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The Vagrant
Peter Newman
The Vagrant is his name. He has no other.Years have passed since humanity’s destruction emerged from the Breach.Friendless and alone he walks across a desolate, war-torn landscape.As each day passes the world tumbles further into depravity, bent and twisted by the new order, corrupted by the Usurper, the enemy, and his infernal horde.His purpose is to reach the Shining City, last bastion of the human race, and deliver the only weapon that may make a difference in the ongoing war.What little hope remains is dying. Abandoned by its leader, The Seven, and its heroes, The Seraph Knights, the last defences of a once great civilisation are crumbling into dust.But the Shining City is far away and the world is a very dangerous place.
Copyright (#ua1144d59-138e-5dbd-be78-1aa8f715494e)
HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London, SE1 9GF
www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk (http://www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2015
Copyright © Peter Newman 2015
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
Jacket illustration © Jaime Jones
Peter Newman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007593071
Ebook Edition © April 2015 ISBN: 9780008182687
Version: 2017-01-17
Dedication (#ua1144d59-138e-5dbd-be78-1aa8f715494e)
To Em,
for lighting the way
Contents
Cover (#u4ad54c30-b32d-5973-9f37-a3e6a006d575)
Title Page (#uf68edf63-d006-5f71-9b23-a892415f47a2)
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Eight Years Ago
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Eight Years Ago
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Eight Years Ago
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Eight Years Ago
Chapter Fourteen
Eight Years Ago
Chapter Fifteen
Eight Years Ago
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Seven Years Ago
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Seven Years Ago
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Three Years Ago
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Three Years Ago
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Three Years Ago
Chapter Twenty-Eight
One Year Ago
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
One Year Ago
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Acknowledgments
Read an extract of The Malice
About the Author
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE (#ua1144d59-138e-5dbd-be78-1aa8f715494e)
Starlight gives way to bolder neon. Signs muscle in on all sides, brightly welcoming each arrival to New Horizon.
The Vagrant does not notice; his gaze fixes on the ground ahead.
People litter the streets like living waste, their eyes as hollow as their laughter. Voices beg and hands grasp, needy, aggressive.
The Vagrant does not notice and walks on, clasping his coat tightly at the neck.
Excited shouts draw a crowd ahead. A mixture of half-bloods and pimps, dealers and spectators gather in force. Platforms rise up in the street, unsteady on legs of salvaged metal. Wire cages sit on top. Within, shivering forms squat, waiting to be sold. For some of the assembled, the flesh auction provides new slaves, for others, fresh meat.
Unnoticed in the commotion, the Vagrant travels on.
The centre of New Horizon is dominated by a vast scrap yard dubbed ‘The Iron Mountain’, a legacy from the war. At its heart is the gutted corpse of a fallen sky-ship; its cargo of tanks and fighters has spilled out in the crash, forming a skirt of scattered metal at the mountain’s base.
Always opportunistic, the inhabitants of New Horizon have tunnelled out its insides to create living spaces and shops, selling on the sky-ship’s treasures. Scavenged lamps hang, colouring the shadows.
One tunnel is illuminated by a glowing hoop, off-white and erratic. In the pale light, the low ceiling is the colour of curdled milk.
Awkwardly, the Vagrant enters, bending his legs and bowing his head, his back held straight.
Corrugated shelves line the walls, packed with bottles, tins and tubes. The owner of the rusting cave hunches on the floor, cleaning a syringe with a ragged cloth. He appraises the Vagrant with a bloodshot eye.
‘A new customer?’
The Vagrant nods.
Syringe and cloth are swiftly tucked away and yellowing fingers rub together. ‘Ah, welcome, welcome. I am Doctor Zero. I take it you’ve heard of me?’
The Vagrant nods.
‘Of course you have, that’s why you’re here. Well, what can I get you? You look tired. I have the finest selection of uppers this side of the Breach, or perhaps something to escape with?’ His eyes twinkle, sleazy, seductive.
One hand still on his collar, the Vagrant’s amber eyes roam the shelves. They alight on a small jar, its label faded to a uniform grey.
‘Ah, a discerning customer,’ says Doctor Zero, impressed. ‘Rare to have somebody who knows what they’re looking for. Most of the rabble I get through here can’t tell the difference between stardust and sawdust.’ He picks up the jar, flicking something sticky from the lid. ‘I assume whoever sent you appreciates the scarcity of good medicine … and the cost.’
In answer, the Vagrant kneels and places two platinum coins on the ground, sliding them across the floor towards the Doctor.
‘I hope you aren’t trying to trick me,’ the Doctor replies, picking them up and tapping each one in turn with his finger. The coins vibrate and a brief two-note duet fills the cramped space. For a moment neither speak, both moved to other memories by the sound.
Doctor Zero holds them to the light, the clean discs incongruous with his sallow skin. ‘My apologies,’ he says, handing the jar over quickly, hoping no change will be asked for. ‘And if you have any other needs, don’t hesitate to come back.’
Doctor Zero watches the Vagrant go, his fingers twisting together, untwisting and twisting again. He picks up the syringe and, after a moment’s deliberation, pricks his finger on it, wincing at the little stab of pain. A bead of blood appears on the end of his finger. He waits until it has grown to the size of a small pea and then whispers his message.
