The Seven. Peter Newman
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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.’
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 The Commander’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,