by Liam Clay
Every time an acrobat wins a fight, they head out to the entrance hall for a victory lap. And the dirty looks I receive on the way corroborate Lima's warning. One woman even spits on the glass as she passes by. But another man happens to catch a snippet of film showing me fighting on the Burnflow in the Kogi virtual world. He appears fascinated by it, and almost (but not quite) forgets to collect his celebratory beer.
By night's end, a handful of acrobats have become similarly intrigued. And once all the patrons have gone, they return to watch more of my feed. Their leader is a compact, dark skinned woman with shoulders like bowling balls.
“This is you?” She asks eventually. On the screen she’s watching, I am fighting a globetank in the Grav marshes.
“That's right.”
“So you were a soldier?”
“Something like that. How about you - were you actually an acrobat before they brought you here?”
I must not qualify to ask personal questions yet, because she doesn't answer me. But when the floor boss comes to escort us to the lockup, she borrows his keys and opens my enclosure herself. Then she turns away so that I can struggle to my feet without an audience. It is a minor kindness, but a little goes a long way in a place like this.
We exit the circus through a flap in the big top's rear wall. A short walk down a walled in path brings us to the lockup. It is nothing like the stinking deathtraps I've become used to. To be fair, it's still a featureless iron box. But this one is ventilated, and it even has (barred) windows on the second floor.
Inside, the house is rather pleasant. Shag carpets cover the common room floor, and there are enough couches for everyone. Most of the acrobats flop down and pass out immediately. The leader, who identifies herself as Belinda, tells me there are dorm rooms on the second level as well. But the stairs seem likely to defeat me, so I grab some carb slop from a pot in the kitchen, force down a few mouthfuls, and curl up on a free couch.
CHAPTER 13
I wake up in a fog, mouth dry as a dead well. Stumbling to the kitchen, I put my head under a water spigot and drink until my stomach hurts. Most of my new roommates are still asleep. But there are two men already up, passing a bottle of spirits between them across the kitchen table. One of them holds it out to me. But the smell of the liquor turns my stomach, and I wave it off in a hurry. I wonder if they fought each other last night - and if so, who won. Not that it matters.
“Are we allowed to leave the lockup?” I ask them.
“You can go back into the big top anytime you want.” One of them replies. “Be careful, though: I heard someone saw a ghost in the rafters last night.”
Ignoring his warning, I head out the door. The path's enclosing walls obscure my view of street level. But the wall holo is off and the crowd noise has died down, so it must be morning. The battle circus looks like a dormant volcano up ahead.
Inside, it smells of peanuts, popcorn and beer. (Most of the barges that run the Stormline must be full of supplies, to keep this place so well stocked.) The hanging ropes and ladders form a spider's web overhead. A group of acrobats are already here, limbering up for a training session. Incredibly, the pudgy man I saw fall off the Stormline is among them. His face lights up when he sees me.
“I remember you, I do, I do. Half the man, twice the fun, I say! Do you think they will let me fight tonight?”
Belinda's face is telling me no. But I don't want to hurt the guy's feelings, so I say, “I'm not sure, Pep. I'm new here too.”
“New is true, but I'm a natural through and through.” He looks up. “Isn't it glorious?”
“It sure is.” I'm not lying this time. There is something truly special about the circus's aerial array. I wish I could say the same of Pep. Unless he gets way better really fast, this place will be the death of him.
Leaving him to practice, I wander into the entrance hall. It is completely empty. For a lark, I find a ladder and start to climb. The patron's trapeze is nowhere near as complex as the professional version. But it still represents a major challenge to a one-armed man. Choosing a rope, I swing out over space. My legs find purchase on a beam, and I balance upon it, letting go of the rope after a moment. From there, I work my way slowly into the upper reaches of the array. Despite the net below, I could hurt myself if I fall. But it feels good to get my adrenaline pumping in a situation that isn’t curdled by hate and horror. I eventually reach a platform at the very top of the array. And it is here that Nem finds me.
Unfolding himself from a shadowed nook in the rafters, he drops to the platform and sits down facing me. Perforated black cones emerge from his ears now. His long lost frequency jacks, I assume. And when he claps me on the shoulder, his hand moves unerringly through space. This man can see.
“Good to see you.” He messages, the words glowing out of his neck one by one. And then, “You've been holding out on me, darling. Why didn't you tell me you were famous?”
“Been watching my feed, have you?”
“No, the jacks don't work for screens. But I was in the stadium when you went up for auction.”
“Really? You've been getting around.”
“It's almost too easy. First rule of skulking about: people never look up. Except in the battle circus, that is.”
“Then why did you come here?”
“Um, hello! Have you seen the titanium buns on the studs in here? It's enough to give a man religion. But I also came to speak with you. I'm on a recruitment drive, you see.”
“For what?”
“A rebellion. I've never particularly liked this place, and now that I have my jacks back, I've decided to dismantle it piece by piece.”
“Interesting. And how many people have you recruited so far?”
“Including you? One. So congratulations! You're in on the ground floor.” He glances down. “So to speak.”
“But won't Ninetown's security forces be looking for you?”
“Nope. My old boss was too embarrassed to report me missing, so I'm in the clear. And besides, there are literally millions of places to hide in this pyramid. Once I break you out of here, we can go exploring. So, what do you say?”
My working plan had been to find my friends and get the hell out of here. But I can't really see us escaping Ninetown while it is fully operational. If we were to cause some unrest, though... Also, this place is the worst, and I would take great pleasure in tearing it down.
“I'm in. But we need to be strategic about this. The slaves here are so used to the status quo that they won't even consider rebelling... unless we set the stage for them.”
Nem thinks this over. “How would we do that?”
“Take the acrobats here, for example. They submit to Lima's system because they understand how to survive inside it. But if we were to remove that sense of safety, they might be more willing to risk joining us.”
“So what did you have in mind? Maybe we could sabotage the fighting quadrants - cause a few deaths? That would be a nasty way of making friends, though.”
“Agreed. It would need to be something that creates panic, and makes it seem as though the masters are losing control.” A thought occurs to me. “On the way here, my master told me that Ninetowners are superstitious. They think this place is haunted by the ghosts of whoever built it. And you're kind of pale and sneaky...”
“My god, you're right. I am kind of pale and sneaky!”
“That's the spirit. So maybe you can start causing mischief, and I can do some fearmongering off the back of it.”
The albino hums wordlessly while he considers my proposal.
“I like it.” He says finally. “I was just going to blow some shit up and then run around yelling 'death to the masters'. But your way is better.”
For the first time in ages, it feels like I'm acting instead of reacting. God, did I miss this feeling. I hold out my hand, and Nem shakes it solemnly.
“Great.” I say. “Now I'd like to ask you a favor.”
“What's that?”
�
��I have friends somewhere inside the pyramid. They’ve probably been sent to the factory crater, although I don't know for sure. Could you do some snooping around for me?”
“Sure. It would actually be good to cause some trouble in the factories anyway. We will need the slaves there to rebel too if we're going to make this work.”
“Good point.”
I give the albino my friends' names, descriptions and backgrounds.
“Sounds like quite the bunch.” He says afterward.
“They are. What about you, though? Where did you learn to fight blind and all that cool shit?”
“It's not a very interesting story.”
“I literally can't think of anything more interesting. Come on, you know everything about me now. Time to return the favor.”
Nem makes an appalling sound in his throat that might be a sigh.
“Fine. I may, at one point, have been in a martial arts club. Wait, did I say club? I meant cult. There, happy now?”
“Most certainly not. But if you really don't want to talk about it, I won't force you. Partly because you might kill me with your mystical kung fu powers if I do.”
“Don't be such a bitch. Now, I'd better get out there and start making mischief. Until next time, darling.”
To throw off suspicion, I stop to watch the training on my way back through the big top. Pep has managed to get himself tangled in a rope ladder. The other acrobats are trying to free him, but everything they do just seems to make things worse. Belinda is watching from the ground, a disbelieving expression on her face.
“I have no idea what we're going to do with him.” She says to me. I watch him struggle for a while longer, and then an idea suggests itself.
“Why don't you make him a comedy act? Just let him bumble around up there, or have him beat up another fighter by accident, maybe.”
She purses her lips. “You know, that's not such a bad idea. I'll ask Datsel about it.”
She heads off to find him, and I return to the lockup. The acrobats I spoke to earlier are drunk out of their skulls now.
“No fights for us tonight.” One of them slurs. “Got to take advantage of time off when it comes your way. Not that a showpiece like you would know anything about working.”
“I worked your mom out pretty good last night.” I say (because why the hell not?) and both men collapse into hysterics. Then I head up to the second floor dorms, hoping to find a quiet spot to rest. One of the rooms seems to be reserved for orgies - if the sounds coming through the door are any indication - but a second is blessedly empty. I take one of the bottom beds and prepare to catch up on lost sleep.
And so begins my life in the battle circus. It doesn't take long to develop a routine. I spend every night in my enclosure, of course. Then I sleep until noon, grab a carb slop lunch, and spend the afternoon cultivating friendships with the acrobats. Meanwhile, word of Nem's exploits begins to percolate through the quarter. It's small stuff for the most part: ghost sightings, minor pieces of sabotage etc. The stories aren’t enough to incite panic, but they are a starting point.
One morning two weeks into my stay, I find Lima counting the previous night's take in the entrance hall. I try to sneak away, but he’s already beckoning me over.
“Anex, it is good to see you looking so healthy! Please sit down.”
Reluctantly, I walk over to join him.
“I hope you have enjoyed your time here so far.” He says genially. “Personally, I think it's been a roaring success! Why, even the staff are fascinated by your military history. Speaking of which, I may have another use for your unique skills. Marineta Sipholo has challenged me to a wargame at her establishment, and your tactical experience might be just the edge I need.”
“Thank you for the offer sir, but I'm not sure how much help I would be.”
“Nonsense! It's all been decided. We will play this afternoon over drinks, before our venues open for the night.” He sobers. “But I should warn you that the Gamehouse is a vulgar place. Sipholo is a collector of... abnormalities. You would have become one yourself, if not for my intervention.”
I try to look grateful, but his attention has already turned to the patron's trapeze.
“Did you see something up there?”
I shake my head, and he shrugs.
“Never mind then. These ghost sightings must be getting to me. Plus I heard someone broke a pen full of rhinos out of the zoo last night. Caused a proper ruckus before they could be rounded up again. But where are my manners. Would you like some breakfast?”
I accept, and he fetches a plate of meat skewers from a nearby stall. Then he returns to his count, seeming to forget all about me. I am finding it surprisingly difficult to hate Datsel. He is ridiculously naive and clearly delusional, but he also seems like a man at peace with himself. I suppose that by the standards set by his environment, he is a good and honest person.
.
In the early afternoon, a messenger boy requests my presence at the front gate. I find Datsel there with a handful of his favorite acrobats.
“Are you ready for tonight?” He asks.
I assure him that I am (although I'm not) and we leave the circus together. It's busy outside, but the quarter's daytime crowd is very different from the nocturnal version. These are respectable Ninetown families, taking their children out for a spot of fun. It’s incredible to me that a parent would blithely expose their kids to the slave conditions on display here. But to them, this is all completely normal.
We reach the Gamehouse. I still don't know what goes on inside, and aside from the sign, its exterior offers no further clues. A doorman in bright livery beckons us on, and we step inside.
CHAPTER 14
Gameboards. Giant ones, with weapon racks lined up around them. This is the entertainment on offer here. Sipholo is waiting for us. Her voluminous frame is ensconced in an acid green frock complete with matching feather boa. An honor guard of warriors flanks her. Some are dressed as medieval knights; others, in spacesuits straight out of an Opacian sci fi flick. And without exception, they are all physically disabled in some way.
“Datsel, how lovely of you to come.” Sipholo says. “And you brought your new toy! Come to show him off, have you?”
“Not at all. He will be my playing partner this evening.”
The woman titters behind her hand. “What a novel idea. Next you will be inviting him to dinner in the shareholders neighborhood. The Gamehouse will be opening in a few hours though, so let's get started shall we? As guest of honor, you may pick the game we play.”
Datsel nods graciously. “I am partial to Stations, as you know. And what will the wager be? A thousand rounds, or perhaps two?”
The woman sighs. “Cash wagers are so middle class, don't you think? Why don't we play for something both of us actually want? Such as your new toy, for example.”
“I think not, Marineta. You had your chance back in the stadium. And besides, you have nothing of equal value to put up in return.”
“Oh, but I do. You see, I happen to know that one of your precious acrobats is planning to murder you. And if you win our game today, I will tell you which one.”
“That is preposterous.” Lima splutters. “Nobody on my staff would do such a thing.”
“Are you absolutely certain of that, Datsel? But if you insist on being difficult, I can sweeten the deal. I will promise to give you the killer's name regardless of the game’s outcome. So if you win, you will have gotten that information for nothing. And if you lose, you can consider it an even trade. Come now, you must admit that this is an excellent offer.”
“But how do I know you are telling the truth? This murderer is probably just a fabrication, designed to fleece me out of my prized possession.”
“I have a solution for that as well. Let's say for a moment that I win. As per our arrangement, I will still tell you who the killer is. You can then have them interrogated. And if you are not convinced of their guilt, I will return the Live Soldier to
you unharmed.”
If I was Datsel, I would take this bet. Anyone would, if they thought there was the slightest chance Sipholo was telling the truth. God damn it. My master hums and hahs, and then apologizes to me, and then promises to win at any cost (for my sake, naturally) but it's all just empty words. He may be better than the others, but at the end of the day Lima is still a fucking slaver.
When the bet has been finalized, we move to a circular gameboard with a hologram of the earth at its center. Stylized space stations surround it, imitating a low orbit. A glass dome encloses the entire board, while a second, smaller dome separates the earth from the stations. Forgetting his guilt in the lead up to the contest, Datsel explains the rules for my benefit.
“This game is called Stations. There are two ways to win. One is to knock all of your opponent’s playing pieces off the board. And the other is to be occupying the most stations when time runs out. Each player has three types of pieces at their disposal. Space marines are used to occupy stations. Engineers, to repair and sabotage them. And scientists can create technological improvements. It is a rather complicated game, but those are the basics. As a first step, we will be choosing our pieces. Ah, here they come now.”
28 of Sipholo's disabled slaves are approaching the board. 16 of them are decked out in armored space suits. Eight more are wearing orange coveralls; and the last four, white lab coats. They line up across from us, backs straight and eyes fixed on the tent's far wall. Since Datsel got to decide on the game, Sipholo is allowed to select first. She chooses a huge marine with forearms that end at the wrist. Datsel goes with a hunchbacked scientist. They continue to make picks until both players have 14 pieces: 8 marines, 4 engineers and 2 scientists. I note that most of Sipholo's top picks were soldiers, whereas Datsel seemed to favor engineers. I assume this is due to a difference in their respective strategies.
Once the playing pieces have been divvied up, the contestants place them on stations around the board. Then the game begins. I don't understand much at first - mostly because both parties are still feeling each other out. But then Datsel moves one of his engineers onto a station held by Sipholo. A hologram of a complex machine appears in the middle of the board, and a disembodied voice says,