The Seven. Peter Newman
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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
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,