but Genner continues regardless. ‘But remember, you’re not alone. Each person on board is within the top one per cent of the Empire’s finest and all of us are ready to fight, and die if need be.’
‘Are there knights here?’
‘Twenty-five are with us, all veterans hand-picked by the Knight Commander himself. Each has three squires. In addition, we have a small infantry unit packed into the base of the ship.’
Vesper begins looking around again, then points excitedly at the people either side of her. ‘Are they knights? Are you knights?’
One stares straight ahead, contemplating infinity. The other looks back at the girl, catches herself and looks away.
‘This,’ says Genner, gesturing to the two women, ‘is Duet. She’s a Harmonised, which is incredibly rare—’
‘Is that a special kind of knight?’
‘Well, no, not exactly. The Harmonised are a subset of the Order. They’re guardians, specially trained to protect against infernal influence.’
Vesper nods, disappointment peeking through the gesture. ‘That sounds good.’
Despite the girl’s lack of enthusiasm, Duet remains stoic beneath her visors.
Genner’s reply is earnest: ‘It is. Where we’re going it won’t just be your body at risk but your mind and spirit. Any contact, even just being close to an infernal, is dangerous and there are a lot of infernals between us and our destination. That’s why we’re travelling fast and light. We should be able to sail straight over the enemy’s forces. If the Winged Eye wills it, we’ll be able to set you down right next to the Breach.’
Minutes tick by and Genner settles back like the others, meditative. Vesper bites her lip and strokes the kid, who has fallen asleep in her lap. ‘How long till we get there?’
‘Four hours.’
She tries not to be sick. A lip receives further mauling. Toes wriggle, heels tap repeatedly against the wall. Everyone else remains still.
Nerves overwhelm her. She contemplates confessing but dares not, nearly asks Genner to turn the sky-ship around, but between mind and mouth, the question wilts into something mundane. Anything to fill the silence.
‘So we’re actually flying?’
Genner opens his eyes. ‘Yes. We’re actually flying.’
‘I wish we could see outside.’
‘Only the pilot needs to see.’
‘Where’s the pilot?’
‘In the iris pod.’
Feet pause their tapping. Vesper’s brow creases in thought. She begins to open her mouth, pauses.
‘What is it?’
‘Please, would it be possible for me to sit in the iris pod?’
‘That’s not standard procedure.’
‘Oh. I understand.’
Genner makes a speech, about safety, about protocol, trying to explain, to restore the happy face of moments ago. ‘I’m sorry, that’s just how it is.’ Before he can say more, a square lights up at his throat, then another within his ear.
The communication makes the young man sit up, straps cutting into his shoulders. He speaks rapidly. ‘How many? How do they even know we’re here? Is the stealth active? Yes. Yes. I’ll await your report.’
As lights fade from skin, Genner meets Vesper’s eye.
A quaver disturbs the girl’s voice. ‘What was that?’
‘Rogue sky-ships, three of them. They’re on an intercept course.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means no more talking. Brace for impact!’
Figures tense, gripping the arms of seats about and above her. No words are said but many mouths move, intoning the litany: Winged Eye save us, protect us, deliver us.
Three sky-ships move in formation. Once, they wore their allegiance to the Winged Eye proudly. Now, those signs have been defaced, with blood or with knives, symbolic. They swoop down together, ready to attack. Their target is invisible, hidden from mortal sight. This does not stop them, for the First guides their hand, finding the needle in the sky and plucking it.
Missiles fire, and the three ships peel away, keen to avoid retaliation.
The target makes an optimistic attempt to evade the attack. It spins, dives, spits balls of light in its wake, distractions that sparkle, tempting.
But the pilot’s manoeuvres are as out of date as the countermeasures. Superior missiles find their mark, shattering shields, tearing engines.
In a gasp of fire, the Light-drives fail.
As the sky-ship begins to fall, a cloud of pods explodes from it in every direction, like a sneeze. Each pod is just bigger than the adult it carries. Orders mobilize them and they streak towards the nearest landmass; a formation of white-tailed comets heading to a half-made island, home of the Harmonium Forge and the airy prison: Sonorous.
Part prison colony, part port, Sonorous looms up from the water, buildings bolted onto a vast semicircle of rock. Within the sheltered waters, ships rest. Lifts sway gently as they move between the different sectors, from the dock level at the bottom to the watchtower three miles above. The prison is built on the outer curve, cells dangling from chains over the open ocean.
Tiny roads spiderweb between crammed buildings on the lower levels. By contrast, Sonorous’ main road, the Tradeway, sprawls out like a fat tongue, running from the port to the mountain’s edge. From here it angles mildly up, a leisurely spiral snaking towards the mid-level, where it meets the machine factories.
Only the Tradeway is large enough to support the four crawlertanks as they groan from their hangars. Mechanised legs bear heavy oval bodies, packed with troops. They travel the length of the Tradeway at speed, warming cannons as they go, for the island kingdom has only recently declared independence and when its rulers see the flurry of pods streaking overhead they assume the worst.
Fearing that the Empire of the Winged Eye has come to reclaim its wayward colony, they summon their soldiers, send a message to the First for aid, and hide in custom-made bunkers, prepared for just such an occasion.
Above, the pods decelerate and spend the last of their reserves in fields of energy, dazzling, sparking as they take the impact of landing.
They come down, some in the streets, some punching through walls. Metal rain that destroys noisily.
People run. Unable to tell which way is safest, they go in random directions. Dust plumes around them, lending a gritty mystery to the scene. Gradually, noise settles. Air clears.
A pod sits in a trench of its own making. A rectangle of white fades up along one of its sides. Soon after, there is a popping sound, soft, anticlimactic, and
