The Seven

by Peter Newman

  Vesper looks at the sword, her face troubled. It does not tremble at the statement for it is true. She thinks hard, letting the sword share in it, worrying about the future and the different paths stretching ahead. Despite the passage of time, Ezze keeps his face fixed, an exaggerated image of humility.

  ‘Alright,’ she says at last. ‘I’m listening.’

  Ezze claps his hands together, and begins his pitch in earnest.

  A group of infernals and half-breeds approach Crucible from the south. They travel without conversation but not quietly, a strange cacophony – buzzing, squelching, wheezing, wailing – accompanying the movement of twisted limbs.

  Humans so badly tainted that they will not live to see their seventh birthdays walk in bodies swollen or stunted, their brains flailing, struggling to keep pace with devel-opments.

  Minor infernals swarm in a variety of shells, human, animal and insect: stretching, morphing, searching for the right shapes to please their masters.

  Then there are those that stand above but not on top, dangerous and ambitious, they chafe against their chains, unable to break free, unable to bear them.

  Near the top of the pile is the Backwards Child. It appears as a little girl sat atop a giant Usurperkin. The girl’s head is twisted many times and left facing the wrong way, a small face, solemn, on a bed of coiled skin. Long hair falls down her back, a curtain that drapes the Usurperkin’s face. In truth the two bodies are fused together to make room for the infernal itself.

  But all here bow to one: the Man-shape. It walks at the front of the group, shockingly ordinary in appearance. It wears clothes that are neat, without holes, that are worn correctly. Essence is folded carefully, arranged intricately within so as not to distort. Like a finely made sword, the Man-shape’s essence weaves back and forth over itself, dense, sharp edged. Only the flies give it away, surrounding the Man-shape in a dark aura, gathering at its shoulders as a living cloak.

  Vesper waits for them, the sword humming softly on her back, itching to be drawn. Samael and Scout are with her. The rest of Crucible keep their distance, muttering to each other, sharing stories of the cruelty of demons and the hopelessness of the future.

  Though detailed communication between infernals requires direct essence contact, simple things, like strong emotions and desires, being blunt, are easily read.

  The Man-shape gives no order but its wishes are clear to those that have the capacity to look.

  The Backwards Child and the other powerful infernals stop and wait, their bodies motionless, like stuffed animals with glassy, empty eyes. The lesser infernals continue a pace or two before being pulled up short on leashes of the soul, invisible.

  The Man-shape keeps on walking until it has left its kindred behind. Fifty feet from Vesper, it stops.

  She holds up a hand, signalling Samael to wait, and walks towards the swirling globe of flies that surrounds the infernal.

  Insects buzz angrily, bouncing into each other in an effort to get clear, a living door opening for her.

  Vesper goes through until she stands opposite the Man-shape, just ten feet away.

  With great ceremony, the Man-shape puts one hand behind its back, raises the other, then bows. Vesper inclines her head in response.

  She is left to wait as the infernal turns on the spot, putting its back to her. There is a succession of pops and clicks as bones shift from their normal position to one capable of speech. Though she cannot see it from behind, there is a suggestion that its jaw hangs too low, as if dislocated and pulled out from the skull. When it speaks however, the voice is surprisingly mundane.

  ‘Before we begin I would like to engage in some pleasantries. Hello Vesper. It is good to see you again.’

  ‘And you.’

  ‘You appear healthy and I see you and the Malice are closer than ever. I am appreciative that you keep it sheathed.’

  ‘Thank you. I like your jacket.’

  ‘Good, that is pleasing to know. I had it fitted to this body especially. I think I will do this with all of my clothes in future.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Strong.’ There is a pause and then the Man-shape adds, ‘The weather is mild today.’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘Now that we have exchanged pleasantries we should discuss the future.’

  Vesper nods. ‘I’ve assigned an area for your followers to live. Where are the others?’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘New Horizon is a big place. I was expecting a lot more.’

  ‘The majority of humans that live in my city remain there. It is for their own protection, a journey like this would have been hard for them. We do not need to eat as you do and the healthiest of your kind are a hard temptation for my lessers to ignore. I find the trick to maintaining control is to put it to the test as rarely as possible.’

  ‘That’s probably for the best.’

  ‘I am ready to negotiate.’

  ‘About that. All of the major groups are here but a lot of them are going to struggle with working together.’

  ‘I understand, Vesper. You and I are alike in our vision but the others see little that is not right in front of them. We are the future and we scare them.’

  ‘Exactly, they’re scared and I want to find a way to get past that so people can really start to know each other and work together.’

  ‘It is up to us to lead them.’

  ‘Yes. You’ve said before that to settle things between other infernals you have a display. We need to give both of our peoples a display.’

  ‘Our displays are made across essences.’

  ‘I know. This one will have to be physical so everyone can see it. Like a symbol. We need to put ourselves at each other’s mercy.’

  ‘But then what is to stop me severing you from the Malice or the Malice severing me entirely?’

  ‘Trust.’

  The Man-shape stands, silently thinking.

  ‘They are watching us,’ Vesper adds. ‘What we do here is going to set the tone for everything that follows. We’re so close now. Can you come the last few steps with me?’

  There is sharp click as the Man-shape’s mouth closes, the jaw working back into place. With a subtle shift in essence, the infernal scatters the surrounding swarm, the living globe of flies seeming to disintegrate, exposing them.

  It turns round to face Vesper.

  She reaches up to the sword, giving one of the wings a reassuring squeeze, then steps forward.

  The Man-shape mirrors the movement.

  She takes a last step, bringing them together. It is strange, standing so close to an infernal. Next to it, she senses the strangeness more keenly, for while the Man-shape does an excellent impression of humanity it is only skin deep. She takes a breath to brace herself.

  The Malice and the Man-shape first met on the battlefield, one made to destroy the other, one destroying the other’s master and being destroyed by it. Both have the urge to be elsewhere, to attack, but both also have Vesper, and the young woman realizes that she is the bridge, able to understand each side, to see the beauty amid the scars.

  Aware that she is trembling, Vesper raises her arms, going on tip-toe to bring her level with the Man-shape as she embraces it.

  An eye widens at her shoulder and the Man-shape looks into it. For the infernal it is like looking into the face of death. But control is ever the Man-shape’s strength and it steels itself, inching its own arms up to circle Vesper and the sword.

  Vesper rests her head on the infernal’s chest, ‘Ssh,’ she says, soothing. ‘Ssh.’

  The sword contains its rage.

  The Man-shape contains its fear.

  Humans and half-breeds and infernals watch, unsure what they are a witness to. Afterwards there is much discussion as to the meaning behind the act. Some say it is submission of one side or another, others a meeting of friends, still others that it is an abomination. All agree it is an omen, though for good or ill, they cannot say. And all feel themse
lves in the presence of history, and a sense of being made both larger and smaller by it.

  Vesper eats as Genner talks. His report is fixed on details, statistics. Food requirements per head, projected population growth versus projected lifetime of supplies, estimates on the arrival of the Empire’s army, overviews of grievances with several unresolved cases for Vesper’s attention.

  When the sword wakes up and stares at the door, Vesper’s eyes sliding in the same direction, he stops speaking and opens it.

  The First is on the other side.

  Genner quickly steps aside, his expression neutral.

  ‘I am leaving,’ states the First.

  Vesper puts down her lunch. Guilty thoughts fly through her mind. Is this her fault? Does it know she harbours doubts? ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘My people will remain here, as will my sky-ships. They are at your disposal should your desire for … peace be at odds with The Seven’s.’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘Wonderland. I have a debt to pay and a price to claim.’

  ‘Oh. I’d assumed that you … er, this part of you at least, was going to stay here.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will you be coming back?’

  ‘It is my … intention to do so.’

  Vesper stands up. ‘I need Neer. I need you too. Promise me you’ll come back.’

  ‘Either you trust my intention or you do not. A promise will make no difference.’

  ‘Then I look forward to seeing you again soon.’

  After the First has left, Vesper looks at Genner. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s an infernal, we can’t trust it.’

  She sighs. ‘I know it’s hiding something but I can’t see what.’

  ‘Where is the rest of it? Spread out like usual?’

  ‘No. The First is gathered together in Wonderland.’ Genner’s usual composure breaks in a flash of surprise as she continues. ‘There might be a few bits of it elsewhere but I doubt it. It’s terrified of The Seven. That’s what confuses me. I thought it was using me as a shield to hide behind but I can’t protect it if it leaves.’

  Genner’s face is stern. ‘I think I see it.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘We know the path The Seven are taking to get here and you can be sure the First does too. It’s worked out they’re bypassing Wonderland to come here directly. It doesn’t need you as a shield any more. Do you see? It’s using you as bait.’

  One Thousand and Twenty-Seven Years Ago

  Massassi stands in her workshop once more. An exo-skeleton supports her on the outside, a constant supply of medication via a tube connecting her to the wall, supporting her within.

  Peace-Fifteen has warned her that the levels are dangerous, a threat to her health. Massassi has warned Peace-Fifteen to shut up.

  Alpha and Beta are delighted to see her in action again, neither able to conceive of her frailty, much less notice it. Gamma is merely annoyed that their creator has not acted sooner.

  Massassi empathizes, has wanted to act for a long time. More than ever she is aware of the failings of her Empire. Her Seraph Knights move ever further away from the rest of her citizens. Under Alpha’s tutelage they have become stronger, rarified, their dedication setting them apart.

  Beta has implemented a series of codes to help mitigate future problems, programming the knights to help their fellow man, should the right requests be made.

  And Gamma fluctuates between wanting to improve things and wanting to tear them down. Already she has come into conflict with her brothers and Massassi fears that without intervention, things will get worse.

  For all of these reasons, she raises her tools again, and for one other: Massassi is bored, empty without a project. Physical complaints can be endured but not the feeling of uselessness that comes with inaction.

  Gamma was too much like her, she realizes, flawed. She still desires to craft something in a female form but this time, it must be more focused, she must be more focused.

  The body soon takes shape, very close to Gamma’s in appearance but perhaps a little softer, a little smoother. Massassi dismisses the thought of it being weaker, preferring the idea that she is making something more nuanced, a sister that will be better equipped to deal with humanity fairly.

  The sword she makes is similar to Beta’s, a slightly quicker weapon, as suited to defence as it is to attack.

  For days she fusses over details, wanting the work to be perfect, wanting to put off the time when she must give up more of herself to bring the silver body to life.

  Deep down she knows there is not much left to give.

  Soon, Gamma is making her impatience felt. Unlike her brothers she sees Massassi’s fears all too well, sniffing them out with what feels like cold enthusiasm. Gamma’s presence is like a fly in the soup of her brothers’ love. Not equal but enough to sour the whole thing.

  In the end it is as much pride as courage that makes Massassi act. Her silver arm is the only part of her that doesn’t tremble, the iris in her palm opening as smoothly as ever. She takes a moment to appreciate the quality of her work, then silently swears to match it again today.

  Essence flows, bright, moving from heart to hand, to a silver head then on, through every part of the body, to the inert sword and back again.

  Though she never admits it, Massassi has lost the capacity to shape this part of the process. Such is the effort required to push her essence out, she is a slave to the way it flows. This time it is not anger that takes her but regret. A succession of faces wash past her vision. At first the familiar ones, her supervisor, the doctor that tried to muffle her mind with drugs, the men that came to kill her in the early days, the mix of people she tried to elevate to her level and failed. Then others, countless thousands she consigned to death without meeting, too many to name, too many to hold in the mind, a blurring line of ghosts.

  Though her exo-skeleton holds her upright, Massassi’s body sags as Delta’s eyes open.

  Like Gamma, the newborn immortal sees her flaws. Unlike her, she forgives them. Instinctively, she embraces her creator.

  Alpha comes closer, his approval filling the room with song, Beta joining him, a gentler harmony, complimentary. Gamma remains where she is.

  Buoyed by their love, Massassi allows herself to float. She is neither happy nor sad, pleased nor displeased. A great weight has lifted with Delta’s creation, leaving her peaceful, calm, almost completely empty.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Seven’s armada, reunited after their split, clusters along the coastline, disgorging troops in trucks and knights in metal snakes. Both halves of the fleet have seen their fair share of action.

  Island after island has been purged, the tainted and their homes made ash. There has been no resistance to speak of, those with the means to flee having done so, and those without hiding, or running within the confines of their islands, easy pickings for the fire teams.

  They had hoped to find pockets of the faithful on their travels, gathering the worthy to their side and growing the army as Gamma did on her fateful journey to the Breach. But the people of the Empire have fallen far in that time, and Alpha’s standards are exacting.

  Those who have waited on bended knee, with smiles or whispered litanies, have been met with fire.

  The Knight Commander knows they are doing good work but cannot help but feel that something is missing. So far it seems as if they do little more than weed a garden, one that will not recover in his lifetime.

  Where is the glory? Where is the enemy deserving of their wrath?

  As Alpha’s palace drifts slowly overhead, the Knight Commander reluctantly leaves Resolution behind, the waterways too small and treacherous to support the mighty vessel. At his command, the curving head of the ship comes to life, detaching itself to grind across the launch deck and onto the beach, like a tongue leaving its mouth behind. His command centre appears like the metal snakes favoured by the knights, but is four times bigger,
the front raised off the ground, a wingless dragon among the worms.

  Separation is successful, smoothly handled, one of the only things to go as smoothly as the drills. The Knight Commander nods, satisfied, and his officers allow themselves a brief moment of inner celebration.

  He glances up at the sky palace’s shadow, wondering what discussions take place above him, and if an answer to his question will come soon.

  He considers opening a channel to Obeisance. Pressuring her or The Seven never ends well but his military training chafes at the delay. His hand moves to initiate contact, stops, moves again, stops. It is all too easy to imagine how she will react. He grimaces. Obeisance has a way of making arguments evaporate and stripping the one making them of dignity.

  His fist bangs on the bulkhead, startling those around him.

  Things of importance are suddenly found on displays, officers leaning into their screens with utter focus.

  The Knight Commander curses himself silently, then straightens in surprise as Obeisance’s image begins to resolve in front of him.

  It is as if she knows! It strikes him then that perhaps she does. He has always thought of the Lenses as a force out there, watching the Empire and its peoples for dissent, has never considered that they may watch him just as closely.

  All of a sudden his back feels exposed, his officers no longer harmless. Could one of them be reporting to her?

  If she harbours any doubts about him, none show in her projected face. ‘Knight Commander.’

  ‘Obeisance.’

  ‘I trust the transition is going well.’

  ‘Flawlessly.’

  ‘Good. We cannot help but notice we are overtaking our own vanguard.’

  ‘Apologies, I did not wish to deploy our ground forces until I had an answer.’

  There is a pause and the Knight Commander feels a familiar dread. He has said the wrong thing.

  ‘What answer is this? Have your orders not been clear?’