sympathy. Many a time have the incompetencies of her fellows driven her to break things. But no, this will not do. Alpha’s role is to lead the Empire, to watch over it. It appears that he will need some help.

Massassi turns from the room, and Alpha follows without the need to ask.

They go back to her workshop and Massassi starts on a new project. She is grateful that Alpha is there to assist, making matters easier. Even so, she struggles.

Where before, with Alpha’s creation, she aimed for an ideal, this time she is more restrained. The body they craft is grand, more than human, but it is not quite so large. She still gives it wings however.

The new creation is designed to be a balance for Alpha. Where he is single-minded, ruthless and exacting, she will make someone more cautious, who thinks about the bigger picture, who considers the details.

If Alpha charges headlong into battle with what’s coming, then he will not be alone. There will be another there to watch his back and keep him safe. She crafts a second great sword and it is lighter than Alpha’s, quicker.

When the time comes to infuse the body and the sword with essence, she tries to capture the spirit of being an engineer, remembering that it is this training that has saved her in the darkest times. She tries to make him careful, thoughtful, analytical, logical. Like her on her calm days.

Essence flows from the iris in her palm and into the body and the sword, creating life, diminishing hers.

She sways but before she can fall, Alpha catches her, taking her weight. She feels his love around her like a physical thing.

In front of them, Beta is born. Where Alpha’s eyes are the blue of a clear sky, Beta’s are the blue-black of night.

Massassi is the first thing that Beta sees, and she feels his love for her just as she feels Alpha’s. Gentler, but no less powerful.

She pats one of the silver hands supporting her. ‘Alpha, this is your brother.’

Alpha tilts his head down.

Beta tilts his up.

Their eyes meet.




CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_bd6d2400-a79a-5a91-a9dc-97173094a419)


The sea is so unnaturally calm it resembles a vast lake, the echoes of Delta’s power calming currents, smoothing waves. The armada sailing across it is equally still, collectively holding its breath until The Seven resolve their dispute.

Half a mile above them sits Alpha’s sky palace, also motionless.

Intruding into the serenity is a small sea-shuttle, a mosquito in an otherwise quiet room. It is the only thing moving, and operators on every ship watch its progress on scopes or through plasglass viewing ports.

Though the occupants of the sea-shuttle cannot see the watchers, they feel their scrutiny.

‘This was a bad idea,’ says Jem.

The Vagrant doesn’t respond, forcing the other man to address his back. As they approach the gap between two larger Empire craft, the Vagrant eases back on the steering column, slowing down to adjust their positioning.

‘I just don’t see why we can’t go round them.’

The Vagrant presses his lips together, continuing on his course.

Jem is left to seethe. Powerless, he raises the scope to his eye, moving it from ship to ship, checking to see if guns are tracking them. They are not. Safe for the moment, he trains the scope on Alpha’s sky palace.

‘I can see movement on the battlements … I can see The Seven!’ he shouts, making the Vagrant flinch and Reela jump. Then, in a whisper, repeats. ‘I can see The Seven. I think that’s Alpha. He’s … He’s holding Delta … She looks bad. Is She dead? He’s throwing Her!’

The Vagrant looks up. Even without the aid of the scope, he sees her, sunslight glittering red and gold over her as she arcs in the air, corkscrewing, falling.

His hands twist on the steering column, push forward. As he does so the sea-shuttle pivots in the water, then accelerates. The engine starts to whine, an unhappy noise.




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