The Seven - Peter Newman

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of this, in spite of everything, many missiles find their targets, puncturing hulls, ripping holes, and fire flares underwater. With each detonation comes a smaller pulse of essence. None trouble Vesper, but within its many shells, the First pauses, momentarily stunned. Samael flinches, pressing a hand to his head, and Scout howls wildly.

      The First’s fleet remains intact but four of the vessels have been forced to return, smoking, to the surface, and one of them has stopped entirely, its engines ruined.

      Vesper grips the railing, catching her breath as The Commander’s Rest slows to a crawl. She doesn’t relax, the sword won’t let her, and when the second wave of missiles comes, she is already straightening, drawing breath to sing again.

      As they travel, the Vagrant pushes the sea-shuttle faster, until his hands meet resistance on the column, feedback from the mutigel informing him that he has reached the craft’s safety limits.

      The water is choppy here, the sea-shuttle launching from one wave-top to another, haphazard. Jem hunkers down in a corner, holding Reela to him. Hard surfaces smack against his back and legs with each new impact. Delta unfurls her wings, for balance.

      The Vagrant squints at the empty horizon, scowls, and presses his hands forward again, until his fingers are curling against the back edge of the steering column.

      A humming engine becomes a whining one, though the sound is barely heard over the wind. Emergency flaps open at the front of the sea-shuttle, bravely trying to prevent the high speed from flipping the ship over.

      Onward they go, the sea-shuttle so fast now it threatens to defy gravity. Water soaks them all, whipped cold, numbing hands and stinging eyes.

      The Vagrant grits his teeth.

      Jem tries to talk to him, but the words are torn away. Terrified, but more scared of moving than staying, Jem reverts to watching Delta’s hands and the bones within them.

      At last, Alpha’s sky palace comes into view. Such is its size that it confounds the mind, like a half-rendered image where the mountain that surely supports the structure has not yet resolved itself. But there is no mountain, no ground beneath it.

      Ahead of them, on the water, they see rows and rows of Alpha’s ships, an armada, too many to count. War cruisers, frigates, scouts, all moving in perfect formation. Such a fleet has not been assembled since the Battle of the Red Wave.

      And then, from the battlements of the palace, a glimmering cloud issues, a swarm of missiles streaking away, soon lost to sight.

      Jem shouts, his voice an insect’s whine against elements and engine. ‘Now what?’

      The Vagrant ignores him.

      ‘You’re not just going to sail through that? You can’t!’

      The Vagrant ignores him.

      ‘I won’t let you do this to Reela!’

      A shadow looms over them, making both men turn.

      Delta has stepped forward, she steps again, so close that the hilt of her sword nearly pokes Jem’s chest. Knees bend and she leaps skyward, the sea-shuttle lurching dangerously in the opposite direction.

      Seawater briefly rises above ankles, diving over boot-tops to chill toes.

      Delta’s wings beat, the downdraught plastering the Vagrant against the steering column, and Jem and Reela against the floor.

      Spluttering, Jem sits up, looks up.

      Delta’s wings beat again, long and fluid, propelling her, catching currents that draw her swiftly away, a silvered arrow pointing unerringly at Alpha’s palace.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      Delta looks at the ships beneath her. They carry the same troops that razed Greyspot Three, the ones that turned the people living there to the bones in her hands.

      She looks at Alpha’s palace in the wake of its just-launched volley of missiles. Distantly, she feels their tiny impacts. Deep inside her, the misery grows until it becomes too much to contain.

      Her mouth opens in song.

      The air shakes with it. Nearby clouds weep, and below, waves pause, collapsing in on themselves.

      Without being ordered by their commanders, the pilots of each of the ships cut their engines.

      Everything stops.

      But Delta is not done.

      She turns her gaze to the sky, singing out as her brother has done, connecting with a distant orbiting body. But her order is different. The satellite glimmers one final time, and is gone.

      Silver wings carry her over the top of the battlements, soldiers gasping at the sight despite themselves, awestruck. She ignores them, diving into the courtyard where Alpha is emerging, followed quickly by Beta, Epsilon, Theta and Eta.

      He glances past her as she lands, sky-blue eyes darkening with rage. As that stare turns on her, she feels his displeasure, like fists pushing at her chest. Bracing herself, Delta raises her hands, opens them so that they can all see the charred, misshapen bones in one and the small skull in the other.

      ‘How did it come to this?’

      Three volleys have come, each a rain of singing missiles. Vesper waits to see if there will be a fourth. Around her, the crews of the First’s ships swarm over their decks, putting out fires, plugging holes, pumping out unwanted water.

      The interlude of peace continues, extending well beyond the rhythm of the previous attacks. An eye closes, and she puts the sword away.

      Two of the nine ships escorting The Commander’s Rest have been sunk, another five damaged and unable to submerge. The Wavemaker has sustained hits to one of its engines, slowing it substantially.

      Unlike conflict on land, there are no other scars of battle visible. If anything, the water is calmer than before.

      Vesper takes a drink to soothe her throat. Use of the Malice has left it raw, and it complains each time she speaks. She watches in silence as her knights, of the Order of the Broken Blades, tip one of their number into the sea. There is time to see the shrapnel wound, to appreciate the misfortune, before the sea claims the body.

      A gloom falls across her people. They are used to death and struggle but they are not used to this. One of them raises a hand.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘That attack, it came from the Empire.’

      It isn’t phrased as a question but Vesper answers it anyway. ‘Yes … and it was directed by Alpha of The Seven.’

      Dismay does not sit well on the usually stoic faces. Eventually one of the older knights says, ‘If The Seven wish us dead, should we not oblige Them?’

      ‘No,’ replies Vesper. ‘It’s not that simple. Alpha started the attack but the sword, Gamma’s sword, protected us and another of The Seven stopped it.’

      ‘But … The Seven speak as one! What does this mean?’

      ‘It means They don’t speak as one. Perhaps They never have.’

      Another knight speaks, full of despair, though his courage has never failed before. ‘What will we do?’

      An eye flicks open at Vesper’s shoulder and her own widen with anger. ‘What will we do? What will we do! We’ve lived our whole lives without The Seven, up till now. Gamma helped us before and she’s still helping us now. We survived the Usurper and the Yearning without Them. We’ve just started making sense of everything and I’m not going to stop now.’ She looks at the crippled ships around her and her scowl only deepens. ‘Damn Alpha! How dare He attack the people who faced it all alone while He wept in the dark!’

      The knights don’t answer, shocked by

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