by Peter Newman
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
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.
‘I don’t know about this,’ says Jem but there is little force to his words. He is already resigned to the fact that the Vagrant isn’t listening.
The sea-shuttle slips easily between the back rows of the armada, cutting through the calm, racing towards the front where Delta falls.
Jem watches through the scope. ‘We’ll never make it in time.’
He is right.
Ahead of them, Delta turns awkwardly in the air one final time before impact. Water sprays up. When it comes down again, there is no sign of the immortal.
Something in the air changes and waves once more ripple across the surface of the water.
Jem looks around, nervous. ‘I really think we should leave now.’
The Vagrant pulls back on the steering column, reversing th
e engines to cut their speed. The sea-shuttle drifts to a near stop over the spot where Delta fell.
‘What are you doing?’ asks Jem. ‘She’s going to sink like a stone!’
The Vagrant shrugs out of his long coat and pulls off his boots.
‘Even if you do find Her, you won’t be strong enough to pull Her up.’
The Vagrant presses a smooth section of the sea-shuttle’s wall and it splits open, revealing a compartment. From this, he produces a breathing mask.
‘I don’t understand what you’re hoping for! She doesn’t care about us!’ He gestures to all of the ships behind them. ‘But they do! They all want us dead, remember?’ He reaches for the Vagrant’s arm. ‘You can’t save Delta but you can save us.’
Shrugging him off, the Vagrant dives into the water.
Exasperated, Jem looks down. Partway through cursing his situation, he notices a small pair of boots have been placed next to the Vagrant’s, arranged at the same angle as the larger ones.
His eyes widen as the thought hits. ‘Oh no, Reela!’
He looks up just in time to see the splash.
‘Reela!’ he shouts again, and dives in after her.
On the bridge of Resolution, the Knight Commander watches the sea resume its normal behaviour and hopes it is an omen of things to come.
‘Have you identified that sea-shuttle yet?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s one of ours. It was lost in action over twenty years ago. I’ll put it on the screen.’
The Knight Commander looks at images of the sea-shuttle taken minutes ago, magnifies them. ‘What do we know about the crew?’
‘The Lenses report the Champion is on board. There are two more, both off-record. One of them is confirmed tainted, the other, suspected. Do you wish us to bring it in?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Forgive me, sir, but –’
‘But what?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
The Knight Commander does not punish the near insubordination. He understands it. Whatever they decide to do, they are damned. To take action contravenes a direct command of The Seven. To do nothing contradicts their edicts. To fail The Seven is punishable by death. I wonder, he muses bleakly, if we will be damned for doing too much or too little.
The officer monitoring their other prey speaks up. ‘Forgive me, sir. I know you did not wish to be disturbed but they are reaching the edge of scanning range.’
‘Impossible. They can’t have got so far away already.’
‘It’s not them, sir. Since The Seven … Since Delta … Well, a portion of the network has gone down over where they are. The eyes are blind, sir. If we don’t send a scout or a sky-ship to monitor them, we’ll lose them.’
‘Understood.’
One set of targets is slipping away while the other sits in their grasp and he can do nothing about either of them. Delta has told them to stop. Until she or another of The Seven says otherwise, he dare not act.
The Knight Commander starts to pace, catches himself, curses himself and stands still again. He remembers to have faith in The Seven. When they are ready, they will lead the way. Until then, he must be patient.
But the image on the screen taunts him. A pathetic little ship, a glorified lifeboat, mocking the might of the Empire! He focuses on the anger, tries hard not to think about what fell from the palace, or what that means. It is not his place to question, it is his place to serve.
‘If we don’t launch in the next five minutes, sir, we’ll lose them completely.’
The Knight Commander draws himself up, puffs out his chest. ‘Let them run if they want. It doesn’t matter. Their time will come when The Seven are ready.’
The officers nod, satisfied, while the Knight Commander considers history and quietly panics. It took The Seven a year to decide what to do about the Breach, and after the Battle of the Red Wave they fell silent for over two decades. He worries about how long it will take The Seven to recover this time and what he will do when the rations start to run out.
The Vagrant plunges into the water, letting momentum take him as far as it can before starting to swim. Strong strokes pull him deeper but Delta has a head start.
Amber eyes search the depths, see a glimmer of silver and a shape, tantalizing, far below. He makes towards it, lungs working hard, muscle memory stretched, recalling actions from youth long gone.
Fish keep their distance, peeling away from the intruders. Other things don’t, drawn to investigate by the promise of food. The nearest appears as an inverted shell with tentacles extending from it. A closer look would reveal that the shell is the remains of a submersible, curled around another form of life, and that each tentacle is in fact a human body stripped of limbs and stretched. Each body plays host to a minor infernal, servants to the thing within the shell. The heads remain, bobbing on rubbery necks, with white sightless eyes and mouths full of broken teeth. In place of hair, each scalp is covered in long translucent antennae that twitch as they read the disturbances in the water.
News of fresh prey is absorbed, along with a sense of size and current speed, by one of the minor infernals. This information then moves through its essence, down the body to where there were once feet, to be whispered through membranes into their master’s ear. The creature shudders as it digests the news, before floating up, beginning the hunt.
The Vagrant is getting close to Delta now, occasionally breaking rhythm to grab for her. But under the sea, appearances are deceptive, and his fingers curl around empty water.
He continues to chase, the light from the suns lagging further behind, allowing the cold to creep in. Fingertips brush wingtip to slip away. Another reach, a stretch and they slide over smooth feathers, foiled. A frown, a mouthed curse and another try … success!
The Vagrant pulls himself alongside Delta, turning her so that they are face to face. The light is poor here but he sees no obvious wounds. It would be easy to imagine that the immortal is merely sleeping.
He tries tapping her face but there is no response.
There is a brief pause and a brief sigh, allowing tired legs a taste of respite before being called to action again.
Establishing a grip under her arms he begins to kick for the surface. Being made for flight, Delta is light for her size, but she is still heavy for the Vagrant. Their ascent is slow, hard work. Perspiration clouds the inside of the Vagrant’s breathing mask.
He keeps going, establishing a steady rhythm, sticking to it, dogged.
From the depths, several knots of antennae rise. One of them touches a foot, tenses.
The Vagrant frowns at the contact.
At the next kick, the antennae rush forward, feeling their way up the Vagrant’s extended leg. The head that they’re attached to snakes after them, winding around the Vagrant’s ankle until a once-human jaw is rubbing against his shin.
The Vagrant gasps, making fresh bubbles stream from his mask. Then he looks down. Amber eyes widen. He tries to kick free but the boneless neck tightens around his leg, and the body-made-tentacle that it is attached to draws him deeper.
He shifts his grip, moving his right hand from Delta to the hilt of her sword, his left holding the immortal tight, bracing against her so that he can pull the sword free quickly.
But the sword doesn’t move, staying in its sheath, stub-born.
He lets go of Delta entirely, using his free hand to prise open the eye.
It looks up at him, afraid, guilty. It must have sensed the infernal, yet it did nothing, took no action, gave no warning.
He glares at it.
It looks away, quivers, then closes again.
His eyes widen, astonished.
Teeth sink into his calf, making him buck with pain. Instantly, a set of antennae are on his other leg, while a third begin to explore his back.
The Vagrant makes a fist, raising his middle finger slightly, making a spike of his knuckle, before driving it into the sword’s eye.
It springs open in shock and he yanks it fr
ee, taking a breath to sing, and reaching for his breathing mask with his free hand.
A head rises up alongside, clamping its jaws around his left forearm.
Keeping his own mouth shut, holding that precious breath, the Vagrant pulls against it, inching his fingers towards the lower edge of the breathing mask.
Something slides across his back, following the line of his ribs until a second head nuzzles against his stomach.
The mask comes free.
The Vagrant sings, a weaker note than normal but Delta’s sword picks it up, amplifying. Around them water vibrates, clouds of antennae retract, curling tight into themselves. Jaws go slack as the minor infernals retreat deeper into their shells, and their master quivers in surprise.
Meanwhile, untethered, Delta begins to drift away.
Pressing the breathing mask to his face again, the Vagrant takes another breath, then removes it to sing a second time, stronger now, swinging the sword downward. Water crackles, bubbling in the sudden heat and, with a sudden convulsion of blank-faced tentacles, the infernal is gone, swallowed by the depths.
The Vagrant blinks away the nightmarish after-image and goes after Delta. His wounded leg no longer kicks so well, making progress halting but he manages to get hold of her.
He sees the eye in the sword trying to close and shakes it angrily. Now with its full attention, the Vagrant holds the sword out, uncurling his fingers one by one.
It glances from the depths to his face several times, its look becoming increasingly pleading.
The Vagrant narrows his eyes, flicks them up.
At the crosspiece, silvered wings come to life, starting to beat. The Vagrant joins in with his good leg, pulling Delta close, keeping a firm grip on her.
In uneven bursts, they move, a strange lopsided swimming mess.
Gradually the shadow of the sea-shuttle gets closer, until, at last, they bump against the hull.
Jem and Reela are waiting for him. ‘There!’ shouts Jem, and two pairs of hands, one big, one small, grab hold and begin hauling him up. As soon as he is able, the Vagrant throws the sword, hard, onto deck. It lands with an anguished clunk, the eye already closed.