Читать книгу The Seven - Peter Newman, Peter Newman - Страница 10

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.’