The Seven. Peter Newman
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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 The Commander’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.
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