The Vagrant. Peter Newman
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went to fight them. It only cracks when he speaks of Gamma’s fall. He plays back the report three times, then waits for the rocket’s pre-launch checks to cycle through.
The freshly made squires carry supplies, Attica a long lacquered box. Far behind them, fingers of smoke start to rise, a giant’s hand raised hazily skyward. It grows from the village, the smell of smoke reaching the group, turning them.
Packs fall, forgotten, and two youths run back towards the village. Attica calls to them.
‘But it’s our home, we have to help them!’ protests one.
The other keeps running. He ascends the hill they have just skirted, sparse strands of grass lolling over its top, a comb-over of yellow-green. The bitter view stops him dead. The other two catch up and stand by his side.
As they watch, a dark stain spreads from the edges of the village. A living seep, a pseudopod, it probes forward, tasting the land, searching. A ragged multitude of teeth and claws mark its growing boundary.
‘We have to move on.’ Shocked ears fail to hear. ‘Come,’ Attica repeats.
A beat later the three run.
No more words are exchanged.
The Vagrant runs along Verdigris’ main street. Boots and hooves click on hard stone, the sounds distinct, punctuated by the goat’s shrieks and a strong smell of smoke. The Vagrant darts down an alley and stills, eyes darting from the flames eating his coat to those that dance on the goat’s tail, careless of the other less pressing dangers that surround them. The sword comes down once, twice, and strands of tail float to the ground, burning bright.
Without his usual care the Vagrant puts down the baby and the sword, rolling on the floor until the fire is out.
He gets up, picking up the baby in one hand and clamping the goat’s mouth shut with the other. Both give him reproachful looks.
He waits for himself and them to calm before continuing, putting away the sword and pulling out the scope to check behind them, lenses piercing the night.
No one follows.
Engines hum softly in the gloom, waiting. Like the rest of the city, they hold their breath, poised for Darktime, when the Usurper’s forces will command the city. When it comes, lights stutter to life, haphazard in their arrangement, illuminating unfairly. The signal brings people from their homes. Shops reopen, curtains of chain slide back out of sight, doors grind sideways, groaning. Signs lift, are turned by grimy hands and dropped with a bang. A hundred banners to the Uncivil wink, vanish and convert to the Usurper.
Soon, voices call out; exaggerations and lies masquerade as hope. Others join them with offers and bargains. Unbeatable prices for the belongings of the beaten.
People spill like vomit onto the streets, congealing into crowds.
The Vagrant weaves through, oblivious, till the leash pulls tight, yanking his arm backwards. The goat strains to look back at the charred thing on its rear, still smoking.
The Vagrant stops, and in Verdigris’ marketplace stopping invites attention.
‘Trouble with your beast I see? Yes, getting old now isn’t she? Old and tired, I know how she feels!’ The patter is only punctuated by laughs that come thick and fast and fake. ‘Funny things these, only get more stubborn with age, not less, like my children!’ More laughter. ‘But forgive me, where are my manners, I am Ezze. And you are?’
The Vagrant blinks. Ezze’s hand snakes around his shoulder, guiding him through sweaty bodies towards a set of wide open doors.
‘And a truly noble name it is! I am pleased to make your acquaintance, from this moment on you should consider Ezze your friend. Verdigris is a grand city, full of wonders but many of them are shy, not like the women! Ah, come now, don’t be like that, it is just Ezze’s joke. A gift to you. Enjoy, it’s the only thing you get for free tonight, that I promise! Now step this way my serious friend, I know a place where we can solve all of your problems.’
The shop is cramped, broken tech and old skinsuits compete with encroaching filth in the limited space. Jammed between twin cog stacks is a half-breed, shoulders bare, purple tinted. In his hands is a needle, potent and smoking. On his face a paid-for smile.
‘Welcome to my shop,’ says Ezze. ‘Be at home here. You’ll like Bruise—’ a scrawny arm indicates the smoker. ‘He’s like you, not one for the words. Ugly too, eh? Well you cannot all be beautiful like Ezze!’ He laughs into the silence. ‘Not one for jokes, I see that. Now tell me, what do you think of this?’ From the chaos a cylinder appears, scarred metal, topped with tubing, like wild hair. ‘It may not look it but this beauty is fresh from Wonderland, the very finest Deadtech. She’ll produce milk just as well as your beast but without the complaints.’
The Vagrant shakes his head.
‘You are thinking Ezze is mad but he is not! Let me explain how it works. We simply extract the required organs of your beast and place them in the tube. The miraculous device will sustain them and stimulate them to produce milk whenever you need it. You look like one who travels; imagine how it would be to have drinks on tap, even in the middle of the Blasted Lands? Truly we live in an age of wonders!’
The Vagrant says nothing.
‘You are worried about the cost. Let Ezze massage away your fear. The price will be fair and you can even part-exchange the rest of your beast to make the deal still sweeter. You see what Ezze did there? Ah yes, not one for the jokes. Are you ready to deal?’
Turning, the Vagrant begins to walk from the shop.
‘Wait, wait! There are other things, many things, to interest you here. You do not want to miss out!’
Outside the street is choked with bodies sliding past each other, touching. Skin thieves weave through them, stock-sampling, tiny claws seeking, tireless. But something unusual stirs the crowd, drives them from Verdigris’ southern gate. Amongst the anxious faces, glinting helms are glimpsed. Six predators spreading fear.
Vagrant and goat step back together.
A hand waits for each, sliding onto their necks. ‘Friend, you have made the right decision! This time, Ezze will let you do the talking. Say what you need and Ezze will deliver or deliver you to it, whatever it is. What do you need, friend?’
The Vagrant reaches for the door, pulls.
‘What are you doing?’ Ezze’s head appears between him and the outside, alert to strangeness, bobbing as it searches. ‘There’s trouble out there, Ezze sees it. That is not for us. We’re in the business of living, yes? Don’t close the door; you’ll draw them to us. You best stay here and we make deals. Ezze finds a nice place for you, a safe one. You live a good long life. Understand?’
Nodding, the Vagrant pulls some fruit from a sack, throws it over.
Ezze smiles, rubbing his nose over taut flesh. ‘The pasha is fine! You have more? Of course you do, you are a wise, rich man. This way, this way and don’t worry, you are in safe hands now.’
The Vagrant squeezes between piles of junk and lost treasures. The back room to the shop is small, shrunk further by the invasion of things, mysterious under cloth. A bed lines one wall, a jigsaw of rubber and foam, scavenged, forced into shape by wiry netting.
‘Welcome to my inner sanctum!’ Ezze proclaims with a flourish. ‘You will be safe here tonight. Now, share with me your dreams and I will make them true for a very fair price!’ Automatic laughter follows as the man pats the Vagrant’s arm. He stiffens. ‘So tense, my friend, maybe you want something to bring a smile back to that face of yours, eh? I have a friend, he has a girl, just tainted enough, hey!’ A finger waggles for emphasis. ‘You want Ezze to let you meet? For a little extra I let you use the room. What do you say?’
He