The Vagrant

by Peter Newman

  Harm jumps up but the Vagrant is already through the door. They follow the nurse into another room. Machinery folds away as they approach, shy, giving hints to what may have happened. On a black chair, Vesper dozes, straps receding from her ankles and wrists.

  The Vagrant rushes to her side, hands moving to the space where hair used to be, wanting to touch, unsure.

  ‘The implantation procedure was a complete success,’ says the nurse. ‘The incision has been covered with Skyn and there should be no scarring, even under the hairline.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Harm.

  ‘The drugs will be wearing off shortly. There may be some mild disorientation but nothing to worry about. I’ll be back to check on you all in thirty minutes. If you need me, just touch the wall here to open a channel.’

  The nurse leaves and the two men study Vesper, attending to every toe twitch, eyelid flutter and sigh.

  Eventually, Vesper yawns, wide and epic. She rubs her eyes and looks around vacantly.

  Harm and the Vagrant smile hopefully at her.

  Seconds pass, tense, and then Vesper’s eyes focus. She sees the two men and grins broadly. In unison, they sigh. Vesper giggles.

  ‘Well, she seems normal.’

  The Vagrant leans over Vesper, checking each part of her methodically.

  ‘They only worked on her head you know.’ Harm’s comment does nothing to stop the examination.

  Surprise takes Vesper’s face, then even that fades, muscles slacking off as attention goes inward.

  Harm and the Vagrant exchange a worried look. ‘I’m going to call the nurse,’ says Harm, rushing to the wall panel.

  Vesper begins to frown, her lips twitch. The Vagrant strokes her cheek.

  ‘Dada?’

  Surprise finds the Vagrant. Moist eyes follow, then, after a long pause, a nod.

  ‘Dada!’

  ‘Was that Vesper? Did she just …’ In an instant Harm is back by the chair.

  The Vagrant nods again, as if to himself.

  Vesper attends to Harm, once more her face goes blank, faraway.

  Behind them, walls shift, allowing the nurse’s return. ‘Is everything alright in here?’

  ‘Yes I think so. Vesper just said her first word. Is that normal?’

  The nurse’s voice is calm, soothing. ‘Perfectly. It means she’s interacting with the implant.’

  ‘And now, should she look like that?’

  ‘Yes. It just means she’s listening to the implant, as time goes on and she acclimatizes, the communication will get faster. What word did she say?’

  Harm glances at the Vagrant. ‘Dada.’

  ‘That makes sense. When Vesper saw her father the implant supplied the correct label, repeating for reinforcement. It’s an excellent sign that she was able to convert the stimulus into speech so quickly. As her speech develops the implant will use more complex sound clusters. So “Dada” will become “Daddy” or be replaced by “Father”.’

  ‘So this is normal?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  The nurse withdraws and the room seals itself off from the rest of the building. Once more, Vesper becomes the centre of attention.

  ‘Can you say: Harm?’

  Vesper concentrates. ‘Marm?’

  ‘Nearly. Harm. H-arm. Can you say that? H-arm.’

  ‘Mama!’

  The Vagrant staggers, shoulders shaking, the laughter silent, uncontrollable. He grabs the wall for support.

  ‘No, not Mama. Harm.’

  ‘Dada?’

  Harm points to the breathless Vagrant. ‘That’s Dada.’ He points to himself. ‘Harm. Or Uncle. Can you say Uncle? Un-cle.’

  ‘Umm-bull.’

  ‘That’s good! I’m Uncle Harm. Can you say it? Un-cle H-arm.’

  ‘Umm-bull Arrm.’

  ‘That’s it!’

  Vesper grins. ‘Umbull-arm!’

  ‘Yes!’

  She aims a pudgy finger at the Vagrant. ‘Dada!’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Umbull-arm! Dada! Umbull-arm! Dada!’

  ‘Yes.’ The green-eyed man leans in closer. ‘And you’re Vesper. Can you say that? Ves-per. Ves-per. Vesper.’

  ‘Esper?’

  ‘That’s brilliant.’

  ‘Esper! Esper-Esper-Esper!’

  The Vagrant picks Vesper up, swinging her into an embrace.

  ‘Dada,’ says Vesper softly.

  Near the rear of First Circle sits an office, nondescript. There is no queue, visitors come by appointment only. The office contains a desk that slopes downward, making whoever sits behind it seem smaller, more humble. No wealth is displayed, no decorations, no symbols. All is monochrome.

  Roget admits the first appointment.

  It is a man, fresh marks on his face, bands of white around one wrist. ‘Thank you for letting me come.’

  ‘Please, sit down. Tell me what you need.’

  The man’s face is desperate. ‘Tabs for my little girl, just a couple. Without them, she won’t be able to digest her food.’

  ‘I see,’ says Roget, pursing his lips. ‘Just a couple?’

  ‘That’s all I need.’

  ‘For one dose perhaps. That will last, what? A month? I’d assume you want your little girl to eat for the whole journey.’

  The man hangs his head. ‘We can’t afford … not with the way things are.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that. Show me what you have.’

  The man touches the desk and a window lights up on its surface. Numbers appear, tracking upward. They are studied in silence. Afterwards, Roget touches the window, making it dark.

  ‘I have good news for you, Second Circleman Ilyon. I’m confident we can find a supply for your child at a price you can afford.’

  Surprise mixes with relief, then delight on the man’s face. ‘Thank you! Thank you so much! I didn’t think we had enough saved up.’

  ‘That’s true. There’s not nearly enough money in your account.’

  Delight falters, fades. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m talking about other assets. Organs, blood. The chip in your brain is increasing in value.’

  ‘But that would take me off grid.’

  ‘If you don’t want to give it up you could sell us shares. A few hours a night perhaps, paying off your debt over the next ten or fifteen years.’

  The man stares at his swollen knuckles. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s up to you, of course. I suppose it depends what you think is more important.’

  A deal is made. More people come. Whatever they ask for, Roget delivers. There is sometimes a delay, always a price, but every supplicant is given the chance for what they want. When they have left, Roget writes each request down, archaic means for strange times. The list is folded, taken by hand, delivered elsewhere.

  The next day the goods arrive in unmarked crates, brought quietly from the docks into First Circle. With them is a note. Roget reads it, nods. Another request, this one non-negotiable. As always, he meets it.

  First Circle’s park is a battle ground. Blows are struck and young voices cry out. Bodies fall to rise again, sometimes infernal, sometimes not. Sides change too quickly for the players to keep track but few care. Parents mill about the edges, their thoughts on other realities, speculating, worrying. One mother changes her baby with practised ease, prompting a green-eyed man to spontaneous applause. In an overlooked corner, the Vagrant sits, taking notes.

  A child approaches Vesper with exaggerated steps, wriggling fingers fanned out and held above her head.

  Vesper’s mouth drops open and the girl touches her shoulder.

  ‘Tag, you’re a monster!’

  Vesper looks to the Vagrant for help, then back to the girl but she is already after her next victim. Gradually the monsters grow to outnumber the human children until only one remains. She is given an imaginary lance and sets about chasing the monsters, dropping them with a touch.

  Harm approaches a parent, narrowly avo
iding the mini monsters stampeding around him. ‘Is it right to let them play like this?’

  The interruption irritates. ‘What’s your problem?’

  ‘It’s a brutal game. It teaches them that all half-breeds are evil.’

  ‘Of course it does! That’s the truth.’

  ‘No it isn’t. What if your child got infected, would it make them evil?’

  The man bristles. ‘My girl’s pure but yes, if she were infected, it would. It’d be a matter of time. I’ve got friends who took themselves to Third Circle to contain the taint so I know what I’m talking about. That’s why we teach our kids to run from the monsters. Because we know!’ Indignation becomes anger and the man’s face pushes forward, aggressive. ‘Who are you to talk about my girl, anyway? Well?’ Harm’s argument is stolen away, lost amid rising emotions. He looks down, defeated. ‘I thought so. She’s pure, alright? You ever suggest otherwise again and you’ll regret it.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting—’

  ‘You keep an eye on yours if you know what’s good for you.’ The man points an accusing finger at Vesper. ‘She looks like she’s on the turn to me.’

  Swiftly, Harm retreats to the Vagrant’s corner.

  ‘I think it’s time to go for a walk.’

  The Vagrant shrugs, complies.

  Vesper leads the way with utter certainty, weaving through crowds. Every few moments, speaking signs declare the need for calm. At each corner, guards stand, vigilant.

  When night falls people pack below decks to sleep but in the day they seek light and air. Space is a premium. Elbows fight for breathing room. On benches, thighs press together. Rations are eaten slowly, savoured.

  An empty street runs between two buildings, converted barracks for First Circle’s military. Vesper runs towards it, spreading her arms. Beyond, cranes of brass loom, rising high over the rooftops, cables swaying gently.

  A woman steps into her path, uniformed and friendly. ‘Whoa there, little one.’

  Vesper darts to the guard’s right but she is too quick, intercepting her. She tries going left but again the guard is there. She pauses. Thinks. A smile threatens.

  ‘Excuse me,’ says Harm, as he and the Vagrant catch up. ‘What’s down there?’

  ‘Mainly storage,’ she says, stepping quickly to foil another attempt to pass. ‘And where they put most of the lower Fourth and Fifth Circle duds. Nothing you’d be interested in.’

  ‘Why’s it so quiet?’

  ‘It’s quiet here because of us. Don’t be fooled though, further in is a different story.’

  The Vagrant frowns, takes Vesper’s hand and steps forward.

  ‘I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.’

  Harm takes Vesper’s other hand. ‘Are you stopping us from going in?’

  ‘No. I’m stopping them from coming out. I’m just offering you some friendly advice.’

  Still frowning, the Vagrant nods to her. She stands aside and Vesper bounds eagerly forward, pulling the two men after.

  Three Years Ago

  The village treats the squires like heroes. They soon become accustomed to their new status.

  Days become weeks.

  Both try to win Reela’s heart. They sing her songs, bring her gifts, escort her like royalty. But Reela’s heart is not a prize to be taken. She enjoys the songs, accepts the gifts, favouring each man’s offering equally, barely at all.

  Vesper enjoys the challenge, rises to it, his friend does not. While one seeks Reela’s company, gets to know the woman behind the face, builds a relationship and a history, the other hangs back out of respect, out of fear.

  Weeks become months.

  The squires practise every day, wanting to stay sharp for their mission. Often they discuss the need to leave. Often they argue.

  Young desire holds them however, the murky dream of their destination unable to compete with more immediate, lustful fantasy.

  In the end, Reela chooses Vesper. The other squire nurses his bruised ego and keeps a lock of her hair, exchanged for a song, a failed talisman, tragic.

  Months become years.

  A rumour circles about a northern village being visited by men the colour of wounds. They are beast speakers, masters of the infernal pack. They hunt fresh prey for the Usurper. Untainted children and fertile women are their targets, the rest are allowed to run.

  Vesper’s attendance to practice becomes sporadic. Instead, he patrols, hunting for the hunters. The squires see less of each other. When they do meet, the rows intensify. Always, Vesper wants another week. Always, his friend threatens to leave alone. Always, Vesper mollifies him.

  The same tunes are sung, repetitive, over and over, until Reela’s belly swells and the village celebrates. Nine months pass, fast for some, an agonizing torture for others.

  One night, a strange howling fills the air. Animals stir within their pens and the young woman goes into labour. It is unclear whether the scent of new life brings it or simply bad luck but a creature pads into the village, searching the streets with mismatched eyes.

  People call for help, for their knight guardian Sir Vesper and his trusty squire. The two young men come running from different houses.

  ‘See if you can distract it,’ says Vesper. His squire raises an eyebrow in reply. ‘As soon as it goes for you, I’ll be there to finish it off. Classic feint and kill, okay?’

  Vesper draws his sword and the Dogspawn snarls in reply.

  The other squire draws his practice blade. He has sharpened it over the years, given it an edge. It remains mute however, ordinary. Circling closer, he tries to attract the Dogspawn’s attention but the half-breed only has eyes for Vesper. Before he can make a distraction, it charges. All he can do is give chase, shouting a warning.

  Vesper doesn’t need one. Hands tighten around the hilt, sweaty.

  The Dogspawn leaps.

  Vesper jumps sideways, slashing as it sails past, opening a wound across hind leg and bottom.

  Like a common dog, the monster yelps, turning tail to run.

  Vesper gives chase but another cry stops him. Reela’s mother is calling. The baby is coming. Vesper has to choose, life or death. Love or glory.

  The young man pauses only for a moment.

  ‘I’ve got to kill it. You go check on Reela for me okay?’ His friend agrees and the two men run their separate ways.

  The village is out of medicine and the doctor’s equipment works sporadically, batteries giving their last in kicks and spurts. Reela’s labour is primitive, painful as nature intended. The squire bursts in, red face redder as he sees legs spread and life fighting into the world.

  ‘Vesper?’ she asks, reaching for him.

  He smiles shyly, careful to look only at her face. Sweaty hair clings to her cheeks and forehead. Blotches sketch themselves across her cheeks. Beautiful.

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘It’s you.’ As he struggles to answer she takes his hand. Over the coming hours he tries to be supportive, transmitting care through clammy, kissing palms. Her grunts and cries go through him, occasionally he sways. But he does not leave.

  In a burst of blood and noise, the baby arrives.

  Cords are cut, cuddles are given and the assembled celebrate. The baby makes its first demands and Reela meets them. A satisfied grunt makes them all chuckle. The squire forgets, reminds himself, looks only at her face.

  This stolen moment is his, he gobbles it down, hoping guiltily that Vesper will not return to spoil it.

  Reela smiles up at him. He smiles back. It takes him a moment to realize she’s talking.

  ‘… appetite! Thanks for being here, it means a lot to me, and to this little greedy guts. Would you like to hold her?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Metal stairs rattle alarmingly underfoot. Old paint flakes away in chunks, drifting lazily towards the water below. Some houses have been stacked neatly, others hang from cranes above, metal boxes of varying size. Makeshift metal bridges run between them. Away from the affluence, hidden
at the edge of the First Circle, these dwellings are haggard. Clumps of children gather in doorways or on rooftops, legs swinging overhead, restless, keen for entertainment.

  The Vagrant stops, gets Harm’s attention and points to the nearest bunch.

  ‘You think they’ll be trouble?’

  The Vagrant nods.

  As if on cue, several faces lean over, eyes mischief bright. ‘You talking about us?’ asks the leader, thin bars of copper threaded through his hair.

  ‘No,’ Harm replies.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ says the leader. ‘Rikey here thinks you’re a spy and they do bad things to spies here.’

  Harm sighs, turns to the Vagrant. ‘Can we go back now?’

  The Vagrant shakes his head.

  They walk on but the children aren’t finished with them.

  ‘Hey! Do you know that you’re walking in our bin?’ A few pieces of shrapnel whizz down, thrown by eager hands. The Vagrant raises a protective arm over Vesper’s head. Another comment is made and the children laugh hysterically. ‘Oh that’s a good one, Rikey! Hey, those stairs aren’t just our bin by the way. They’re also our toilet!’

  There is more laughter as the children jump to their feet. Belts are pulled loose, trousers lowered.

  Harm and the Vagrant run. Vesper laughs almost as hard as the gang above. They stop two streets away, gasping for breath. Harm has escaped unscathed but a few dark patches have appeared on the Vagrant’s coat. He narrows his eyes.

  ‘More!’ says Vesper.

  ‘Can we go back now?’ asks Harm.

  The Vagrant nods wearily but a new voice, unexpected, makes them jump. ‘Hello?’

  After a moment of looking they see a boy, not yet in his teens, sitting on a platform above, staring down at them through meshed metal. He is slender, clean skin wrapped in patched clothes. He comes lightly down the steps.

  ‘Yes?’ says Harm.

  ‘Did you want something? I’m sure I could help.’

  The Vagrant crouches down, setting Vesper next to him, and pulls some food from his pocket. Sharp eyes flit from the offering to the men. The Vagrant beckons him closer.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asks Harm.

  ‘What do you want it to be?’

  Disgust twists Harm’s mouth. ‘Just give us a name, it doesn’t even have to be your real one.’ He leans closer to the Vagrant, whispers in his ear. ‘Are you sure you want to pursue this?’