Peter Newman - The Vagrant

Seeing the fate of its peers, the last of the great shapes moves quickly, the world already clawing at its edges. Unable to find a suitable shell, it weaves a cloak of corpses about itself. Skulls, feet and ribs marry uneasily. Within the necrotic ball, the Uncivil is birthed.

New desires appear, flooding the Uncivil’s senses: the wish to see, to experience, to grow. For now they are held in check by a greater power, resulting in a frustration that is almost too much to bear. Despite this, the Uncivil holds on to the idea of independence, of difference. It feels important to choose an identity now, to have something to hold onto when orders come from their new master.

Inspiration is close at hand. The bodies that make up her cloak each housed a unique being and it is easy for the Uncivil to sniff at their fading essence to gather ideas. A gender is chosen. It is not much but it is a starting point, a secret victory to build on.

She turns, awaiting her new master’s pleasure.

Free to take its prize, the victor descends upon Gamma’s body. Wind screams backwards, drawing the infernal essence into the once great shell. It twitches, animates and Ammag, Green Sun, the Usurper, takes its first physical steps. Compared to the First it is inelegant and brutish, lurching as Gamma’s body buckles and warps, trying to accommodate the new host. But nothing of this world, even one of The Seven, can fully contain the Usurper. With irritation, it portions a fragment of itself into another body, a temporary home, the greenness slipping easily through the absence of eyes. This form does not animate, it is too weak, a box for safekeeping, nothing more.

Now stable, the Usurper turns its attention deep within. Buried in the heart of its essence, a wound festers, as alive as the weapon that caused it. The Usurper reaches down, looking for Gamma’s sword, to smash the blade and end the dream of its undoing.

But the sword is gone.

The Usurper searches among the corpses, scattering them, and finds nothing. With increasing anger it lifts its gaze higher, over the carnage, over bodies mutating as infernal hosts settle in, until at last its attention is drawn by a glinting metal speck.

Distantly, beyond the feasting and the slaughter, a snake of metal flees the field, heading northward.

At the sight of the thieves the Usurper’s anger surges but fear flickers beneath it. It is too soon for another conflict. Defeating Gamma and fighting off the other challengers for her body has been costly.

Unwilling to face the sword again, the Usurper dispatches its horde. The Uncivil is the first to respond, her eagerness to taste the new world dressed as loyalty. Others follow, the Fellrunners, the Earmaker’s Three, Hangnail, all bound to their new master by defeat. Drawing the lesser infernals around them, a misshapen horde with lopsided wings and uneven legs, they spread across the land, a living fire.

‘I swear if you don’t do something right now, I’ll put a bullet in your empty head!’

The woman raves, anger keeping back the urge to sleep. She has fought off many men, surviving against the odds, but now death comes for her again, stealthily. Not long now and she will bleed to death, each beat of her heart pumps precious blood from the hole in her side. Salvation is so close she could cry. She doesn’t, instead using the last of her strength to reach out to the Vagrant.

He looks at her and through her, unfocused on the now.

Gasping, she pulls off her monitor ring. The pulsing light fades as it leaves her finger. A moment later it sails through the air, narrowly missing the Vagrant’s ear, as do the curses that follow.

Small eyes glance between the two. Sensing a problem, the baby joins its strength to the ruckus, easily matching the woman’s despair.

The Vagrant blinks, wipes perspiration from his forehead and looks anew at the scene before him. At his attention, the baby wriggles, shameless and gory.

‘Welcome back!’ snaps Lil. ‘Now here’s what you have to do if you don’t want me to kill you …’

She winces at his slowness, wonders if speech is the only thing he lacks as he plods, donkey-like under the lash of her voice, gathering the tools to save her life. She directs him to what she would call ‘the good stuff’, medical supplies that have been transformed into relics since the Overseer’s arrival.

All business, she stabs herself with a needle, eyes popping open with artificial alertness.

‘Okay, stranger, the first thing we’ve got to do is clean out the wound. Those amateurs were using cheap-assed shrapnel guns, which is about the only reason I’m still talking. There’s a hand scanner and a pair of tweezers you can use. Don’t waste the battery, we don’t have any spares.’

His hands fumble about the job, hesitant, and Lil’s patience rapidly vanishes. ‘Just stop, please! Scav’s teeth, I’ve got more chance of saving myself! Just pick up that mirror and hold it like I tell you, okay?’

The Vagrant nods, lips pressed together.

‘All you have to do is keep it steady.’

Chemicals silence the pain in her side and she works quickly, no time left for squeamishness. Jagged bits of metal clink as they’re dropped into the dish, shy at first, they allow themselves to come free with growing eagerness. She takes a handful of Skyn, slathering grey jelly all over the wound. Instantly it adheres, staunching the blood and darkening in approximation of Lil’s muddy skin.

‘There, that wasn’t so bad,’ she says, as much to herself as anyone else. ‘Nothing I can’t do with enough drugs and medtech. These corpses used to work for the Overseer, so we’d better not hang around. I don’t know what’s going on but I’m damn sure it’s your fault.’

She jabs a finger at the Vagrant, who leans against the tent pole. He peers at her. Slowly his eyes close.

‘Hey, are you …?’

Before she can finish, the Vagrant slides down the pole and topples over.

‘… Oh, that’s just great!’

The wound is small and clean. She assumes he has passed out through shock rather than blood loss.

Lil has seen a lot of bodies in her life, each with a story to tell, most depressingly similar.

On this body a few things catch her eye. The man bears the blade of a Seraph Knight, which immediately marks him out as a fugitive, yet his hands are callused as much through labour as combat. She turns them over to find smooth skin, the little hairs recently burned away. She notes his tongue is still intact.

Carefully, she removes the bullet. It has gone deep and released its payload but there are no spider web signs of skin degeneration. Amazed, she probes further until she sees the Burrowmaw’s inert tail, tucked under his rib. Snagging it on a tiny hook, Lil works it out with slow, steady pressure, till finally the mouth sac comes loose. The little creature smokes in her hand; something has cooked it from the inside.

It joins the shrapnel in the dish.

The suns rise together, dividing the sky like a god’s standard. Lil and the Vagrant step cautiously into the daylight. Ventris remains where he fell, face down in the dust opposite Lil’s door. His boots have not.