The Vagrant and the City

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.’

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