The Vagrant by Peter Newman Page A

wasn’t it?’
    ‘Max, bring down the tunnel.’
    He looks over at her. ‘You sure, boss?’
    She doesn’t look back, one eye closed, the other pressed against the scope. ‘You want to be a glove puppet for the Uncivil?’
    ‘No, boss.’
    ‘You want to be turned into pick and mix for the half-lifers?’
    ‘No, boss.’
    ‘Then stop asking stupid questions.’
    ‘Sorry, boss.’
    She holsters the pistol, puts her hand on his shoulder. ‘And Max?’
    ‘Yes, boss?’
    ‘Before you fire, give me a five count.’
    ‘Sure,’ he says but Tough Call is already running.
    A low rumble shakes the underground room. Dust shrugs downwards, settling on the Knights of Jade and Ash, who wait, ever patient.
    From the commander’s hand, a ratbred dangles, bare feet lightly brushing the floor. She stares, eyes wide and vacant, temples pulsing in time with the living metal at her throat.
    The commander releases her. It has been difficult, connecting with essence so dry. Stubborn like cement, it slows thought, yet the commander has left the necessary mark in her mind. Around it, cracks have started.
    Muscles fail on the ratbred’s face and her right cheek succumbs to gravity, mouth turning down on one side, a confused squiggle. But behind the empty eyes she knows what is sought. With effort, she approaches the wall, injured leg dragging behind.
    The knights watch, expressionless.
    Memories move slowly, hands spasm in momentary rebellion, then they move among the stones.
    The hidden door opens once more.
    She sniffs, thick air invading her nose, making her sneeze. She sniffs again, sifting scents till she finds it, faint, hooking her nostrils, compelling her forward into the tunnel.
    Like shadows, the knights follow.
    In his arms, the baby nestles, content. The Vagrant blinks against the dust, pulling his collar across his mouth.
    Ahead the earth roars again and chunks of stone fall from the ceiling, shattering around the feet of the fleeing people. Their essence lamps quiver but stay lit.
    The Vagrant does not slow, staying close to their reluctant guide.
    Forced to keep pace with him, the goat flicks her ears, irritated.
    Other branches present themselves but Harm does not take them, still following the rebels, moving towards the source of the noise. He glances back at the Vagrant, eyes dipping guiltily to the hidden bundle. Ahead the rebels are conversing in tense whispers. They cannot go back, can they go forward? What should be done? Anxiety becomes inertia and they slow to a crawl as footsteps come pounding through the dark, numerous and giant. They ready their weapons.
    Then a rebel cheers. A familiar voice answers: Maxi. Verdigris’ resistance reunites, clasping arms, swapping well-worn names.
    Tough Call moves among them, firing questions. She does not like the answers. Her last question is asked angrily. A forest of fingers points towards the Vagrant.
    Harm speaks as she marches towards them. ‘It’s not his fault, it was Joe. He—’
    ‘Looks like we have a problem,’ she says loudly, pushing aside the green-eyed man. ‘I’ve brought down two of the entryways to hold off Patchwork. With luck we’ve buried the bastard but more likely we’ve slowed them down. We were coming back this way to get somewhere defensible but now I’m told we’ve got trouble in the southern passages too?’
    ‘The Usurper’s knights are right behind us,’ Harm says quietly, as if pronouncing a sentence.
    ‘Wait a minute,’ Tough Call says, looking round. ‘Where are the others?’
    None of the rebels answer.
    ‘Did the knights get them?’
    The rebels look uncomfortable. ‘We’re not sure,’ says one eventually.
    ‘Right.’ Tough Call runs a hand through her hair. ‘Everybody, crack open those boxes, looks like we’ll be testing these weapons sooner than we thought.’ She gives her attention to the Vagrant. ‘My hands are tied here. There’s going to be a fight and it’ll be hard as hell. I don’t know if I owe you