The Seven. Peter Newman
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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