The Seven

by Peter Newman

  Reela goes to the other end of the table and begins to untie ankles while the Vagrant wheezes, working air into his body and blood into his extremities.

  They quickly release Jem, who remains asleep, blissful, and gather their things. The Vagrant ties the tattered remains of his top together and gets Reela to help him reattach his chest plate.

  Abruptly, the speaker switches back on, bringing a sentence half started to their ears. ‘… Of course, as loyal servants of the Winged Eye we knew there was something wrong with them and kept them here until such time as we could report to the proper authorities …’

  ‘Show us,’ demands a second voice.

  The man’s reply betrays a little too much dread. ‘Show you? Well, this may not be the best time to … I mean, perhaps they should be cleaned up first?’ Then it switches to resignation. ‘Of course, of course, at once. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  The wall’s colour fades, revealing the row of cylinders, including the three occupied ones. Soldiers in Empire uniform also stand in the room. A lieutenant nods as he takes in the contents on the Vagrant’s side of the wall. ‘Sighting confirmed, command. I repeat, sighting confirmed.’

  ‘Just as I promised,’ says the man in the cylinder, re-lieved.

  ‘Wait,’ demands the lieutenant. ‘By the Eye, what is that?’ He points and all eyes go to the slumbering half-breed.

  ‘Oh, him? That’s just Giblet. He’s a distant relative. A great, great, great, grand cousin or some such.’

  The lieutenant doesn’t answer, just turns to the cylinders and slowly raises his rifle. Without needing to be commanded, the soldiers copy the gesture.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ begs the floating figure. ‘We are loyal to the Empire!’ When his words fall flat he reaches for a button on the inside of the cylinder, pressing it as the soldiers squeeze the triggers of their guns.

  Bullets spray in a wide arc, punching holes through plasglass and the bodies within. They writhe artfully, dancing their way to death. Orange gel spurts rudely from holes, forming lumpy puddles on the floor.

  A new tune begins to play, different from before and Giblet wakes with a snarl.

  Leaping to his feet, the half-breed runs through the rapidly opening door, making a strange keening sound. Distantly that sound is echoed, once, and again, from an assortment of nooks within Ferrous’ web of walkways.

  The Vagrant blinks, looking from the fresh corpses beyond the wall, to the soldiers, to the space where Giblet was. He grabs Delta’s sword from the floor and begins to push Jem’s table towards the exit. On instinct, Reela hops onto one end, sandwiched between the Vagrant and the table, her feet braced on the table’s legs.

  ‘Fire. Fire at will,’ commands the lieutenant.

  Rifles flash, peppering the wall. At each impact a small circle of the wall mists, as if the soldiers were decorators, obscuring themselves with a thousand tiny pellets of paint.

  The Vagrant doesn’t wait to see if the wall will hold.

  Through corridors he goes, running blind in the poor light. Uneven floors make the table bounce in his hands, Jem’s head bounce on the table, and Reela’s teeth clatter.

  Ahead, he sees light and another half-breed run from left to right past the end of the corridor. Not Giblet but not unlike him. The keening is louder now, the various makers of the noise growing in number, gathering together.

  Pausing, the Vagrant looks at unfamiliar surroundings, squinting, hopeless.

  Reela leans over the table and rummages in Jem’s pocket, producing the old battered scope. She switches it on so that light shines from under her chin, ghoulish.

  The Vagrant nods, approving.

  She nods back, then shines it about, the light bouncing from place to place, before settling on a ridged tunnel.

  The Vagrant frowns at it while Reela nods repeatedly.

  A change in the keening prompts the Vagrant into action. It is moving now, a mass of sound accompanied by the thudding of many webbed feet.

  The Vagrant moves in the opposite direction.

  Reela’s use of the torch is imperious, picking their route without need to consult others. There is no time to argue, the Vagrant struggling to keep the table from tipping over as he runs.

  Somewhere behind them the half-breeds make contact with the soldiers and there comes the sound of gunfire, sporadic, and hasty orders, screams, and through it all, that strange gurgling wail.

  The Vagrant runs that little bit faster.

  It is hard to tell if they are going the right way or not. The route has only been done once, in the opposite direction, mostly in the dark. The Vagrant glances worriedly down every passage they don’t take but always follows the light from the scope.

  Incredibly, they pass through a doorway into a lit area of the base. It is familiar. The Vagrant pauses to catch his breath and shakes his head, amazed.

  Reela gives him a self-satisfied smile and he ruffles her hair.

  Briefly encouraged, they round the final corner, arriving at the base of the tower and the way back to the surface.

  Two soldiers await them.

  For a beat, both soldiers and Vagrant freeze.

  Whatever the soldiers have been expecting to come, it is not the Vagrant pushing a table.

  As the two look at each other, the Vagrant launches the table forward, scooping Reela from the back one-handed and running after it.

  The soldiers ready their guns.

  The Vagrant raises Delta’s sword, head-butting the crosspiece, so that the eye snaps open. He takes breath.

  The soldiers fire.

  The Vagrant sings.

  And Delta’s sword channels the note, shaking the air ahead of them. The bullets are knocked off course by the sound, parting from the Vagrant to drive harmlessly into the sides of the corridor.

  One soldier takes aim again while the other reaches for a knife. So intent are they on their target that neither attend to the table as it slams into them.

  The Vagrant slams into them moments after, a pommel kissing two skulls in quick succession, and then he is moving past, the bodies left to groan in his wake.

  Reela is swung into the lift, Jem hauled off the table and dumped next to her.

  A single glare is all it takes for the sword to sing, setting the lift into action.

  As the doors close, there is a faraway sound of a lone gun firing and firing, until it becomes the click-click-click of an empty cartridge, and then it too is gone.

  Swiftly it is smothered by a score of voices, keening.

  The lift begins its ascent.

  Jem coughs as he wakes up. He is quickly alert, taking in the scant details of the empty room. The Vagrant nods to him, Reela does the same. Though things appear still, he feels the sensation of movement in his belly, and knows they are going up.

  With no immediate threat presenting itself, the aches and pains of his body come forward, shy at first but growing in confidence. ‘I feel terrible,’ he announces, carefully probing the new lump on the back of his head. ‘What happened?’

  Two faces look at him. One raises an eyebrow, the other contorts with effort before raising both.

  ‘Well, at least they let us go. There was something really wrong with those people … and that Giblet,’ he shakes his head. ‘Urgh.’

  The sensation of movement fades and the doors slide open. The sea-shuttle remains connected to the tower and waves still sweep from horizon to horizon.

  Hovering above is a sky-ship, cables dangling from its underside like a sparse skirt.

  The Vagrant gives it a wary glance and moves to the door.

  ‘You’re not going out there!’ exclaims Jem. ‘You’re not though, are you?’

  As the Vagrant edges out, Delta’s sword raised and ready, Jem pauses to consider his options. Reela doesn’t. She is already moving to the doorway, following in the Vagrant’s footsteps.

  He races after her, grabbing her hand and forcing her to take cover by the sea-shuttle’s edge.

&nb
sp; Ahead of him, the Vagrant drops down onto deck. Jem watches, tense, waiting for a reaction from the sky-ship. None comes.

  The Vagrant crouches down, examining something.

  Jem feels his hand being tugged, and after a last worried glance upwards, allows himself to be led onto the sea-shuttle.

  Delta remains where she was left, the Vagrant’s coat covering her like a blanket. Around her are three soldiers of the Empire of the Winged Eye spaced out on the deck, each curled up tight in a ball. The Vagrant is crouched by one of them, watching a foot twitch, spasmodic.

  As Jem gets closer, the Vagrant looks up, puts a finger to his lips, then moves to the next one. Each is alive, their bodies clenched tight and unhappy.

  ‘Are they … dreaming?’ he whispers.

  The sight is so strange that he does not notice Reela leaning down or her little hand prodding at one of the soldiers until it is too late.

  Instantly, the soldier jerks upwards, grabbing the girl by her shoulders, nearly pulling her over. ‘I’m sorry!’ he shouts, the voice distorted through his helmet. ‘We didn’t know!’ Fingers press tightly into Reela’s skin, and she hisses in pain.

  ‘Stop it,’ Jem urges, ‘you’re hurting her!’

  Unaware of the Vagrant suddenly standing behind him, the soldier turns his head to Jem. ‘You have to for—’

  The Vagrant’s arm loops around the soldier’s neck and pulls tight, making hands open in surprise, releasing Reela. The Vagrant walks backwards, dragging the soldier clear before twisting sharply, sending the other man to the floor.

  There is no resistance, no use of combat skills. The soldier simply curls up where he has fallen, defeated.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asks Jem.

  The soldier doesn’t answer.

  The Vagrant shrugs, looks at Delta’s sword. Its eye is fixed on Delta, suspicious.

  One of the others, a lieutenant, has moved to a kneeling position. ‘Please,’ she whispers. ‘I can’t take this any longer. In the name of the Winged Eye: task us, use us, forgive us.’

  Jem and the Vagrant exchange a look.

  ‘Wait,’ begins Jem. ‘You’re offering to help us?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll do anything, anything! Please.’

  ‘But why?’

  The lieutenant’s gaze starts to slide towards Delta but with an effort of will she fixes it to the floor. ‘Because She is displeased with us and we need to make it better. Just tell us what to do and we’ll do it.’

  ‘Can you pilot that sky-ship?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He leans in to the Vagrant, lowers his voice. ‘Do we trust her?’

  The Vagrant holds out Delta’s sword, letting the blade pass over the kneeling lieutenant, once, twice. He frowns, then nods. Reaching down he pulls her to her feet with his free hand.

  ‘What are your orders?’

  He points up.

  She goes to the edge of the sea-shuttle and one of the cables is suddenly alert, swinging towards her, enthusiastic. The end of the cable curves about her middle, locking into place on the back of her belt and several points along the spine of her back plate.

  The Vagrant goes with her to the rail and tries to catch one of the other cables. They sway on the edge of his reach, taunting.

  ‘I can take you,’ says the lieutenant.

  With reluctance the Vagrant goes to her. She puts her arms round him. ‘Hold on.’

  The Vagrant complies.

  ‘What are we supposed to do?’ asks Jem.

  The Vagrant gives a slight shrug as the cable goes tight, whisking him and the lieutenant upwards at speed.

  Reela watches them, her head tilting up and up, her jaw slack. As the sky-ship swallows them, her hands begin to wave about her head, venting excitement in all directions.

  Jem reaches for the bonding gun, finds it isn’t there. Desperate, he picks up one of the paddles, flicking it to full extension and then places himself between the two remaining soldiers, the paddle raised above his head. His eyes are constantly moving, from one twitching body to another, to Reela, who continues to stare at the sky-ship, her face a stretched mask of delight.

  The cable pulls them directly into the open hatch, swinging the Vagrant and the lieutenant into the hold.

  Most of the soldiers have gone down into Ferrous or onto the sea-shuttle but not all. Four remain, a captain, two pilots and a comms officer. Of these, only one still lives.

  The eye in Delta’s sword closes, unwilling to see any more. The Vagrant has no such luxury. Stepping away from the lieutenant, he moves to each body in turn. There is no sign of any struggle, and with two of the bodies, no sign of any wounds. One of the pilots has died in her chair, the captain seems to have expired where he stood. By contrast, the comms officer was killed by a shot to the head. The Vagrant looks at the pistol in the comms officer’s hand, his frown deepening.

  Though the co-pilot survives, he shakes in his seat, only held in place by straps, trapped in some nightmare that can only be guessed at.

  Together, the lieutenant and the Vagrant drag the bodies to the hatch, letting first the sky, then the sea take them. Each time, they wait for the solemn splash before launching the next one.

  The rest of the sky-ship is checked. It appears undamaged, save for the communications array, which has been shot several times with a pistol.

  Gentle attempts to wake the co-pilot fail, so the Vagrant removes the man’s helmet. Beneath it is a sweaty face, eyes screwed shut but still moving beneath the lids. The Vagrant taps his cheek, shakes his shoulder, even flicks a little water at him but the man does not stir.

  After some silent consideration, the Vagrant replaces the helmet.

  He walks back to the hatch, points down to the sea-shuttle. In moments he and the lieutenant are being lowered by the cable at considerable speed.

  Reela applauds their arrival.

  ‘At last!’ exclaims Jem.

  Amber eyes linger on one of the soldiers who is more still than the other, a paddle-shaped dent in his helmet.

  ‘It’s okay,’ says Jem. ‘There was some trouble but I handled it.’ He glances up at the sky-ship. ‘Can it fly?’

  The Vagrant nods.

  ‘And she can fly it?’

  ‘Yes,’ replies the lieutenant.

  ‘But?’

  ‘But we have no comms and no co-pilot.’

  ‘Do we need one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘No,’ repeats the lieutenant. ‘We don’t need one.’

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  The Vagrant points to the motionless form of Delta.

  ‘Maybe,’ Jem says, lowering his voice, ‘we should leave her here.’

  The Vagrant shakes his head.

  ‘Do you think, with enough cables, we could lift her up there?’

  The Vagrant stares at them for a while.

  ‘I don’t know how we’d attach them,’ says Jem. ‘I mean, how you would attach them but I think it’s possible.’

  The Vagrant holds up a hand. When he turns to face Jem, he seems purposeful, a slight smile threatening on one side of his face.

  ‘What is it? Have you had an idea?’

  The Vagrant doesn’t answer, putting down Delta’s sword and relieving Jem of his paddle. He moves to the rail, leaning out as far as he can, and uses the end of the paddle to hook one of the cables, drawing it to his side. After passing the cable to Jem he leans out again, fishing for another.

  Gradually, more and more cables find their way into Jem’s hands. When he can hold no more, the lieutenant is waved forward. She comes without question, though both she and Jem are obviously curious.

  Reela waits patiently alongside them, arms open and is rewarded with a single cable end. Delighted, she wiggles it, making small ripples, like a snake, dancing.

  When all of the cables save the one attached to the lieutenant have been gathered, the Vagrant nods to himself, takes one from Jem, and sets to work.

  CHAPTER EL
EVEN

  To the north of the valley, Vesper’s people labour. Trenches are dug, and holes punched into the soft earth. From above it would resemble writing gone wrong, wavy lines divorced from their punctuation.

  She knows that such measures will not stop The Seven’s army but hopes it will slow them down, give her a chance to take action. She also knows the importance of giving people things to do.

  Though it raises many eyebrows, the Thousand Nails have joined in the digging. They did not ask if they were needed nor even if their presence was desired. No one can question their enthusiasm however and, so far, the two groups remain civil to each other, both seeking to prove themselves the more effective. For the moment, competition motivates, channelling the mutual sense of superiority into more productive endeavours.

  Vesper leaves them to it, going down into the valley itself. Samael and the First go with her.

  The delegation from Slake travel slowly, pushing carts, beasts and backs laden with possessions, parts, tools and trinkets.

  At the front and sides of the procession are soldiers in junkyard armour. They stand several feet above the others, mounted on stilts powered by spring and steam. In their hands they carry shrapnel guns tipped with long knives.

  A man and a woman lead them. The woman has short hair, gaudy red to match her painted lips. Her jacket, top and trousers fit perfectly, a contrast to the ragged bunch behind her. Though old, she does not need the cane she carries. It is a copper plated vanity, a badge of power.

  The man wears clothes designed to show off his ageing body. His skirt and top are full of slits, revealing glimpses of thigh and armpit, and machinery where his abdomen should be. There is no hair to dye on his head but lips shine equally red. His cane is iron plated rather than copper, he does not need it either.

  Both bow, the motion slight, bordering on respectful.

  ‘Gorad,’ says the man, pointing to his companion.

  Gorad reciprocates, gesturing to the man, ‘Gut-pumper.’