by Chris Bunch
“Stop,” Adele shrilled. “No more. All right, Knox. I’ll ride your dinged elephant!”
“You see,” Garvin told Lir. “There’s more than one way to skin a showgirl.”
• • •
The three men threw things at the woman, Qi Fen Tan — chairs, a small table, and she caught them, stacked them atop each other askew, her hands a blur. Then one man, Jiang Yuan Fong, gave a second leg up, and he spun up through the air, to the top of the stack, balancing easily.
The second man went up as well.
Then a very small child, Jia Yin Fong, toddled toward the man, and she, too, went spinning up to the top of the pile, and, from nowhere, produced a dozen sticks and began juggling them.
The thrower nodded, and the acrobats disassembled.
“You, of course, are more than welcome,” Garvin said through the dying traces of a raki hangover.
“Good,” the man, Fong, said. “For we have heard that you will be attempting to reach Centrum, and from there it should be easy for my family and cousins to continue our journey.”
“To where?” Garvin asked. “We already have some people who are hitching with us.”
Fong looked sad. “Yes. I know who you mean, and I fear their planet is no more than a dream, although I hope otherwise.
“Our journey is to a quite real place. We are returning to Earth, to our native land called China, as, in the end, all Chinese will do.
“We have been, through a dozen generations, through the galaxy, and now it is time to return home to our village of Tai Sheng and rebuild our souls.”
Garvin shook hands with the man, wondered if Ken Fong, back on Cumbre, was any kind of relation, then went back toward his office for a soothing beer and to contemplate the many reasons his troupe had … or claimed to have … for joining him.
• • •
They were almost crewed up, and rehearsing twice a day. Garvin had set their lift date, and tempers were getting short.
The big cats snarled at anyone who came within range of their cages, including their handler, Sir Douglas. The elephants were cranky, and their occasional screeches echoed through the transport. Acrobatic partners snapped at each other, aerialists bit their lips, and roustabouts met behind the ship to settle their differences.
Only a few of the experienced hands were pleased. This was the way it always went before a show was ready to roll … and if all had been peaceful and happy, they would’ve known they were in for trouble.
• • •
Garvin picked up the rifle, aimed carefully, and pulled the trigger. The ancient projectile weapon cracked, and the target was motionless.
“Try again, try again, can’t win the doll for your lady without you take another chance,” the talker chanted.
“The problem with you, Sopi,” Njangu said, “is that you think everybody is too dumb to count.”
The fat, cheery-looking man tried to look angry, failed, settled on offended.
“Howinhell can you think I’m not a bon homy?” he demanded, his voice high, squeaky.
“For openers, the barrel of that rifle’s been tweaked so hard it shoots sideways,” he said.
“Same thing with your wheel of fortune,” Garvin joined in. “I could see the magnets, and watch the talker’s foot kick switches. And we won’t even think about your roulette wheel, which barely turns.”
“Now, ‘at’s not good,” Sopi Midt agreed. “Have to get them side curtains lowered some.”
“And the ball throw was weighted,” Garvin went on. “The bottles in the ring toss were too close together, so nothing could land right.”
“But whadja think of the jill show?”
“That won’t fly at all,” Garvin said. “First we’ve got our showgirls already. And I know sex sells … but we’re not trying to get in trouble.”
“I don’t get in trouble,” Midt said. “We always play things right up to the wire, and make sure the rozzer’s been tipped so there’s no arrests.
“Play to the community standards, maybe a meter or so beyond, and you’ll never ever, or hardly ever anyway, get in trouble,” he said piously.
“You do have a problem,” Garvin agreed with Njangu. “You’re too quick to go chasing after the credit.
“But I’ve got a problem, too. I need a midway, I want to be on the road yesterday, and you’ve got twelve booths, not including the girlie show, and you’re not trying to shove freaks at me, although I wouldn’t mind a good giant or two.”
“Know where I can get ‘em, have ‘em here by morning,” Midt said.
“Shut up for a minute,” Garvin said. “Try this for a proposition. Instead of the cut being sixty-forty, like you suggested, let’s try seventy-thirty.”
“Why’re you willing to screw yourself?” Midt asked suspiciously.
“ ‘Cause I want a straight show … or, anyway, fairly straight. I want you to go through, fix the graft so it isn’t too bad a rape, and we have a deal.
“The other condition is you deal straight with me, all the way. Or I’ll leave your fat ass, and your crew, in the middle of whatever fix you’ll have caused, on whatever miserable world of flatties it happens on.”
Midt considered.
“Damn,” he said. “If there was any other show goin’ … I’m not sure I’m real good at bein’ honest.”
“Then you’d best start learning,” Njangu said, finding all this very funny.
Midt stuck out a paw.
“ ‘Kay. Hard bargaining. But I’ll take the deal.”
“Then you better get to work, straightening some gun barrels and unwiring your graft,” Garvin said curtly, and started back for the ship.
“We sure have a crew,” Njangu said. “Crooked sideshows, gypsies, aliens, elephants, and killer cats.”
“I know,” Garvin said happily. “It really is starting to feel like a circus. And, like you said, back in Cumbre, nobody’s gonna think a rooty-tootin’ spy mission of heroes is also running some games that are somewhat on the diddly.”
• • •
It was dress rehearsal.
Garvin, in spite of his romantic lust to do his first show under canvas, had been sensible and performed in Big Bertha’s main hold.
He would use exactly the same dimensions whether they were inship or outship: bleachers were set up on either side of the rectangular area, almost half a kilometer in length. The bleachers could be adjusted depending on the crowd they drew, so Circus Jaansma would never look poorly attended.
The horse track ran from the troupers’ entrance around the performing area, then back out the entrance on the other side.
Garvin, ever the traditionalist, would run three rings, each about twenty-five meters in diameter. They could be spaced closer or farther apart, depending, again, on the size of the crowd. The crowd came in through the main cargo airlock, whose secondary portal could be stowed on a breathable world.
Overhead was the maze of lines and guy wires for the aerialists, and, high above them was the rear of the command capsule.
Outside the ship was the midway, and at lock’s entrance there were spielers, still working on their ballyhoos, drawing the crowd inside.
Garvin had invited anyone on Grimaldi who wanted to attend. The bleachers were full and extra seats, called cattle guards, had been set in front of the general admission seats.
Then it began, and the clowns attacked the pompous ringmaster, and Garvin whipped them away, just as the aerialists, like clouds of satin, dangled by strange monsters, filled the skies.
There were elephants, more clowns, acrobats, big cats, even a finicky man with real Earth cats, constantly harassed by the clowns.
The horses came and went, and more clowns, and the children were starting to yawn, and then it was the blowoff, and the candy butchers swarmed the stands.
“Not bad,” Garvin grudged.
“Not bad at all,” Njangu agreed. He laughed. “I guess it’s time to go to war.”
• • •
“Sir,” Liskeard said. “All compartments report ready to lift, we have hull integrity, no problems reported.”
“Then, Mr. Liskeard,” Garvin said, “we’re trouping!”
Liskeard grinned, touched controls, and Big Bertha lifted clear of Grimaldi and waddled toward the stars.
CHAPTER
7
N-space
Garvin could have gone straight for Centrum, but he knew better. Njangu’s digging indicated that whatever had happened to the Confederation now looked like it had happened in chunks, rather than a total implosion/explosion from the center.
He felt if he went straight for the heart of the matter, he’d most likely get his head rolled, and thought it wiser to skirt the fringes … actually well into the heart of the Confederation … gathering intelligence before going for broke.
His goal was the multiple systems of Tiborg. That hadn’t been his original target, back on Cumbre, but he hadn’t planned on having to go all the way to Grimaldi to gather his troupe, either. Tiborg had been one of the secondary options he’d chosen, because a Confederation fiche, fairly classified, said the sector could be “interesting in its approach to diplomacy.”
“Which means,” Garvin had said, “they’re royal pains in the ass … or were, anyway, to the Confederation, I’d guess. Well worth talking to.”
“Yeh. Right,” Njangu said. “This is the old ‘enemy of my friend could be worth knowing’ routine. It’s generally been my experience that somebody who’s a good enemy is an all-around pain in the ass to everyone who comes in contact with him.
“But you’re the brave leader and all.”
Big Bertha jumped through five systems, four inhabited, without landing or contacting the locals. Penwyth, Lir, Dill, and Froude went to Yoshitaro — Garvin having refused to see them, taking advantage of the old military law that an absence of response always means no and go away — to request Big Bertha make landings.
“That’ll give the planets’ peoples something,” Penwyth said. “The mere assurance that there’s folks out there, concerned about the Confederation.”
“Touching,” Njangu said, not quite sneering. “Truly touching. Especially you, Ben, being one of the petitioners, being a hardened killer of the ether. There are … were … how many planets in the Confederation at last count? A hundred thousand? A million? Don’t you think we might grow old gracefully on such a charming errand of mercy, rather than doing what the hell we’re out here for in the first place?”
Penwyth and Dill might’ve said more, but Froude recognized that Yoshitaro was right. They didn’t have time to waste. Lir knew, after the time with him in I&R, better than to argue when the boss got a certain coldness to him.
Njangu asked Monique to stay behind after the others.
“Getting soft?” he asked, and there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
She took it as meant, thought for a bit.
“No, boss. I don’t think so.”
“Good,” he said. “We’ve got soft hearts enough, and I suspect this operation will get sticky before we belly up to the bar at the Shelburne again.”
Tiborg
“Boursier One, this is Tiborg Alpha Delta Control,” crackled in Boursier’s headphones. “You are cleared to land at field, using Channel three-four-three for instrument approach, or under visual flight conditions once in-atmosphere under pilot’s discretion. Over.”
“This is Boursier One,” Jacqueline Boursier said into her mike — Dill had started something by using his own name for a call sign. “Roger your instructions on Channel three-four-three. Be advised I am forerunner of Transport Big Bertha, who will be entering your system shortly.”
There was a pause.
“Boursier One, this is Control. You should be advised we have patrol ships out … but your transport name is certainly disarming.”
Boursier, fairly close to being humorless, opened her mike. “Roger your last. We intend no harm. We are a circus ship.”
“Say again your last?”
“Circus,” Boursier said. “As in entertainment.”
A long pause.
“This is Control. I looked the word up. My superior says proceed as before.”
“Roger … thank you, Control. Switching channels.” Boursier touched a sensor, signaled Big Bertha.
A few minutes later, one of the patrol ships dropped into normal space. Garvin Jaansma was aboard it.
“Boursier One, this is Jaansma,” he said. “No problems?”
“None that I can see.”
“Then let’s be hung for sheepsies … go on down and see what’s happening, Boursier One.”
“Roger. Switching frequencies.” Again, Boursier touched a sensor.
“Tiborg Alpha Delta Control, this is Boursier One. Proceeding to landing. Other two ships will follow me.”
The Nana boat went back into hyperspace, and then it returned, followed by Big Bertha, and they closed on the planet below.
“Interesting,” Garvin said to no one in particular. “Supposedly these systems are democratic, but they’ve all got names like some soldier named them. Alpha Delta whatever my left nostril!”
“Or else the people only think they’ve got democracy,” a tech murmured.
“That too.”
• • •
“Purpose of your visit?” the customs officer asked briskly.
“To entertain your people … and maybe make a few credits,” Garvin said.
The customs officer looked up at Big Bertha looming over her, then smiled.
“You know, you’re the first person I’ve ever cleared who wasn’t from one of the Tiborg systems. You … and your people … are truly welcome.”
• • •
“Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, citizens of our Confederation, welcome to Circus Jaansma,” Garvin called, and cracked his whip sharply.
The main cargo area of Big Bertha was about half-full of people. Garvin had decided for their first real performance, and the first night on an unknown world, it would be safer to keep things close at hand and pitch the tent later.
“We bring you wonders from beyond the stars, from old Earth, from worlds unknown to man, with strange aliens, monsters, deadly beasts, death-defying acrobats high above you, to chill and amaze — ”
At this point, the clowns attacked Garvin, as planned. He flailed and whipped them off, the clowns stumbling into each other, their every scheme foiled by idiocy; then one shrieked warning, and pointed off.
Through a portal Alikhan loomed, growling, snarling, “guarded” by Ben Dill, wearing a pair of tights and iron rings about his biceps.
There were screams, especially from the children. Perhaps there were a few adults who knew what a Musth was, but none of them could know whether or not he was friendly.
Behind Alikhan streamed the circus — tumbling acrobats, the aerialists pirouetting on lifters, the cats in their cages, the elephants, the horses, Darod Montagna proudly if a little shakily standing on one of them, and the show began.
• • •
They played day-on, day-off for the next four days, honing the routines.
Njangu wasn’t around much — he was again scouting libraries for data on the Confederation, looking for possible info sources, but without that much success.
Tiborg had been mostly out of contact with the Confederation for more than ten years, longer than Cumbre. Researching back through the holos of the time, it seemed the break-off hadn’t been of much concern.
He wondered what the word “mostly” meant, decided to look further, even though he got the idea the people of Tiborg were perfectly happy to be left alone, content to let the Universe roll on by.
He made some attempts to size up the local military, found, in common with many worlds, curiosity wasn’t encouraged. He did discover there was an Armed Forces Club in the capital, and considered if there might be something there.
• • •
Running Bear paced back and f
orth, stepping carefully, chanting as he did, moving steadily down the sawdust around the three main rings.
It was coming back to him, he thought, wishing he’d had a grandfather or father he was sure actually had remembered the rituals.
He only half believed in racial memory, but was trying desperately under the face paint and body paint.
He tried to remember a time before the whites, when his people ruled the plains of a distant world, warrior lords of the prairies.
He came back, realized there was a small girl staring solemnly at him, who’d come out of her seat in the stands.
“Are you real?” she asked.
“Nope,” Running Bear said. “I’m a ghost. A ghost dancer.”
“Oh. What are you doing?” she asked.
“A rain dance of my people,” Running Bear intoned, trying to keep from laughing.
“Oh.” The little girl nodded, started back for her seat, then turned back.
“It’s a good dance,” she said. “It just started raining when we got here.”
Running Bear grunted like a good Amerind should; felt, inside, a tiny ripple of fear for messing about in the territory of the gods.
• • •
“We certainly seem,” Ristori said to Froude, “to have arrived in interesting times. I assume you’ve noted there’s a campaign going on for Planetary Premier?”
“I’ve seen something on a holo,” Froude said. “Unfortunately, I was trying to learn that damned forward roll you think my old bones are capable of.”
“Shame, Doctor,” Ristori said. “Wolves should always attend on the doings of the sheep. Otherwise, they might miss the hiring of a new and dangerous shepherd. Or a flock of sheepdogs.”
“I’m worse than that,” Froude confessed. “I don’t even know how the damned system works.”
“Most simple, simple, simple,” Ristori said, reverting to his chosen clamor. “Sorry. You have a supposedly freely elected Premier and Vice Premier, plus their various appointed secretaries. They, in turn, help rule all of Tiborg’s twenty-odd worlds through four systems.”