"The Slinky Vagabond"

*It’s a humbling experience,* Dorian thought to himself, *lying in one’s own urine.* The remarkable thing, though, was witnessing the societal impact of the ruse. He still lay atop his pistols, knife, and pocket watch. Even the coin purse broadcast its’ uncomfortable presence beneath the small of his back. Given the medic’s slight frame, the hiding place was paltry at best.

But the soldiers were steering clear. In fact, their recent behaviors were a tell that they were avoiding even the recognition of Adler as a person to be quizzed or interrogated. He’d read the works of Milton Haynes and DeMetrius Brown, men who’d spent years of their lives as derelicts and beggars in the brave new worlds of the central planets. While both authors had played upon the reader’s sympathies by expounding upon “pariah” themes, the budding intel agent had been intrigued at the ability of each to hide in plain sight.“Hold a sign,” DeMetrius had said, “and people will scarcely notice you. Hold a sign and smell bad, and you can camp on the same heater grate for days.”

Considering the times he’d avoided detection over the years, Dorian often felt that he owed the writer a healthy bank draft for the sage advice. Here again, lying upon his own exam table with a face turning colors and the smell of piss, he completed the act by once again presenting his own version of a sign.

“He kissed her then and there.
She took his ring, took his babies.
It took him minutes, took her nowhere,
Heaven knows she’d have taken anything, but”

*Just a crazy with a broken face and bladder control issues,* he thought of their dismissal, the notion causing him to break the ancient song’s refrain note with a mild giggle.

“All……night, she wants a young American.”

The right side of his face was swelling, but there was nothing to do about that now. The pain of his fracture was on the increase, as swelling tissue teased dislodged bone against its’ jagged roots. Yes, it hurt like all hell, but his understanding of the damage made the experience tolerable. More disconcerting was what was going on with his right eye.

His vision had doubled.

Nothing new for a man who could drink like Dorian, but there was no blinking this away. The rudimentary test he could perform indicated a vertical drop of the right eye, and a limited range of motion that would not match the left. He couldn’t confirm the suspicion without the hidden ultrasound unit, but at this point he thought the eyeball and its’ enveloping tissues must be slipping into the broken orbital floor.

As if the thought weren’t disquieting enough, the presence of several foreign bodies…bone fragments, no doubt…had wedged themselves against the eyeball. Blinking only caused pain, and brought with it a fear that such large pieces could do physical damage. He’d have to check that quickly.

But not now, before the lusting eyes and greedy hands of alliance soldiers.

More interesting was the nature of the ruse his shipmates must be carrying out. Thus far, no one was being hauled away in cuffs. The cop, Lara Walker, had not led soldiers back into the infirmary to accuse him. In fact, for a boat full of people with reason to run, the only racket he could discern was being carried out by the purple bellies. *I’ll have to get Riley drinking,* he thought, *so she’ll tell me how she pulled this off…if, in fact, she does.*

For now, however, it was best to follow the course. Be the crazy little man with the broken face and pissed pants. Force their avoidance.

“Ain’t there one damned song that can make me
Break down and cry.”