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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 Commander sees her turn, jump down, trying to put the house between them.
Alpha sings a second note, and for a moment it is too bright to see anything, the Knight Commander is forced to shield his face from a world turned searing blue. When he looks again there is no house, no woman, no resistance. Just a pile of ashes smouldering in the breeze.
Then Alpha is moving towards the next house, and the Knight Commander is shouting orders, mobilizing his forces. This time, when the soldiers and knights fire, the rebels have no answer.
Hours pass as the metal snake continues to work its way towards the coast. Despite its size, the vehicle moves swiftly. Smoke trails at sharp angles from shattered turrets, and the caterpillar tracks make short work of the uneven terrain.
Delta of The Seven blinks, returning from thoughts of the past. She has been staring at a tiny hole in the ceiling, waiting for Obeisance to come. But Obeisance has not come. Her brothers and sisters are expecting her return. Alpha will be displeased at the delay. The thought concerns Delta, for she has always tried to be in harmony with the others, prided herself on it.
She realizes that no immediate aid is coming and that she should take action herself. But what action? More information is needed.
In turn, she regards each of the people sharing the cockpit with her.
The child, Reela, sleeps badly. Straps meant for an adult ride up under her chin, digging in. Her dreams are reflected in Delta’s eyes. She is trapped in a house that burns, and visored faces stare at her through windows, blocking escape.
Studying her essence, Delta sees little to cherish, and the proximity of the taint, however slight, is unpleasant.
The smaller man, Jem, is looking at her. He is afraid. He is right to be. She sees his mind making its petty calculations, the network of small lies that permeate his being and, beneath them, a heavy sense of bitterness and regret she cannot help but feel empathy for. But more than all of this, she sees that he is tainted, spoiled by years of infernal contact.
The other man, the one that once bore Gamma’s sword, and has now dared to use hers, is not tainted. Though he is easy to read, a simple example of the species, she does not understand where he fits. Like a spare part left in the box after construction is completed. There is a temptation to keep him around, just in case, but really, there is no need for him. She lingers briefly on the freshness of the man’s grief, how it threatens to overwhelm him, the tidal surge of it held back by adrenaline, fear and the demands of the moment.
Delta knows what is expected of her. She closes her eyes, imagines Alpha giving the order. So easy is it for her to picture her brother, it is as if he were there, demanding their destruction.
Her hand opens as she turns to where her sword lies. It is next to the Vagrant’s chair, feigning sleep. It does not respond to her summons. She considers picking it up. Certainly, none of the humans present could stop her. And yet, she does not pick it up.
Even as the outrage runs through her that it has not responded, she realizes she does not want it to. Delta has always carried weariness within her and she has little spirit for fighting. She did not leave the sanctum to bloody her hands. She left it to investigate her sister, to understand why the last fragment of Gamma acts the way it does.
She tells herself that these humans are not worthy of her wrath. Tells herself that it is only a matter of time before the Empire comes to collect her, and so it is not worth the effort of leaving. She tells herself that she is choosing to wait because it suits her.
And then, because it is habit and because it is easier, she sits down and closes her eyes.
Both suns are in the sky, casting lights, sparkling, across the sea. Water dominates the view now, from the unbroken line of the horizon to the waves smacking against the shore.
Throughout the dawn and early morning, the metal snake continues its journey, tireless. Thinning smoke leaks from ravaged turrets but, despite the battering, it moves as fast as ever.
Jem comes over to stand next to the Vagrant’s chair. He glances at Reela, asleep in the straps, and lowers his voice. ‘We’re making good time.’
The Vagrant doesn’t register the words at first, his attention elsewhere, in the past, on things lost. Amber eyes focus again. He blinks away tears, nods.
‘Do you think we can get to Vesper before they do?’
The Vagrant shrugs and Jem looks past him, towards their destination.
Up ahead is a port, but not the great northern sea base that Jem expects to see. ‘I thought you’d be taking us to Skylanding.’ He leans forward, squinting, trying to recognize a landmark. ‘It’s not Northwing either. Where are we?’
The Vagrant points at the navcom, shrugs.
‘You don’t know?’ asks Jem, incredulous. The display is damaged but he is able to make out enough detail to guess. ‘It’s taking us to Greyspot Three, isn’t it? But Vesper will be going to Crucible. We should be heading to Skylanding, that’s the most direct route.’
The Vagrant gestures back to where Delta sits and shakes his head.
He imagines the kind of welcome they’d get from the Empire’s forces at Skylanding or Northwing and reconsiders. ‘Alright, you have a point, but we can’t take Reela to Greyspot Three. It’s not safe. It’s full of refugees and rejects from the Shining City. For suns’ sake, I’ve even heard rumours that the First’s nomads use it as a trading spot!’
Reela stretches, yawning, and whatever Jem is about to say is bitten back.
The Vagrant pulls gently back on the control stick and the metal snake eases to a stop. He rubs at his eyes, bloodshot, before resting his hands on the dashboard. There is a pause, long enough to take a breath, to sigh, and then he is pushing himself out of the chair.
Jem goes to unstrap Reela but finds she has already stood up, a big frown on her little face. ‘What’s wrong?’
Reela looks up at him, solemn, but says nothing.
The Vagrant collects Delta’s sword from the floor and opens the hatch. There is a hiss, and fresh air wafts into the stuffy room, enlivening.
Jem moves to his side, pulling Reela behind him. He leans in close. ‘What about Her?’
Both men look at Delta for a moment. If she is aware of their scrutiny, she gives no sign.
‘Maybe we should just leave Her here?’
The Vagrant thinks for a moment, nods, and takes a step towards Delta.
‘What are you –? Actually, I don’t want to know.’ Jem retreats towards the exit hatch. ‘Before you do anything, I’m going outside.’ He looks down, adds hastily, ‘To keep Reela safe.’
The Vagrant nods.
Jem ushers Reela out, turning briefly before following her. ‘Whatever you’re going to do, be careful.’
The Vagrant raises an eyebrow.
Alone, save for Delta, the Vagrant seems to sag, the weight of recent events folding over his shoulders like a cloak. He pinches the bridge of his nose, knuckles tired eyes and walks to where Delta sits.
Carefully, quietly, he kneels down opposite her. The top of his head barely lines up with her shoulder.
She does not stir.
With reverence, he returns her sword, leaving it at her feet. He glances up, but her eyes remain closed. Neither sword nor immortal show any sign of having noticed each other. He stands slowly, leaves quickly, and doesn’t look back.
Outside, Jem and Reela are waiting. The three of them walk towards the cliff’s edge. Up here, they are exposed, the wind knocking at them, playful, tugging hair and making speech difficult. The smoke that rises from the other side is whisked away as soon as it peeks above ground level.
The Vagrant sees the smoke and his frown burrows deeper.
‘I don’t like this,’ murmurs Jem.
They move nearer to the edge, battling the wind for balance. Jem holds one of Reela’s hands, the Vagrant holds the other.
Slowly, by inches, Greyspot Three comes into view. Houses smoulder below, glowing red, a scattered cluster of dying stars. Jem pulls out his old, battered scope. He sees details he could have done without, a high heap of bodies, stacked, blackened limbs rigid. Shattered buildings and bomb-scarred streets.
The Vagrant takes the scope, his jaw clenching as he takes in the details.
Reela’s scope is imaginary, but the grim set to her face is convincing nonetheless.
‘Oh no,’ says Jem, tapping the Vagrant’s shoulder.
He looks over and Jem points, back to the metal snake. ‘Look!’
Delta of The Seven stands between them and the vehicle. She is watching them, her expression unreadable. One of her silvered hands rests on the hilt of her sword.
‘What do we do now?’ asks Jem.
The Vagrant looks over the edge of the cliff. The walkway that leads down the rock face is mostly intact. He runs for the nearest platform, pulling Reela behind him, pulling Jem behind her.
‘But,’ Jem protests, ‘we can’t go down there!’
The Vagrant ignores him, and when Jem gives a second look over his shoulder, he sees that Delta has started to follow them, and his protests die.
Rusted walkways clank with every step. The top layer has disguised the damage further down. The side of the cliff has chunks blown out of it and there is blood caked in the lattice of metal either side of them. There are no bodies here, however. Each has already been taken, fuel for the pyres in the port below. As they pass the worst of the damage the walkway leans out, alarming. Four of the main supports have broken free of their housing, leaving power cables to hold up the structure.
The Vagrant stops.
