The Vagrant

by Peter Newman

  The Vagrant watches tiny figures dashing about, mesmerized. Vesper apes the movement. After a while she reaches out, snatching at them with her hands. Expectant, she opens a fist. Little eyebrows rise, surprised. There is nothing there! Vesper tries again, faster this time. Again, the laws of the universe disappoint. She leans forward, wind flicking at fluffy hair, hands stretching out.

  Closer.

  Just a little closer.

  Suddenly she is moving, away from the edge, away from her goal.

  The Vagrant has intervened.

  Vesper is unimpressed. She says so clearly, giving a detailed report of her anger. Despite the alien language, the Vagrant understands every word.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Harm. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  Vesper’s anger expands to include Harm and ‘dangerous’. She reaches for the balcony again but a strong arm holds her in place. Anger converts to self pity, collapsing the angry mask into scrunched sorrow.

  Before Harm can console, his attention is diverted by a series of white flashes. ‘What’s going on over there? That’s Third Circle, isn’t it?’

  The Vagrant nods, eyes widening.

  The bridges to Third Circle fall away, sealing it from the rest of the city. It has not been evacuated, still full to the brim with humans, tainted, stranded. Its inhabitants, varied in shape and size, realize they are being betrayed. With abandon they throw themselves into the water, making for First Circle. Some swim directly towards it, others seek alternative routes via Fourth Circle. Huge numbers of them, proverbial rats fleeing their holes. A broadcast voice repeats, repeats, appealing for calm. It is ignored.

  By the main bridge, guards wait, weapons raised and ready.

  Half-breeds charge over to the queue, demanding their place. People back away and an invisible line forms between the two groups, equal parts fear and hate. Plenty of room for the guards to take their shot.

  The refugees from Third Circle have no chance.

  Fire, white and laser bright, lances out, perforating. Bodies become fishnets and people scream, a luxury reserved for the living. A second group are shot where they stand and the remaining half-breeds run, postponing death for a few more hours.

  Harm shakes his head, not wanting to see. ‘You have to do something!’

  One of the Vagrant’s arms keeps Vesper close, the other rests by the sword. When the artillery light flashes from below, he looks pale.

  ‘There’s nothing more to be done,’ says Yuren, moving around the balcony to join them.

  ‘Yes there is! You can let them on board, they can come with us.’

  Yuren spreads his hands. ‘No. The infection risk is too high and there are too many of them. If we’re prudent, we have enough supplies to return to the Shining City.’

  ‘But only if you abandon half your people to do it?’

  ‘They aren’t my people. My people are here. They’ve grown up here, I know most of them by sight, I know their partners and their children. Third Circle is full of refugees. We did our best for them but I have to look to my own first. It isn’t pretty but hard choices have to be made.’

  ‘What about your citizens who got tainted, the ones you moved to Third Circle? What about them?’

  ‘A regrettable loss. But they would be the first to agree it needs to happen to allow the rest of us to survive.’

  ‘Yuren, this is wrong. There’s still time to save some of them.’

  ‘No, and it’s not just me. The other Council members agree it’s the only chance we have.’ The Vagrant hands Vesper over to Harm. ‘What are you doing?’

  Harm smiles grimly. ‘What you should have done already, saving those people.’

  ‘No,’ Yuren replies sadly. ‘It’s too late. By the time you got there it would be over. All you will do is announce your true identity and after that I won’t be able to protect you or your loved ones.’ His mouth twists bitterly. ‘How do you think they’ll react when the first Seraph Knight to appear since the war turns up on the side of the infected? You will become the enemy and they will kill you.’

  ‘Not if you ordered them to stop.’

  ‘Even if I wanted to, there’s no guarantees they’d listen. Axler certainly wouldn’t and the military will side with him, even over me. If I force the issue there’ll be civil war. No, I’ve thought about this for a long time. This is the only way.’

  Shouts rise up from the water. The half-breed swimmers have reached the boats clustered around First Circle’s skirts. Too close to precious engines for gunfire, the guards are forced to climb down where they can direct their attacks with precision. Third Circle’s escapees have superior strength and no plan. They throw themselves forward regardless, onto rafts, onto boats, onto the mercy of their neighbours.

  Weapons flash and orders cut strangely calm through cries of panic and pain.

  The Vagrant closes his eyes.

  Harm holds Vesper close, shielding her from the violence below.

  Yuren sub-vocalizes, hidden implants taking his words elsewhere. Alarms sound and the last bridges retract, releasing First Circle. Another silent order from the Councilman sets the rag tag fleet to work. Engines start, staccato. There are too many independent spirits to coordinate but gradually the message passes through the fleet, directing their collective energies against the giant disc’s bulk. A swarm of bugs coercing an elephant, First Circle trembles at their insistent buzz. Shyly, slowly, it drifts out of sheltered waters and into the Southern Sea.

  Three Years Ago

  A squire sits behind a crumbling wall, watching. The house he stares at is much like the others in the village, with a sagging roof and walls that long for a new coat of paint.

  It is not the building that interests him however.

  As the morning sunslight brings colour to the brickwork, highlighting further imperfections, the front door opens.

  Reela always leaves early. With aging, infirm parents and no sister to help, she has to make the most of each day.

  The squire stands, tries to recall what he has practised in his head so many times but, in the moment, his mind fails him and he stares dumbstruck. He sees how tired she is, how busy, and now his imagined advances seem petty, ridiculous. He quickly crouches behind the wall again.

  She does not notice, mind already focused on the day’s work.

  Soon, she is gone and the squire’s palm smacks sharply against his forehead.

  He looks at the sad little house, at the garden, thick with weeds and plants with strange, luminous leaves.

  An idea forms bringing new hope and, smiling, the squire sets to work. The tools he needs are in an unlocked shed next to the rusting shell of an autofarmer. It is no surprise that the mech no longer works. Shrugging, he rolls up his sleeves.

  He sweats through morning, through the afternoon, untangling plants, cutting back vines, revealing a cracked path and several growth pods, each plastic sphere designated for a different vegetable. None have survived. He digs out the dead roots and replaces them with wild flowers.

  It is late by the time he has finished and the squire quickly returns to his hiding place, keen to see Reela’s reaction.

  Voices come, bantering. Reela is talking with someone. Vesper! His voice sounds different, deeper than normal. The squire narrows his eyes.

  They round the corner and for once, Reela’s cool demeanour slips. ‘My garden! It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Er, yes. It is.’

  ‘My parents will be so happy. Thank you.’ Vesper’s surprise is lost on her. She kisses him on the cheek and the squire’s own begin to burn. ‘I won’t forget this.’

  ‘No,’ he manages a smile as she goes to the door. ‘Nor will I.’

  ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes! Yes you will.’

  ‘Good.’

  The squire cannot stand any more. He gets up, runs. Reela is already going inside and does not see, but Vesper does.

  As soon as he is sure Reela isn’t going to come back out Vesper gives
chase.

  He finds his friend deep in the woods, attacking the trees without mercy.

  Vesper stops at a safe distance, raises a hand. ‘Hi.’

  Another tree is smacked, sending leaves flurrying in the air.

  ‘Reela’s garden. That was you, wasn’t it?’

  The squire keeps his back to Vesper but pauses to nod.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, I was just so surprised. I’ll tell her tomorrow, I promise. Better yet, why don’t you tell her? I know you like her.’

  The squire blushes, shrugs.

  ‘I know I like her.’

  The two young men look at each other. Slowly, they both smile.

  ‘How about we get some more practice in? It’s your turn to use Attica’s sword.’

  The squire shakes his head.

  ‘Come on. You’re way more talented than I am. I can barely get the thing to work but you, you’ve got talent. You just need to step up and use it.’ Seeing his friend look doubtful, Vesper adds quickly, ‘We can help each other. You teach me how to sing better and I’ll teach you how to fight like a champion. What do you say?’

  They shake hands, friends again.

  ‘And tomorrow, you can go and talk to Reela yourself.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Half-alive forces of the Uncivil stream over the remains of Six Circles, harvesting. To slow them down, the enemy sabotages all bridges to the port city but the Uncivil’s Necroneering provides alternatives: skin steps and boneways, just as animate as their metal predecessors. In places there is fighting but most of the abandoned are quick to run or surrender.

  The commander doesn’t care. From the cliff’s edge he watches, attention passing over the carnage to the giant disc, bobbing seaward with his prize. Already it slips beyond reach. He sends his remaining Bonewings after it, knowing they will fail.

  After a moment’s deliberation he marches into the city, traversing empty streets, making for the northernmost point. Bodies are strewn randomly, unaesthetically. Flies crawl over charred limbs in growing numbers, searching for succulence.

  An idea strikes, bubbling up from the depths. He plucks a fly from the air with his new hand. Wings buzz, angry, trapped between supple fingers. The commander raises the fly to his visor, drawing upon techniques stolen and dark.

  Youths dressed as men make a loose circle. Some sit along the wall, feet dangling, some lean, affecting nonchalance. Several uniforms are still damp from seafront skirmishes; a few show blood splatters fresh on grey fabric. Tired, they pause to allow others a turn at battle. They gather round a noisy spectacle, two creatures fighting in the middle of the circle they make, stubborn, banging heads. Feathers twist in the air, sailing down to their fellows already on the ground. The bird’s cries become desperate.

  If anything, the sound makes the goat even more vicious.

  The guards laugh, apart from those who bet on the bird.

  From outside the circle a weapon points skyward, snorting gouts of fire. Everyone stops, turning towards it, even the beasts. They look from the lance to the man holding it, silently deciding the man the more dangerous.

  ‘What in The Seven’s name is this?’

  Blushing, a young woman steps forward. ‘We, we were on our way back, Captain, when we came across these animals fighting.’

  The captain’s look is stormy. ‘Animals, Lieutenant Ro?’

  ‘Yes, Captain,’ she says warily, gesturing towards the combatants.

  ‘Interesting. I see only one animal here. Where are the others?’

  Her voice tightens with stress. ‘Oh, I mean one animal and one bird, Captain.’

  The captain bears down on her. There is little difference in their height but somehow the captain makes her smaller. ‘Bird, Lieutenant? What bird?’

  Everyone is silent now. One guard stifles a nervous titter. The goat’s eyes are on the lance, fearful, her legs poised to run.

  The lieutenant points, hand trembling. ‘That one?’

  ‘That,’ says the captain, levelling his lance, ‘is not a bird. It’s a tainted monster that carries infection onto our ship. We’re at sea, packed with passengers. This thing presents just as much threat as the half-breeds you fought off an hour ago.’

  A stream of white fire pours from the lance, striking the bird in the chest. It screeches as the flames race over its body gobbling feathers and flesh alike, greedy. The goat scampers away to watch from a safer distance.

  ‘Put that out and throw it overboard, then report in. New recruits are here from the wall. There are going to be some changes.’ He looks at the young woman pointedly. ‘Private.’

  Still blushing, she salutes and turns away.

  ‘As for the rest of you, if you continue to look like dead weight then you’ll be thrown over the side. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Captain!’

  ‘Good, now get to work!’

  Guards scramble forward to deal with the crackling corpse. They stand in a muddle, none of them are sure of what to do. The captain walks to the goat, muttering, his lance threatening the sky again. ‘A bloody animal shows more initiative than my own officers.’ He pulls a square of firm jelly from his pocket. ‘Here, have this.’ The goat accepts the offering, halving it with a single gulp. ‘You’re efficient. I appreciate that. Come on, let’s try and clear the rest of those winged plague sacks off our ship.’ He drops the remaining jelly. It is gone before it touches the floor.

  The captain strides away in search of trouble. Nose twitching, the goat follows.

  The Vagrant grips the balcony rail, unable to look away while the port recedes from view. Atrocities play out, too distant to decode, confounding, laying foundations for sleepless nights. First Circle moves slowly in the water, letting views linger too long.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ says Harm softly.

  There is a silence, awkward. Yuren makes an empty statement and withdraws.

  ‘There’s nothing you could have done,’ Harm adds. ‘And even if there was, you would have put Vesper and your mission in danger to do it.’

  The Vagrant’s broad back is a wall against kindness.

  ‘I know there’s nothing I can say but I will say this, for me if not for you: We made it. We escaped Verdigris, survived all of the people trying to kill us, got past the Uncivil, around the wall and now we’re bound for the Shining City. All you have to do is sit tight. Don’t you see? Finally, we can relax.’ Harm moves closer, resting a hand on the Vagrant’s arm. ‘It’s funny, I’ve spent my whole life on that piece of rock but now that I’m leaving it I realize that I’m not attached to it. Not one bit.’ Harm pauses, measuring words about to be said, testing them. ‘I used to say Wonderland was my home but it wasn’t really. I don’t even think home is a place. Home was my mother and my sisters and my uncle, when I was a child. Now it’s you and Vesper.’

  The Vagrant’s breath catches in his throat.

  Harm squeezes his arm gently. ‘Being on the sea scares me. Not knowing anything about what’s ahead scares me, but I don’t mind. I think I can face anything as long as I can do it with the two of you.’

  The Vagrant points back to the coast. Out of the ashes, winged shapes rise, moving swiftly towards them. He reaches for the sword.

  ‘Hold on,’ says Harm, covering the Vagrant’s hand with his own. ‘This isn’t our fight. There’s a whole army here to look after us. Remember what Yuren said? If you reveal yourself as a knight, things could go badly.’

  The Vagrant leans more heavily on the railing. His hand leaves the hilt, Harm’s following. They watch, merely spectators as the enemy comes faster.

  An army of boats cluster around the edge of First Circle. A multicultural mix of vessels old and new, from battered fishing ships to engines slung on bright cables. Together they make a strange harmony, humming under the water.

  Amid the cacophony a single fly goes unheard.

  Grim-faced crews make adjustments, tighten ropes, align courses, attending to anything o
ther than the bodies floating in the sea behind them, or the forces ravaging their old home. Dockmaster Roget has no such luxury; he watches the seas behind, expecting pursuit. After a moment he wipes sweat away, smearing dirt across his sleeve, making room for the next wave of perspiration. He sees something to justify the sweat. Being right is no consolation.

  ‘Trouble?’ asks a familiar voice.

  Roget’s tongue peeks between pursed lips, unwilling to go further.

  A sigh, impatient, also familiar. ‘Spit it out man, or hand me the scope.’

  ‘It’s Bonewings, Captain Axler.’

  ‘How many?’

  Roget turns to find the shorter man irritatingly close. ‘More than I care to count, and as you know I excel at counting.’

  Axler moves around, followed by the goat. He snatches the scope from Roget, activates the count function. The scope sweeps left and right, tallying. Axler’s lips shape a curse.

  ‘Should we call Yuren?’

  ‘I’m sure he already knows.’ Axler hands back the scope. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to call every man, woman and child with a uniform to protect the back quarter. I want you to keep your crews together. First Circle has to keep moving. Those flying monsters won’t take us alone but they could slow us down long enough for the enemy to send heavy units.’

  ‘We’re too slow. Too much weight. I told you and Yuren this a long time ago.’

  ‘Not now, Roget!’

  Axler backs off, calling in reinforcements. The goat trots to the edge of the deck and leans out, shadows looming over those below. Her dark eyes detect movement, tiny, a winged bead of black sneaking over the ships. She says nothing.

  On one of the boats a man tenses, slaps the side of his neck. Pupils expand, filling the eyes, like two dying stars that threaten to explode, then collapse in on themselves, taking life and colour with them. He starts detaching his boat from the others.