The Vagrant and the City

A moment later, the door closes, sealing the room.

‘Stand here,’ says Val, pointing to the middle of the grid. ‘Let us look at you.’

The man complies and the plasglass lines that run along the floor, ceiling and walls burst to life, covering the man in a net of green light.

Val adjusts the lens over her right eye, closes her left. For a full minute she studies him, making a slow circle. Throughout, her concentration is intense, as if she is staring through, not at him.

‘Interesting,’ she says at last.

The man looks at her, patient.

‘As in: this will be an interesting challenge. Structurally, you’re in reasonable shape. Your leg needs repair, and I have concerns about one of your lungs in the longer term. But these things are easily hidden, provided you don’t need to fight.

‘It’s the rest of you.’ She tuts, and the man folds his arms. ‘The hair will have to go back to an appropriate length and you need to put on some weight. Our champion should project strength, not pity.’ She walks round him a second time, considering. ‘The scars can stay but they need to be reigned in a little. Something that says “battle hardened” rather than “victim”.

‘Now, I’m told that you are required urgently but I want to push for surgery and at least one round of skin remastering before your first public appearance.’

The man steps backwards, hands raised, defensive, and the lights in the room fade.

‘Didn’t they tell you? While the Bearer is away, you are going to be our symbol of inspiration. You will be paraded in front of the people on a daily basis in order –wait, where are you going?’

The man has turned away from her, and started to bang on the door. It opens to a surprised looking Genner on the other side.

‘Is something wrong?’ he asks, but the man ignores him, pushing past and away into the corridor. Genner looks at Val for help but she just shrugs.

‘Nothing to do with me. Are you sure you’ve got the right one?’

*

While surgery is optional, a change of outfit is not. Genner takes the man into a small room, lined in hard plastic. One wall is mirrored, and a stud of mutigel has been locked into shape to form a crude seat. A neat square of clothes sits on top, eye-searingly white. Next to it, on a stand, is a suit of armour, similar in style to that worn by the Seraph Knights but grander, heavier.

The man examines it, thoughtful, double-taking at the oversized shoulder plates. A gauntlet is lifted, held against his own hand for comparison. It is nearly twice as large.

Amber eyes stare pointedly at it, then at Genner.

‘The armour was constructed on the orders of Obeisance herself. She felt that an outfit was needed to match the legends of your deeds. I’ll send a squire to help you get into it. When you’re ready, they’ll bring you to the briefing room.’

Genner leaves and shoulders slump. With a sigh, the man takes off his battered old coat and his muddy boots. Trousers and top are removed, folded badly, and put in the corner.

He picks up the new clothes and puts them on. They fit perfectly, following every curve of muscle, pressing snug against wrists and ankles. The man struggles to get a finger inside the collar and work it free of his neck.

He finds it is no easy task.

Partway through the battle, a squire arrives. She is a typical denizen of the Shining City, her hair cropped to the skull, her skin smooth, unblemished, her appearance impeccable.

Without preamble, she bows and begins helping him into the armour. Greaves slot into place against his shins, and are strapped snug. Heavy boots are worked onto his feet, the boosted soles adding several inches to his height. Chest and back plates are snapped together, their design giving the impression that the man has a much bigger frame, with bracers, gauntlets and shoulder plates adding to the illusion.

Smart-webbing links each piece together, staying flexible, breathable, but designed to harden when under threat.

When she is finished, the squire steps back, giving him space and, with a dramatic clank, the Champion stands up.

The squire passes him up his helmet. The visor is featureless, save for a single slit at the front that is filled with toughened plasglass, red-tinted.

The Champion puts it on, wincing as it clicks into place.

Satisfied, the squire turns and leaves the room.

The Champion goes to follow, but his artificially lengthened stride confounds, sending him staggering to the left, then the right, then clutching at the armour stand for support.

He pulls himself upright again, takes a few deep breaths.

The squire’s head appears at the door. ‘Please, Champion,’ she says, anxious, ‘will you come with me? They’re waiting for you.’

The Champion nods, waving her away. As soon as she is gone, he risks a step, more carefully this time, finding that if he keeps his stride short, he can totter forward in relative safety.

As soon as he emerges, the squire hurries off.

The Champion grits his teeth and follows her.

With painstaking effort, he manages to keep balanced, though nothing can be done to stop the boots exaggerating his limp, turning it comical.

They pass through one of the training halls, where young squires are put through their paces. Some prepare on the sidelines, warming voices and muscles, while others spar, doing their best to remember stance and strike. Practice swords clunk together, dull, and the squires sing alone, their voices strangely flat without blades to amplify them.

Nobody says the word ‘champion’ aloud, but news of his passing goes quickly from one to the other, transmitted by thought, via chips housed in each of their brains.

Several try to glance at him out of the corner of their eyes, hoping that perhaps the champion will notice them and approve. Meanwhile, the more dedicated take advantage, scoring easy hits on their distracted fellows.

He stops for a while, half watching, half remembering, a wistful smile tucked beneath the visor. Two knights march up and down the hall, dispensing criticism. They too glance his way, and when he does not notice, they turn back to their duty, taking out irritation on those under their care.

The Champion sighs, nods to the squire who has been waiting for him, patient, and the two continue.

The next hall has fewer people. They are working on a light drive, taken from a downed sky-ship. They have been tinkering for years, trying to patch the gaps in their knowledge with luck and logic. Heads are scratched, shaken, the sense of inertia palpable. But as soon as the thud of the man’s boots resounds in the chamber, everyone is busy, inspecting random pieces of plastic, turning dials connected to inactive machinery, doing all they can to appear important.

The Champion sighs again.

A third hall is passed, this one silent. Pieces of wreckage have been placed here and carefully labelled. Each one is a relic from history, recovered armour, weapons, ornaments, technology, all broken. Too precious to throw away, too damaged to use, they are stored indefinitely, a problem for another generation to address.

Finally, they arrive in a circular chamber with a bench running around three quarters of the perimeter. Genner waits for them here, along with three others, a knight and two squires.

All stand and salute as the man enters, remaining on their feet while he manoeuvres his way to the bench, not sitting until he sits.

The squire who brought him here is dismissed without a word.

‘Welcome, Champion,’ says Genner. ‘Sorry to have to bring you all the way down here, but given that you don’t have a functioning chip, I thought it would be easier to show you the situation as I explain it.

‘Before we get to that though, some introductions are in order. This is the team that will be accompanying you on the mission.’ He indicates the knight, pale eyed, who’s lack of height makes her look like a child in costume. ‘Sir Heras will be going with you for reasons that will soon become clear. Her squires, Borz and Nama, will be there to assist you and to learn.’