The Vagrant and the City. Peter Newman

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СКАЧАТЬ I’m saying is: we can help.’ He comes to a stop in front of a circular door, emblazoned with a winged eye, and raises one arm. A square of light glows underneath the skin on the back of his hand as he sings his identification.

      There is the briefest pause and then the door sighs open.

      Inside is an empty room, white walls overlaid with a grid of green plasglass.

      A woman awaits them, also in white, save for her gloves and the lens fitted over her right eye, which are black. Genner salutes and she returns the gesture.

      The man gives her a curt nod.

      ‘This,’ says Genner, ‘is Val, our most experienced Purifier. She works with those that have been exposed to the taint, those that survive the purging anyway. Actually, you’ve seen some of her work. She oversaw the reconstruction of Harm’s eye sockets.’

      ‘Ah yes,’ says Val. ‘I remember that case. In the end we could only provide cosmetic assistance. Too much nerve damage. A shame.’

      ‘Without doubt, Val is our best, and she’s been authorized to assist you.’

      The man frowns.

      ‘Don’t worry. You’re in good hands.’ He backs out through the door. ‘I’ll be outside when you’re done.’

      The man’s body leans in the same direction as if to follow, but he stays where he is.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ