The Seven

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.

Even as the outrage runs through her that it has not responded, she realizes she does not want it to. Delta has always carried weariness within her and she has little spirit for fighting. She did not leave the sanctum to bloody her hands. She left it to investigate her sister, to understand why the last fragment of Gamma acts the way it does.

She tells herself that these humans are not worthy of her wrath. Tells herself that it is only a matter of time before the Empire comes to collect her, and so it is not worth the effort of leaving. She tells herself that she is choosing to wait because it suits her.

And then, because it is habit and because it is easier, she sits down and closes her eyes.

Both suns are in the sky, casting lights, sparkling, across the sea. Water dominates the view now, from the unbroken line of the horizon to the waves smacking against the shore.

Throughout the dawn and early morning, the metal snake continues its journey, tireless. Thinning smoke leaks from ravaged turrets but, despite the battering, it moves as fast as ever.

Jem comes over to stand next to the Vagrant’s chair. He glances at Reela, asleep in the straps, and lowers his voice. ‘We’re making good time.’

The Vagrant doesn’t register the words at first, his attention elsewhere, in the past, on things lost. Amber eyes focus again. He blinks away tears, nods.

‘Do you think we can get to Vesper before they do?’

The Vagrant shrugs and Jem looks past him, towards their destination.

Up ahead is a port, but not the great northern sea base that Jem expects to see. ‘I thought you’d be taking us to Skylanding.’ He leans forward, squinting, trying to recognize a landmark. ‘It’s not Northwing either. Where are we?’

The Vagrant points at the navcom, shrugs.

‘You don’t know?’ asks Jem, incredulous. The display is damaged but he is able to make out enough detail to guess. ‘It’s taking us to Greyspot Three, isn’t it? But Vesper will be going to Crucible. We should be heading to Skylanding, that’s the most direct route.’

The Vagrant gestures back to where Delta sits and shakes his head.

He imagines the kind of welcome they’d get from the Empire’s forces at Skylanding or Northwing and reconsiders. ‘Alright, you have a point, but we can’t take Reela to Greyspot Three. It’s not safe. It’s full of refugees and rejects from the Shining City. For suns’ sake, I’ve even heard rumours that the First’s nomads use it as a trading spot!’

Reela stretches, yawning, and whatever Jem is about to say is bitten back.

The Vagrant pulls gently back on the control stick and the metal snake eases to a stop. He rubs at his eyes, bloodshot, before resting his hands on the dashboard. There is a pause, long enough to take a breath, to sigh, and then he is pushing himself out of the chair.

Jem goes to unstrap Reela but finds she has already stood up, a big frown on her little face. ‘What’s wrong?’

Reela looks up at him, solemn, but says nothing.

The Vagrant collects Delta’s sword from the floor and opens the hatch. There is a hiss, and fresh air wafts into the stuffy room, enlivening.

Jem moves to his side, pulling Reela behind him. He leans in close. ‘What about Her?’

Both men look at Delta for a moment. If she is aware of their scrutiny, she gives no sign.

‘Maybe we should just leave Her here?’

The Vagrant thinks for a moment, nods, and takes a step towards Delta.

‘What are you –? Actually, I don’t want to know.’ Jem retreats towards the exit hatch. ‘Before you do anything, I’m going outside.’ He looks down, adds hastily, ‘To keep Reela safe.’

The Vagrant nods.

Jem ushers Reela out, turning briefly before following her. ‘Whatever you’re going to do, be careful.’

The Vagrant raises an eyebrow.

Alone, save for Delta, the Vagrant seems to sag, the weight of recent events folding over his shoulders like a cloak. He pinches the bridge of his nose, knuckles tired eyes and walks to where Delta sits.

Carefully, quietly, he kneels down opposite her. The top of his head barely lines up with her shoulder.

She does not stir.

With reverence, he returns her sword, leaving it at her feet. He glances up, but her eyes remain closed. Neither sword nor immortal show any sign of having noticed each other. He stands slowly, leaves quickly, and doesn’t look back.

Outside, Jem and Reela are waiting. The three of them walk towards the cliff’s edge. Up here, they are exposed, the wind knocking at them, playful, tugging hair and making speech difficult. The smoke that rises from the other side is whisked away as soon as it peeks above ground level.

The Vagrant sees the smoke and his frown burrows deeper.

‘I don’t like this,’ murmurs Jem.

They move nearer to the edge, battling the wind for balance. Jem holds one of Reela’s hands, the Vagrant holds the other.

Slowly, by inches, Greyspot Three comes into view. Houses smoulder below, glowing red, a scattered cluster of dying stars. Jem pulls out his old, battered scope. He sees details he could have done without, a high heap of bodies, stacked, blackened limbs rigid. Shattered buildings and bomb-scarred streets.

The Vagrant takes the scope, his jaw clenching as he takes in the details.

Reela’s scope is imaginary, but the grim set to her face is convincing nonetheless.

‘Oh no,’ says Jem, tapping the Vagrant’s shoulder.

He looks over and Jem points, back to the metal snake. ‘Look!’

Delta of The Seven stands between them and the vehicle. She is watching them, her expression unreadable. One of her silvered hands rests on the hilt of her sword.

‘What do we do now?’ asks Jem.

The Vagrant looks over the edge of the cliff. The walkway that leads down the rock face is mostly intact. He runs for the nearest platform, pulling Reela behind him, pulling Jem behind her.

‘But,’ Jem protests, ‘we can’t go down there!’

The Vagrant ignores him, and when Jem gives a second look over his shoulder, he sees that Delta has started to follow them, and his protests die.

Rusted walkways clank with every step. The top layer has disguised the damage further down. The side of the cliff has chunks blown out of it and there is blood caked in the lattice of metal either side of them. There are no bodies here, however. Each has already been taken, fuel for the pyres in the port below. As they pass the worst of the damage the walkway leans out, alarming. Four of the main supports have broken free of their housing, leaving power cables to hold up the structure.

The Vagrant stops.