The Seven

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 empire 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 knights 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.

Foam sprays in all directions, and the rocking falls into a steady rhythm, decreasing as the two ships and the water around them settle.

A hatch opens in the Wavemaker’s side and a black-clad figure emerges, its loose robe flowing easily over fitted armour. With a single leap it sails up, twenty feet, to land on the rail, a boot either side of Vesper’s hands.

Knights detach themselves, rushing forward to support her. Samael draws his battered sword, and, at Vesper’s shoulder, an eye springs open, angry.

‘Wait!’ she shouts, holding up her hands. ‘All of you, wait! Stand down.’

Immediately, they stop, though all remain prepared. Samael’s sword returns to its sheath.

The First looks down at them. ‘I see that your natures remain … violent and I am unsurprised.’

Vesper takes a step back from the rail. ‘You haven’t changed either.’

‘This is true. I remain … reasonable.’

‘Is that why you ambushed us?’

The First raises a gauntleted hand to point at Vesper. ‘You are displaying your power. I am simply displaying mine. It interests me that you have told your followers not to attack and yet you have drawn the Malice.’

Vesper blinks, surprised to find that this is true. The sword is in her hand, humming, ready to act. She thinks quickly. ‘Not drawn in anger. The Malice is part of this discussion too.’

She closes her eyes, letting the sword show her a different vision of the First. Through its eye, she sees the infernal dwelling within the human body. Swirling essence that moves in alien ways, discomfiting. Within the strangeness lurk more recognizable emotions. Rapid fluctuations that betray anxiety, a lightening of colour one moment, perhaps curiosity, in the next a change of shade that suggests bitterness. There is no sign of aggression, at least not yet.

Opening her eyes again, Vesper beckons the First forward, inviting it on deck.

Lightly, it steps down. ‘Are you ready to begin?’

‘I am.’ She lowers the sword but does not sheath it.

‘You do not wish to discuss our … business in private? If you wish, we could return to my ship.’

‘No. We can talk freely here. My knights understand what we’re trying to do.’

The First reaches up, unclasps its featureless helmet, and removes it. A face is revealed, hard, female, the features rendered slightly odd through a lifetime of minor alterations in service to the Empire of the Winged Eye.

Vesper gasps. She knows that face. Once it belonged to two people, both called Duet. The face stirs many memories, of her betrayal of one of them, of being betrayed by the other. Ultimately, Duet was taken by the infernals, though only one of her went willingly.

At the sight, Scout throws back his head and howls.

The First studies Vesper. ‘You may be wondering why it is I chose this particular body for our meeting. There are many reasons. I wanted to remind you that people of your Empire have desired alliance with me in the past. I wanted to acknowledge the … history that exists between us.’

‘Is she still,’ Vesper waves a hand, ‘in there?’

‘No. Her body was fresh enough for me to occupy, but by the time I arrived, her essence had already dissipated.’

Vesper looks down. ‘Good.’

‘Is it? For whom is it good? Had you not interfered, the woman would have realized her dreams through me. Now she is nothing more than a memory. Look at this face and remember the past. If you do not accept my offer, only death will follow.’

The threat makes the knights tighten their grip on their weapons. Unlike the other orders of the Seraph however, these knights no longer carry singing swords, having sacrificed them long ago. As such, they pose little threat to the First.

Scout glares up at the infernal and begins to growl.

‘Stop that!’ snaps Vesper, shaking her head at Samael. The half-breed does not reply but the Dogspawn lowers its head, abashed. ‘You were saying something about an offer?’

‘Yes. I have no quarrel with your kind. Many of them live … happily in my cities. For years now, we have proven an ability to coexist. It is only your Empire that resists me. Disband it, destroy the weapons made to cause my kind suffering, and I will make peace.’

Vesper bites her lip and looks out to sea. In her hand, the sword begins to shake. ‘That’s it? That’s your offer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I agree on one thing; if we can’t negotiate, there will be war.’

‘Then let us negotiate.’

‘Alright. I don’t have any quarrel with your kind either.’ She gestures to Samael. ‘I can, how did you put it? Coexist. I’m on good terms with New Horizon, West Rift, Red Rails, Verdigris and Slake. That’s only a first step. I intend to negotiate with all of them, not as individuals, but as a collective. I want you to be part of that collective. Come south with me. Take part.’

‘I have heard of this gathering of yours.’

‘It’s no secret.’

‘These things are not mutually exclusive. If you agree to my offer, then I would come with you.’

An eye narrows and Vesper’s voice rises. ‘How can you be so blind?’ She holds up the sword and the First flinches away. ‘The Malice is alive, just as much as you are! It deserves to live just as much as you do. The Seraph Knights’ swords that you try so hard to break also live. They’re not as complex or as clever but they are alive. If you want me to look at you and see more than just an enemy, you have to do the same for me.

‘You’re offering me the chance to submit to you or be destroyed. That’s no choice at all. I’m offering you the chance to be part of something bigger.’

The First’s face does not react, its expression disconnected from its feelings. ‘This is … surprising.’

Vesper allows herself a small smile. ‘The Usurper is gone and I speak for the Empire now. There’s no need for us to fight anymore.’

‘So you say. I remain unconvinced but, I am intrigued.’

Vesper shifts the sword to her left hand and holds out her right. ‘A truce then? You’ll come with me and take part?’

‘I will travel with you, I will observe. Perhaps I will engage. I promise no more than that.’

‘That’s all I’m asking.’

The First takes her hand, mimicking the human gesture perfectly. ‘I accept.’

A few days pass as the Wavemaker and The Commander’s Rest speed along the sea together. From under the water, a new vessel moves to join them, then another. Both part of the First’s fleet.

Vesper and the sword exchange a concerned look.

It does not stop there. A fourth ship comes, a fifth, and so on, until a war fleet of nine follows them, just under the surface. When a half dozen sky-ships drop from the clouds to fall into position above, Vesper demands another audience with the First.

It comes in multiple bodies. Some arriving from the sky-ships, others swimming up from the depths. Vesper watches them through the sword’s eye, and begins to appreciate how big the First truly is. A single being, divided into bitesized human chunks. Though the First has a diverse collection of shells, they dress the same, move the same, making the differences in height and weight hard to remember. Vesper guesses that perhaps a quarter of its strength is here, the rest of the infernal spread out across the world.

They line up along the rail, like a line of ravens watching, waiting for an animal to die.

Vesper gestures to the ships all around them. ‘What is this?’

One of figures breaks from the others, jumps down. It removes its helmet, revealing Duet’s face. ‘You wished for me to come south with you.’

She frowns. ‘For talks. We don’t need an invasion fleet.’

‘I am not here to invade. We have made a truce.’

‘I just don’t understand why we need all of these ships.’

‘You seem displeased. I do not understand. Surely your gathering is important enough to warrant my full attention.’

‘Wait. You’re calling all of, um … you, here?’

‘Yes.’

The sword looks at Vesper, its hum felt more than heard, whisper-like. She nods. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

‘You once promised to stand between me and the Malice, do you remember?’

‘Yes.’

‘And while we are at peace, do you promise to stand between me and rest of The Seven?’

‘Yes.’

The First leans closer, bracing itself against the invisible force of the Malice’s anger. ‘You truly don’t know, do you?’

‘What are you taking about?’

‘The Seven. They have awoken and the fires of their rage burn in the north.’

‘But there’s no hostile force in the north.’

‘They see it differently.’ Vesper’s face falls and the First continues to speak. ‘The Seven are gathering Their strength. They call out to Their agents, who in turn call out to others. Factions within the colonies that came over to me have already begun to rebel.

‘They are coming south. I believe They are coming for me.’

Vesper’s hand goes to her mouth. She thinks of her family, despairs. Have they become another sacrifice? And what will The Seven do to her? What kind of example will they make? Such thoughts are dispelled with a shake of the head. ‘You knew this all along. That’s why you came to speak with me. You’re afraid!’

‘Yes. I am afraid. We are united in fear.’

She looks up, defiance colouring cheeks. ‘No, we are united in more than fear.’

But when the advance scouts of The Seven’s armada appear on the horizon, she goes straight to Samael, and he pushes The Commander’s Rest harder until it seems to fly across the wavetops.

The First returns to its fleet and they too accelerate, doing their best to keep pace with the sleeker vessel.

The scout ships fade from view but they are not forgotten.

Delta forces herself to look. In one hand she has a skull, in the other, part of a skeleton. The skull is ordinary, that of a human male, the skeleton belonging to a different man, one that has experienced the touch of the taint, turning the bones asymmetrical.