The Seven. Peter Newman

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СКАЧАТЬ their discipline impeccable. The Knight Commander feels a tiny morsel of relief. No mistake is permissible when The Seven are watching.

      A single Seraph Knight hurries over and salutes.

      ‘Report.’

      The knight points to the kneeling citizens. ‘Alpha says these ones are to be spared.’

      The Knight Commander does a quick head count, his chip confirming the details as he tries to ignore their calls for help, for reassurance, for any kind of recognition. There are one hundred and thirty people here, less than one percent of Greyspot Three’s population.

      ‘I see.’

      ‘What should we do, sir?’

      His voice quivers. The knight is young, barely more than a squire. He has never seen battle before, but then, neither has the Knight Commander.

      ‘What we always do when we receive orders: we follow them.’ He turns his head slightly, speaking to officers further away via comms. ‘Captains, have your troops form a perimeter around the port. Nothing and no one gets through, understood?’

      Within his helmet, a chorus of affirmation echoes.

      The knights form up with him, their lances charged, ready, their eyes on him, waiting for the order.

      Doubt flickers within the Knight Commander’s chest. He wonders if they are really about to destroy an entire port. Is this some kind of test? Surely we must be able to save more than these few? Even the tainted can be purged.

      Doubt turns to fear as Alpha’s gaze falls upon him. If he does not act now, and immediately, he will be judged and found wanting. Perhaps he already has been.

      The Knight Commander swallows in a dry throat.

      He gives the order.

      The knights level their lances.

      By now, the people of Greyspot Three have realized what is coming. Those with weapons ready them. Those without take cover. Despite the lack of time or cohesion, a resistance forms quickly. Houses become bunkers, windows gunnery ports. Those without conventional firearms resort to throwing whatever comes to hand.

      It is a swift and spirited response.

      The knights’ lances spew fire, a wave of destruction, setting buildings and people ablaze. The rebels return fire, less spirited than before.

      Back and forth it goes, three times, with the resistance fading more and more. And then, Alpha sings. It is a long note, sharp, that seems to go on forever.

      A migraine starts behind the Knight Commander’s eyes, the sudden pain throwing off his aim. The other knights struggle too, their sword-points lowering, wilting. While, further back, the soldiers stop firing altogether.

      In one of the houses, a half-breed begins to scream. She is not tainted badly, not on the surface. But, behind her skin, the blood vibrates, burning up. Similar cries join her from scattered locations, and through it all, Alpha sustains the note.

      The Knight Commander is not sure how much more he can take and he is not the target of Alpha’s song. The rebels have stopped firing now, hands too busy, covering ears or staunching blood that flows from nostrils, to handle weapons.

      Three streets away, on a roof, a lone woman stands. Her clothes are well-worn, faded, but something in her posture speaks of command. Though the sound buffets her just as much as the others, she finds the strength to stand. In her hand is a Slingpistol. She points it at Alpha, putting his silver face in her sights, and fires.

      A single shot, flung at a giant. For a moment all attention goes to it, soldiers and citizens alike forgetting their pain as they gape at the unlikely attack.

      The Knight Commander cannot believe what he is seeing. He has time to realize that the woman’s aim is true, time to pose the question of what he would do if Alpha fell, but not time to answer it.

      Set into the winged crosspiece of Alpha’s sword is an eye. It tracks the incoming projectile. The Knight Commander is not sure whether it is sword that moves arm, or arm that moves sword, but one moment, Alpha’s blade is at his side, the next it is arcing up, swatting the shot from the sky.

      Alpha stops singing, and three eyes turn to the woman on the roof. As the immortal’s sword swings in her direction, the Knight Commander sees her turn, jump down, trying to put the house between them.

      Alpha sings a second note, and for a moment it is too bright to see anything, the Knight Commander is forced to shield his face from a world turned searing blue. When he looks again there is no house, no woman, no resistance. Just a pile of ashes smouldering in the breeze.

      Then Alpha is moving towards the next house, and the Knight Commander is shouting orders, mobilizing his forces. This time, when the soldiers and knights fire, the rebels have no answer.

      Hours pass as the metal snake continues to work its way towards the coast. Despite its size, the vehicle moves swiftly. Smoke trails at sharp angles from shattered turrets, and the caterpillar tracks make short work of the uneven terrain.

      Delta of The Seven blinks, returning from thoughts of the past. She has been staring at a tiny hole in the ceiling, waiting for Obeisance to come. But Obeisance has not come. Her brothers and sisters are expecting her return. Alpha will be displeased at the delay. The thought concerns Delta, for she has always tried to be in harmony with the others, prided herself on it.

      She realizes that no immediate aid is coming and that she should take action herself. But what action? More information is needed.

      In turn, she regards each of the people sharing the cockpit with her.

      The child, Reela, sleeps badly. Straps meant for an adult ride up under her chin, digging in. Her dreams are reflected in Delta’s eyes. She is trapped in a house that burns, and visored faces stare at her through windows, blocking escape.

      Studying her essence, Delta sees little to cherish, and the proximity of the taint, however slight, is unpleasant.

      The smaller man, Jem, is looking at her. He is afraid. He is right to be. She sees his mind making its petty calculations, the network of small lies that permeate his being and, beneath them, a heavy sense of bitterness and regret she cannot help but feel empathy for. But more than all of this, she sees that he is tainted, spoiled by years of infernal contact.

      The other man, the one that once bore Gamma’s sword, and has now dared to use hers, is not tainted. Though he is easy to read, a simple example of the species, she does not understand where he fits. Like a spare part left in the box after construction is completed. There is a temptation to keep him around, just in case, but really, there is no need for him. She lingers briefly on the freshness of the man’s grief, how it threatens to overwhelm him, the tidal surge of it held back by adrenaline, fear and the demands of the moment.

      Delta knows what is expected of her. She closes her eyes, imagines Alpha giving the order. So easy is it for her to picture her brother, it is as if he were there, demanding their destruction.

      Her hand opens as she turns to where her sword lies. It is next to the Vagrant’s chair, feigning sleep. It does not respond to her summons. She considers picking it up. Certainly, none of the humans present could stop her. And yet, she does not pick it up.

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