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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.
