The Vagrant

by Peter Newman

  Neighbours notice. The word ‘Samael’ forms on a dozen lips.

  Bored, the goat returns to Axler’s side.

  First Circle lumbers on, leaving Samael’s boat to drift away.

  Guards kneel along First Circle’s perimeter, armed, if not ready. Axler’s orders boom in every earpiece: ‘Destroy. Destroy all targets. Nothing gets on board.’

  The Bonewings descend.

  Guns pepper the sky.

  By the time the attack is turned away, Samael and his ship are second string gossip, forgettable.

  Days pass peacefully. First Circle chugs north, finding cleaner waters. People delight in the ocean-made-window and the colourful shapes moving inside. A few dare to fish. Sparse clouds zip across an open sky where the suns reign, lopsided eyes in an endless face.

  Vesper toddles through manicured streets. Too small, her poncho rides high at the back, giving rise to a morning moon. An adult is tethered to each hand, made to match her faltering pace.

  Other adults pass by, strangers. Most pause to grin or greet. Vesper has something to say to each of them, provoking responses from all but the loneliest souls.

  ‘I think it’s time we got Vesper some proper clothes,’ says Harm.

  A little colour touches the Vagrant’s cheeks as he nods.

  They round a corner and Vesper stops suddenly. She hangs between the grownups, feet forgotten in her amazement. In front of her are ten spheres, each one large enough to explore, with another ten mounted on top. Tubes connect them, demanding to be used as slides.

  Two girls roll out of a corner sphere and flop onto the grass. They lie there laughing, children, not two years her senior. Still giggling, they jump onto their feet unaided and run to another sphere.

  Vesper’s thoughts whirl with possibility. Suddenly the hands holding hers change; not supports but restraints. She struggles to free herself. Angry tears prevail where strength cannot.

  The Vagrant exchanges a look with Harm and shrugs. They let go.

  Little legs wobble then hold. She takes a step forward, falls into the second, momentum carrying her to a third and fourth, body lurching from left to right. Vesper’s chuckle carries an edge of insanity.

  ‘You can do it!’ calls Harm.

  Vesper throws a wild grin over her shoulder, gets two back in response.

  She tumbles over.

  Before rage has a chance to bypass shock, strong hands lift her back onto her feet. Vesper blinks and looks around. Things seem to be as they should. She offers another grin to the world and tries again. The Vagrant stays close, arms hovering by Vesper’s shoulders.

  Stumbling, near collisions and last minute catches fill the afternoon. And smiles. And laughter. When the suns set they eat, triumphant.

  That night, all three sleep deeply.

  Rain falls leisurely, deceptive, soaking by stealth. Water collects underfoot, tiny rivers running towards the sea. Small feet scatter them and splashing sounds are savoured, delicious. Rain or no rain, clothes must be bought. Vesper takes the lead, confidence carried on wobbly legs. Occasionally the Vagrant turns her in the right direction. They round a corner, entering the shopping area. And stop.

  Lines of people wind across the square, making snakes, hissing from a hundred angry mouths. Each one moves slowly into a doorway, customers digested one by one. New arrivals lengthen the snakes faster than old ones can be processed. Supplies are limited, prices high and complaints fill the air, frustration the common currency.

  Harm presses a hand against his temple, tilts his head away. The Vagrant takes his arm, guiding them to the back of a queue. Vesper has no time for queues but the Vagrant makes her find some. Soon, her voice joins the complaining. What it lacks in experience it makes up for in energy.

  The Vagrant sighs.

  Their line is one of the faster ones. For most, clothing is not urgent. As they shuffle forward, jealous people glare from parallel places, miserable. An argument sparks into life in one of the shops. Medicine is needed; it has run out. The shopkeeper is accused of lying, the customer of being greedy. People wait impatiently, ordering the man to move on.

  Angry voices fade as the Vagrant steps inside a different shop. Vesper is keen to try everything, though mainly on her head. Harm laughs until throats clear by the door, like guns cocking, ready to fire. Mindful of those waiting, choices are made quickly and precious money is spent.

  They hurry outside to hear loud voices, the argument, still going on, now builds to its natural conclusion.

  The Vagrant edges nearer, sees fiery faces shooting words. The man has the shopkeeper by the throat. ‘I know you’ve kept some back, hand it over!’

  The shopkeeper tries to reply, a sentence squeezed, garbled.

  The Vagrant cuts across the lines, pushing past bystanders who already eye unguarded goods.

  ‘You’re keeping it for yourself, you greedy bastard! I only need a couple of tabs, I—’

  His strong arms intervene, separating, keeping antagonists apart.

  For those waiting, the opportunity is too much. They plunge inside, emptying shelves, filling pockets. Bottles are fought over, broken, some turned to weapons, others ground underfoot. Displaced rage transforms to action, old insults are revenged, new ones given. Before he can reach the Vagrant’s side, Harm is swept up in the madness.

  Guards arrive, calling for order. When ignored their rifles spit lightning, leaving bodies passive, trembling. The crowds disperse soon after. Shops are closed for the day.

  With relief, Harm and the Vagrant reunite. A new bruise is visible on Harm’s mouth, stretched over a puffy lip. His eyes remain wild.

  ‘Those people are insane! And so are you. Did you see when that woman tried to pull me over?’

  The Vagrant ignores him, suddenly alarmed.

  ‘Where’s Vesper?’

  Amber and green eyes meet briefly, then a frantic search begins.

  They find Vesper a street away, a young boy kneeling in front of her. The two children clap hands together, reflections out of time. When the boy sees the Vagrant, he runs.

  ‘Come back,’ says Harm.

  The boy keeps running.

  Gently, they pursue, Vesper’s arms waving with excitement. Ahead of them, the crowds thin, making way for an unoccupied street.

  Fast footsteps come from behind, making two turn on instinct, the third swinging round on the end of the Vagrant’s arm. A man approaches, uniformed, his young face flushed with excitement.

  ‘Hey, wait up!’ shouts Genner, closing the last twenty feet. ‘Are you alright? Things got a bit crazy back there.’ He doesn’t allow a reply, his mouth too keen to wait. ‘You’ve got to be more careful, Scout, if they’d realized who you were things could have got even worse! Where you going, anyhow?’

  Harm answers, ‘Just for a walk, Vesper might have made a new friend.’

  ‘I saw,’ says Genner, unwilling to look away from the Vagrant. ‘Best not to go that way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘This way’s faster.’

  The guard tries to lead them away but Harm stops him. ‘Why is it really? It’s a crime to lie to a Seraph Knight, you know.’

  Guilt flashes on Genner’s face, red and genuine. ‘I’m sorry, I’m trying to do what’s right for everyone but it’s hard.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘That kid isn’t the sort of friend you want Vesper to make and if you go there, it’ll cause trouble and I thought you wanted to avoid trouble.’

  ‘We do,’ agrees Harm, ‘it just doesn’t want to avoid us.’

  The Vagrant nods.

  At Genner’s insistence, they change direction, leaving trouble behind.

  The goat stands on a roof, grazing. It is unclear how she arrived there. Honking sounds nearby and half-breed birds soon follow. Two full grown and a half dozen still growing, made unique by mutation. One is marked by a stunted wing, one by an over-muscled thigh, another by a second beak that sprouts beneath the first, forming words in an unknown language.

  The
half-breed family stop and call up to the goat. She ignores them and they get louder, angrier. One of the adults flaps hard, lifting a bulbous body into the air while the others cheer support.

  Tilting her head, the goat fixes her enemy with a hard stare. The bird hauls itself level with the roof and shouts a challenge.

  White fire answers. The first shot is precise, punching a neat hole through its chest. The second blast is wider, like a river that sweeps over the tainted birds on the ground.

  Abruptly, the honking stops.

  Axler steps out from his hiding place and kicks the corpses into a pile. He turns his lance on them, pouring and pouring, making ash to scatter on the sea breeze.

  The goat remains on the roof, grazing.

  Yuren sits opposite Harm and the Vagrant, a thin tube runs from the corner of his mouth to a small bag at his side. Behind him, Vesper runs the length of the room, chuckling each time she collides with a wall.

  ‘How are you settling in?’

  Harm smiles, patting his belly. ‘We’re very grateful for your hospitality.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Of course now we’re at sea we’re all going to have to ration more carefully.’

  ‘It’s still a lot more than we’re used to.’

  ‘For you perhaps. I’m expecting no end of complaints from our regular citizens once the initial fear has passed. Would you like something to drink?’

  ‘No.’

  The Vagrant shakes his head.

  ‘Straight to business then. We’ve crammed most of the population of Six Circles onto this glorified float.’

  ‘Most,’ echoes Harm in a whisper.

  The Vagrant looks down.

  ‘I regret the loss of our refugees too, but we didn’t have room for them. As it is we struggled to provide sanctuary for the soldiers fleeing the wall. We don’t know the state of things out here so I’ve assumed the worst. Even if the island settlements have gone we have enough to survive the trip, just.’

  ‘Who are you trying to convince?’

  Yuren draws on the tube, turning grey plastic pink. He swallows. ‘Me. I suppose you want it straight?’

  The Vagrant nods. Yuren sighs.

  ‘As I said, we have enough food and if the fish we’re catching test clean that will help. The problem is locomotion. Our ships are old and not made for this kind of work. As the journey continues, more will break down beyond our ability to salvage, putting increased strain on the remaining engines. And of course, each engine we lose will slow us down. When that happens we’ll struggle to keep going and make any headway against the currents.’

  ‘What do you want us to do?’

  ‘There’s not much you can do, unless you’re engineers or have a stash of machine parts squirrelled away.’ The old man pauses for another drink. ‘Anyway, I didn’t ask you here to employ your services, I wanted to offer mine.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve raised children myself and I know it’s not easy. Vesper here is at a critical age. She’s absorbing new information at an incredible rate and what she learns now will form the fundamentals of her thinking for years to come.’

  Hearing her name, Vesper stops.

  ‘You’re offering us a tutor?’

  ‘Better than that, I’m offering her an implant.’

  The Vagrant frowns.

  ‘Is it safe to put it in this late?’ asks Harm, drawing closer.

  ‘Oh yes, it’s a simple procedure and we have the expertise on board.’ He takes out a transparent plastic wallet. Inside is a square of silver the size of a baby’s fingernail. ‘My last partner was young. We’d planned to have more children and …’ Harm’s eyes spark tears, preempting the old man’s. He looks away quickly. ‘… and I don’t need it any more. I’d like very much to see it used. It’s of the finest quality and will assist with language acquisition, memory and calculations. The encyclopedia is excellent and it’s fully aspected.’

  Vesper’s attention wanders. She chuckles at something unknowable and runs off, pumping legs and arms. ‘OoooooOOOOOOM!’

  Yuren twists in his chair to watch the diminutive racer, his smile is joyful, wistful. He twists back. ‘It’s yours if you want it.’

  Harm checks his enthusiasm against the Vagrant’s concern. ‘Can we talk about it?’

  ‘Of course.’ Yuren gets up. Walls slide to get out of his way, revealing a corridor.

  Vesper’s eyes light up and she runs for freedom. The walls seal long before she gets there.

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  The Vagrant gets up and gathers Vesper into his arms.

  ‘I know you’re worried but I think it’s a brilliant idea.’ Harm smiles at the Vagrant’s surprised expression. ‘It was normal practice in the big cities, for those who could afford it. And it’s standard on the northern continent. It would give Vesper a massive advantage. Think about it, she’ll be speaking earlier, learning faster. It opens up lots of opportunities. Untainted children are scarce in the south but in the north Vesper will be one of many. We need to think about her future.’

  Vesper wriggles in the Vagrant’s arms, legs keen to work. Reluctantly, the Vagrant puts her down.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Big waves toss the boat back and forth, like bullies with another’s ball. The commander stands at the prow, hands locked to the sides. The storm’s fury does not intimidate. His concerns lie within.

  He looks at Samael, once a man, now a puppet, working against the weather without complaint. The commander has infused the fisherman with a fragment of his own essence, bending the mortal to his will. The Uncivil shared the secret with him during their communion but she uses constructed hosts, filling empty shells with life, where he has taken another’s essence and corrupted it to make his own creature.

  The commander has broken minds before, implanting a simple command, making automatons fit for a single purpose but this is different. Samael is independent, capable of thought, obeying orders creatively and still able to access years of experience at sea.

  In Samael he sees himself. For do not these things apply to him? Is he not also a puppet made from a spark of infernal essence?

  The commander’s purpose comes from the master and though he still believes in the importance of his mission, he begins to question the authority behind it.

  The Malice must be destroyed, that is not in doubt. Its existence means his end. The fact sits in his consciousness without context. He needs know no more.

  Other things trouble him.

  When the Malice is destroyed and his purpose met, what then? Will his time be over? Will new orders come from the master? Will he be released? And if he is, what will he do with his freedom? What is he without the master to define him?

  He casts about within himself for clues of his other parent, his shell’s previous inhabitant, but finds nothing. Whatever there was has been absorbed or overwritten by the master’s fire.

  Only his fingers move, digging deeper into the ship’s rim, impressing their shape permanently. On the outside, the commander is still, calm.

  On First Circle time is easy to measure, the suns dance reliably from horizon to horizon, checking off each day. Distance is more difficult to measure. The Southern Sea stretches in all directions, aping infinity, sapping hope.

  People struggle to stay upbeat, the goat is more pragmatic. She is up early, enthusiastic, following Axler on his morning rounds. The guards have adopted her as a mascot, slipping her bits of this and that as she passes by, hoping to win their captain’s approval. The softer ones give sweet treats, the bored ones experiment with less edible matter. The goat takes it all, rejecting nothing. Increasingly, her belly defines itself beyond the boundaries of her shoulders.

  Private Ro, newly demoted, still angry, offers the goat a piece of rubber. The goat sniffs, then moves in, nipping a finger for good measure.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Something wrong, Private?’

  Ro shakes her hand behind her ba
ck. ‘No, Captain.’

  ‘Then keep your noises to yourself.’ Other guards snigger. The goat chews experimentally then spits the rubber onto the floor. ‘And Private?’

  ‘Yes, Captain?’

  ‘Pick that up will you?’

  She complies, ignoring the silent laughter of her peers. While crouched, woman and goat exchange hateful stares.

  Axler and the goat move on.

  Always, they finish at the rear of the ship, where Axler and Roget discuss the state of things and the goat watches bleak waves. Beneath them, crews tend to their aching ships, startled by each new groan or stutter. Like mothers with sick babies, they rest little.

  ‘Good morning, Captain Axler.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Roget brings his index fingers together, touches them to his top lip. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘The usual troubles. I’m surrounded by idiots.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Are you the one behind these bloody masks everyone’s buying?’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Apart from the fact they don’t bloody work!’

  ‘That depends on how you define their effect.’

  Axler steps round to look the taller man in the eye. ‘Don’t get all philosophical on me. They don’t stop taint, so they don’t work.’

  Roget leans back a little from Axler’s scowl. ‘Their effectiveness against the taint is yet to be seen. Their effectiveness against panic however is clear to observe. At least this allows people to do something, to feel like they have a little control.’

  ‘It’s immoral. They’re using people’s fear to turn a profit.’

  ‘It’s hard to put a price on morale.’

  The goat snorts and Axler shakes his head. ‘I’m more interested in practical things. Like maintaining our defences. I’ve been trying to get hold of some Silicate4 but it’s already been allocated. Do you think you could find me some?’

  ‘Of course,’ Roget says. ‘I only wish you’d approached me sooner.’

  The Vagrant paces, four strides to each length of the room. Harm sits, nerves showing in restless fingers.

  Wall becomes door and a young man appears, teeth and shirt white, crisp. ‘She’s ready for you now.’