by Peter Newman
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.
Reela stops.
‘Go on,’ urges Jem.
The Vagrant looks down, very quickly looks up again, leaning back against the rock.
‘You know what they say, you should never look dow— Wait! Don’t you look, Reela! I said don’t look!’
The girl begins to overbalance, sliding towards the side. Tugging on an arm each, the two men pull her back. There is a long creaking sound as the cables adjust to the shifting weight.
They all freeze until it settles, clinging to the wall, to each other.
Jem is the first to move, pushing the others into action.
They work their way down, zigzagging back and forth along the rock face. About three quarters of the way, a cable twangs loose.
There is a lurch, brief and fast, then the remaining cables catch.
As the three of them ease their way along, the lean of the walkway becomes more pronounced, slowly succumbing to gravity. Like a drunkard falling over, it takes its time.
‘Run!’ shouts Jem.
And they do.
The Vagrant scoops Reela into his arms, head low as he accelerates, Jem at his heels.
Their feet hammer fast, raindrops on a rooftop, echoing loud all around them. Only two levels up now, the Vagrant’s feet start to slip, unable to cope with the acute angle of the floor; he leans back, trying to keep from falling over. Jem, unable to stop, unable to get past the slower man, shouts, ‘Come on—’
Rock groans, final cables come loose. The entire walkway falls away from the cliff, bellyflopping into dirty sand and stone.
The three inside it slam together against the mesh wall, then bounce, to fall again, a tangled heap of arms and legs.
For a while, all is still.
Reela sits up, her younger body managing the impact better than the adults. She holds up a hand and inspects it. The crisscross imprint of the walkway runs up her palm and the outside of her little finger. There is blood where a nail has been torn. At the sight of it she starts to shake. A bottom lip falls from formation, trembles.
Jem springs up, suddenly alert. He presses his face against the mesh trying to see through it, then turns back to the others. ‘Is everyone alright?’
With a sigh, the Vagrant levers himself up onto one elbow.
Reela shows them her hand with a look of infinite woe.
‘Ouch,’ says Jem. ‘That looks painful.’ He goes back to the mesh. ‘I think we’re safe. I can’t see anyone else nearby.’
The Vagrant looks at her hand and, with a flourish, produces his own. Amid the calluses are new bruises, a bleeding knuckle and a thumb twice as big as its counterpart.
Reela nods, impressed. She takes a deep breath and her lip settles again.
Climbing out of the wreckage of the walkway, they see Greyspot Three from ground level. Aerial bombardment has destroyed any sense of landscaping the place might have had. Craters have given buildings new shapes, added ugly valleys. Lumps of churned earth make new hills, some of them still burn, slowly melting into puddles of slag.
It is a dead place but not everyone here is dead. Survivors sit and stand, united in shock, blending with the debris. They barely notice the newcomers, barely even notice their surroundings.
Jem does. He picks up on glints in the rubble, moving from one to the other, searching for treasures amidst the chaos. He finds a few coins, one of them platinum, precious, and a bonding gun with half a cartridge still intact.
While he does this, the Vagrant looks back up to the top of the cliff. Sunslight glints off a silver figure as she steps off the edge. Wings open, dazzling, turning a fall into a dive, then a glide as she swoops low over the ground, heading straight towards them.
The sight of her returns the survivors to life. As one they scream, scattering in all directions.
Jem, Reela and the Vagrant run too, but do not get far before her shadows rush overhead. The three come to a stop as Delta lands in front of them. She looks from left to right, her eyes bleak as she surveys the wreckage, before coming to rest on a nearby corpse pile.
Jem starts to edge away but the Vagrant takes his arm, gripping tight. He drops slowly to one knee, pulling the other two with him.
Delta pulls out a body from the pile. The arms are asymmetrical, one thicker and longer than the other. She pulls out a skull, ordinary, small, and raises it in the palm of her hand. ‘How has it come to this?’
The question is rhetorical but the Vagrant stands, drawing her gaze. He points out to sea, and when she looks, she sees a set of receding specks riding distant waves. A fleet bearing the symbol of the Winged Eye. Above them, ponderous, floats Alpha’s sky palace.
Delta closes her eyes.
One Thousand and Fifty-One Years Ago
Massassi makes the final adjustments to the metal by hand. Somehow, this feels appropriate, as this is to be the most personal of her creations.
The work is a slow race. It does not matter if she finishes today or tomorrow, in a year or three years. The Breach is quiet and her emp
ire is stable. The threat here is internal rather than external: Massassi is racing her own degeneration.
For some, this would lead to depression or collapse but for Massassi it is a spur. There is a clearly defined challenge and a theory on how to meet it. She’ll be damned if something irrelevant like her physical body is going to get in the way.
The main shell that she works on has already been shaped by powerful machines. The form of a man cast in metal. She knows people respond instinctively to height and so she has made him taller than any normal human, imposing, authoritative. The kind of shape that demands obedience.
Broad shoulders are added, and the suggestion of curves, muscular. Such things are unnecessary and bear no relation to her creation’s actual ability, but she is making a symbol as much as a tool, one that should inspire confidence.
She works long hours, finding hidden reserves of energy now that she has removed herself from the demands of politics and rulership.
As she hammers and smooths, a face begins to take shape beneath her tools. A strong face, proud, regal. It is only when she is finished that she sees the amalgam of her past in there. Features of her supervisor blend with Insa’s, which in turn blend with the Neuromaster she met decades ago, and with the first man sent to kill her when she was still a child. A disparate group to draw upon but all were confident in their abilities, many of them opposing her, and all were bent to her will.
Standing back to look at the shell, she cannot escape the sense that something is missing. It is not enough that the chosen form be large, impressive. She needs it to be bigger than humanity, something to stand above, to provoke wonder.
Then it comes to her: Wings. She will give her creation wings. She intends to instil many qualities and gifts, practical, important, why not add something for fun? A rare smile finds its way to her face as she begins the modifications.
One change soon leads to another, a whole set of new challenges presenting themselves: the need for aerodynamics and the practicalities of functional wings on a humanoid shape.
Good, she thinks. Her life has been one long series of challenges. Why change things now?
Time passes in a blur of thinking, designing, working and sweating, cursing and smiling.
As the shell nears completion, Massassi starts work on its weapon. She has made swords before for her Seraph Knights. Each carries a tiny fraction of her essence, activated through song. She has kept them simple, limited in scope by the skill of the users. No such limits apply here. She intends to make something with its own consciousness. Part ally, part extension, a connected but separate entity.
Metal is folded in on itself, again and again, the edge honed to cut, the blade tuned to focus and discharge essence.
She gives the sword an eye, setting it into the winged crosspiece. Her idea is that the connection will run both ways, allowing the sword to inform its wielder of new developments on the battlefield and, if necessary, guide their arm in combat.
The empty sword is placed in an empty hand, lifeless fingers curled around the hilt.
When all is ready, she climbs onto the scaffolding and raises her metal arm. The iris in her palm opens, and she places her hand over her creation’s eyes.
Drawing deep, Massassi directs her will. Her aim is perfection, a being that will have no equal, that will have the power to do whatever is necessary. Essence surges from her, infusing the shell with light, with life. Some of this plays through its arm, flowing into the sword and back again. Like a child in the womb, the shell draws sustenance from Massassi, taking on aspects of her nature. She tries to hold back the regrets and the doubts, projecting only the strongest parts of herself.
The essence within the shell takes shape, harnessed through lenses and cables, flowing like water through internal channels. It finds its own rhythm, becomes self-sustaining.
Massassi releases her hold, falls hard against the scaffolding. All of the late nights, the long hours catch up with her in a rush. Bones suddenly feel their age and it is all she can do to wheeze, more human sack than godlike empress.
As she exhales, the figure in front of her inhales and the air crackles with energy. Three eyes open together and Alpha is born.
A silver hand reaches down, offering its support to Massassi. She has never accepted anyone’s help before but without hesitation she takes it, is lifted gently to her feet.
For the first time, she is not alone.
Looking up, she sees eyes of clearest blue, like the sky on a perfect flying day. They gaze at her in wonder, full of love.
She checks Alpha for cracks, faults and essence leaks, finds none. ‘You’ll do,’ she says.
Alpha’s chest swells, picking up on buried praise. He speaks and his words reverberate through the workshop, making metal chime and blood sing. ‘I am ready, creator. Shall we begin?’
‘Oh yes,’ she replies, ‘you’ll do nicely.’
CHAPTER FOUR
The Commander’s Rest skims across the sea, trailing a tail of light. Vesper’s special unit of knights, the Order of Broken Blades, pack the space above and below deck. They have seen much over the years, endured much, and now they are bonded by experience and respect. Though old prejudice runs deep, their time with Vesper has stretched their minds somewhat, enabling a grudging acceptance of the ship’s pilot.
Samael is at the wheel. Like the other knights he wears armour but his is a battered collection scavenged from an old battlefield. A mish-mash of pieces, a mess, functional. Entirely appropriate. For Samael is a half-breed, unique, changed late in life, his human essence mixed with that of the Knights of Jade and Ash’s commander. Once a great man, the commander was corrupted, his soul near burned away by a fragment of infernal essence, making him a slave. And like many who have suffered, he passed this suffering on, binding Samael to his will.
And Samael served, mindless, until the commander was destroyed. Since then he has wandered, sometimes serving others, sometimes himself. Now he serves Vesper, and for the moment this pleases him.
A descendant of the Usurper itself, Samael has little love for infernals, save for the one joined to him by an essence thread. Invisible to most, this thread connects him to a Dogspawn, red-furred and mangy, one ear torn off in its prime. The Dogspawn goes by the name of Scout and one of Samael’s eyes is in its skull, just as one of its eyes is in Samael’s. The exchange of eyes is a bond, permanent, allowing them to share vision and sensation.
At this moment Samael is aware of his hands at the controls of The Commander’s Rest, but he is also aware of Vesper’s hand scratching a spot on the back of his neck, and a tummy that needs feeding.
Vesper stands at the prow, the wind making streamers of her hair. Scout sits next to her on one side, the buck on the other. All three seem to take equal pleasure from the feel of the breeze on their faces.
She raises an eyebrow as Samael joins them. ‘Not like you to step away from the controls.’
‘No,’ he replies, his voice dry, cracked, like a man in need of water. ‘But we are here.’
Vesper looks over her shoulder, sees the light drive powering down, feels The Commander’s Rest slowing to a gentle drift. Frowning, she turns on the spot, searching the horizon until she has gone full circle. ‘Are you sure? It’s kind of quiet.’
‘These are the coordinates. Do you think the First is going to come?’
‘Why bother to go to all this trouble and then not show up?’
Samael makes a dry rasping sound. ‘Lots of reasons. To draw you away from the Empire so that it might strike elsewhere. Or to attack you in a place where you cannot bring the Malice to bear.’
‘Well, when you put it that way …’
Scout whines softly and Vesper looks down. ‘What is it?’
‘He was enjoying your attention,’ replies Samael, ‘and that itch still isn’t quite satisfied.’
‘Sorry, Scout,’ she says, resuming her grooming duties. ‘The thing is, I know the First has every reason to want me dead. My knig
hts aren’t exactly pleased about the situation, and if the people back home knew I was out here,’ she shakes her head, ‘I’d never hear the end of it.’
‘They don’t know?’
‘Well, they know the broad strokes. I’ve told them I want to make a lasting peace and that we need to think differently about infernals.’
‘But you haven’t mentioned the First by name?’
‘No. I don’t think Obeisance, or the people of the Shining City,’ she grimaces, ‘or my father are ready for it.’
Samael nods, slowly. ‘I agree.’
‘At the moment, they can’t even imagine the changes I want to make. I’m hoping that if I can pull this off, they won’t need to. It’ll be there for everyone to see.’ She looks directly into Samael’s mismatched eyes. ‘I’m going to do this, whatever it takes.’
‘And the Malice is happy with your plans?’
Vesper touches the sword’s hilt and it hums beneath her fingertips. ‘I don’t know if the sword can ever be happy. But we’ve talked about it and we’re of a mind.’
They fall to a companionable silence. Time passes, the knights talking quietly amongst themselves, Vesper playing with Scout while the buck and Samael watch the waves.
Then, around them, the water begins to darken.
Samael looks up but there are few clouds in the sky, and none of them block the sunslight. He and Vesper move to the rail and lean over.
The shadow is beneath them, growing rapidly as it ascends. Though the taint has made denizens of the deep big enough to match what comes, it is too solid and too static for a life form. This is a ship, made in the Empire’s glory days: a Wavemaker. True to its name, it sets the water around it to motion, rocking The Commander’s Rest. Under their feet, the deck shakes, then a dull boom sounds, and Vesper’s boots lift briefly into the air. She grips the rail tight while the knights wait, stoic, strapped into their positions.
Magnetic locks activate within the Wavemaker, attaching it to the smaller vessel. Untroubled by the extra weight, it continues to rise, until the blunt nose breaks the surface, pushing itself and the smaller ship into the air.