The Seven

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‘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 (#ulink_5e001e04-da23-5441-82a5-763a72dfaeed)

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, plaguing her with regular inflammation and infection.

For years she has endured such things, a small price to pay for the safety of the world. No longer. At last she is able to rest. Alpha is here now, and he is more than able to run the Empire, giving her a well-earned break.

She tries to remember the last time she felt this relaxed and finds she cannot. The Nutri-fluid has eased her physical aches and Alpha has taken away the awful responsibility. It may have cost her the best years of her life but she has done it.

Hours pass, happy dozing punctuated with periods of self-satisfied reflection. Normally, her quick mind would be getting bored but she feels no need to move. Perhaps this is part of getting old, taking pleasure in the smaller things. Perhaps it is just that she is tired. For once, Massassi feels no desire to dig deeper. Understanding is not necessary. She could lie here until the end of time.

Her slumber is disturbed by knocking, insistent, on the side of the vat. Massassi wakes unwillingly.

It is Peace-Fifteen. One of the best of the new generation. Massassi only has to glance at the girl’s essence to know that something serious is going on. A bad tempered command sets the slab into motion, raising her from the vat into colder, more miserable air. ‘What is it?’

Peace-Fifteen bows, making the sign of the Eye. ‘It’s Alpha.’

She forces herself upright, ignoring her protesting back. ‘Well don’t just stand there! Help me up!’

Massassi is quickly wrapped in a self-sealing robe and ushered out of the chamber. She sees the fear in the girl, and some of it begins to leach into her. ‘What’s happened to Alpha?’ A flurry of possibilities already runs through her mind. Has her beautiful creation broken after a fall, a miscalculation on her part allowing the essence to slowly leak from him? Or perhaps she has failed to calibrate his wings properly. They worked well at low altitude but what if he has gone higher, trusting to her designs? What if she has made another mistake as she did with the Breach?

Peace-Fifteen shakes her head. ‘Nothing’s happened to him, Your Imperial Majesty. I have come to ask you to stop him.’

The relaxed feelings have evaporated and Massassi feels a familiar dread return. ‘Show me.’

Along corridors and through transport chutes they go, rushed along by automated platforms and assisted walkways, until they reach a set of doors that lead to a comms tower.

At Massassi’s approach the doors open, revealing the full extent of her failure. Four bodies litter the room, utterly broken. A fifth person makes muffled noises, his skull stuck between the wall and Alpha’s hand.

Unprepared for the sight, Massassi stops to stare for a moment. In that moment, Alpha squeezes and blood streaks stark red against silver skin.

Too late, her lips move. ‘What is this?’

Alpha turns, his eyes lightening with love. ‘Creator!’ He strides over the bodies towards her, opening his arms.

Massassi raises her hands, warding him off. ‘I said, what is this?’

He stops, arms still open while Massassi looks into his essence. It is easier to read than most, brighter, purer, and he makes no effort to hide from her.

The first man died because the calculations he presented Alpha with were imperfect, a reduction of zero point three required to balance it again. The second died because he dared to judge Alpha’s action monstrous, which, in Alpha’s mind was a suggestion he had made a mistake. This was of course a criticism of his creator as much as himself, and he could not allow such words to stand. The third and fourth died for much the same reasons as the second, and the fifth had been unable to cope with what he saw. His essence was showing signs of fracture and Alpha had decided it best to terminate him immediately to avoid the danger of the man cracking in an unsupervised space.

Replacements are already being summoned. Within the hour, the mess will be cleaned away and perfection restored.

Massassi finds no concern for any other ramifications of these actions and no regret over the deaths. For Alpha lacks the capacity for regret, having been created without any. He is perfect and he expects perfection in all things. He can neither understand nor tolerate anything that fails to meet those expectations.

She sees a new future for the Empire when she is gone. One where Alpha slowly destroys it from the inside. She feels a slight sympathy. Many a time have the incompetencies of her fellows driven her to break things. But no, this will not do. Alpha’s role is to lead the Empire, to watch over it. It appears that he will need some help.

Massassi turns from the room, and Alpha follows without the need to ask.

They go back to her workshop and Massassi starts on a new project. She is grateful that Alpha is there to assist, making matters easier. Even so, she struggles.

Where before, with Alpha’s creation, she aimed for an ideal, this time she is more restrained. The body they craft is grand, more than human, but it is not quite so large. She still gives it wings however.

The new creation is designed to be a balance for Alpha. Where he is single-minded, ruthless and exacting, she will make someone more cautious, who thinks about the bigger picture, who considers the details.

If Alpha charges headlong into battle with what’s coming, then he will not be alone. There will be another there to watch his back and keep him safe. She crafts a second great sword and it is lighter than Alpha’s, quicker.

When the time comes to infuse the body and the sword with essence, she tries to capture the spirit of being an engineer, remembering that it is this training that has saved her in the darkest times. She tries to make him careful, thoughtful, analytical, logical. Like her on her calm days.

Essence flows from the iris in her palm and into the body and the sword, creating life, diminishing hers.

She sways but before she can fall, Alpha catches her, taking her weight. She feels his love around her like a physical thing.

In front of them, Beta is born. Where Alpha’s eyes are the blue of a clear sky, Beta’s are the blue-black of night.

Massassi is the first thing that Beta sees, and she feels his love for her just as she feels Alpha’s. Gentler, but no less powerful.

She pats one of the silver hands supporting her. ‘Alpha, this is your brother.’

Alpha tilts his head down.

Beta tilts his up.

Their eyes meet.

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_7b4ffabf-8d52-56a8-8351-30029a930f5d)

The sea is so unnaturally calm it resembles a vast lake, the echoes of Delta’s power calming currents, smoothing waves. The armada sailing across it is equally still, collectively holding its breath until The Seven resolve their dispute.

Half a mile above them sits Alpha’s sky palace, also motionless.

Intruding into the serenity is a small sea-shuttle, a mosquito in an otherwise quiet room. It is the only thing moving, and operators on every ship watch its progress on scopes or through plasglass viewing ports.

Though the occupants of the sea-shuttle cannot see the watchers, they feel their scrutiny.

‘This was a bad idea,’ says Jem.

The Vagrant doesn’t respond, forcing the other man to address his back. As they approach the gap between two larger Empire craft, the Vagrant eases back on the steering column, slowing down to adjust their positioning.

‘I just don’t see why we can’t go round them.’

The Vagrant presses his lips together, continuing on his course.

Jem is left to seethe. Powerless, he raises the scope to his eye, moving it from ship to ship, checking to see if guns are tracking them. They are not. Safe for the moment, he trains the scope on Alpha’s sky palace.

‘I can see movement on the battlements … I can see The Seven!’ he shouts, making the Vagrant flinch and Reela jump. Then, in a whisper, repeats. ‘I can see The Seven. I think that’s Alpha. He’s … He’s holding Delta … She looks bad. Is She dead? He’s throwing Her!’

The Vagrant looks up. Even without the aid of the scope, he sees her, sunslight glittering red and gold over her as she arcs in the air, corkscrewing, falling.

His hands twist on the steering column, push forward. As he does so the sea-shuttle pivots in the water, then accelerates. The engine starts to whine, an unhappy noise.