Homefall

by Chris Bunch

  "Why you want to learn iron-jaw act?"

  "Why not?"

  The ra'felan reached up with a tentacle and pulled down the rope with the metal bit at its end.

  "Good. You put in mouth, just clamp teeth. Hold firm. Now, we pull off ground. Just little.

  "You see how easy? Human jaw strong. Now, we teach how to spin, turn, maybe… you look like strong woman… do kicks and things."

  Njangu eyed the animals skeptically. They looked at him with interest. Not to maybe mention hunger.

  There were a round dozen of them, identified by their trainer as lions, tigers, leopards, and panthers.

  "You know," he said, "I'd be a lot happier, a whole lot happier, if the bars were between me and your friends."

  "Ah, there's nothing to worry about," the tall handsome man with the scarred face said.

  Njangu remembered Garvin telling him once, when they thought they were about to die, why he'd ended up joining the Force—the circus he'd been ringmaster for had turned out to be crook, and the locals had realized the hustles and started a riot. Jaansma saw someone about to torch the horses' enclosure, went, as he said, "a little ape shit," and turned the big cats loose on the crowd.

  "Yeh," he said doubtfully.

  "Not that the diddlies'U ever realize how tame m'pussies are," the slanger—trainer—said. He cracked a big whip, and instantly the inside of the huge enclosure, a huge birdcage almost twenty meters in diameter, was furry chaos, as cats roared, screamed, clawed at the air, sprang from stand to stand, and the trainer was firing blanks from an old-fashioned pistol into the air as he tossed rings through the air, and the animals plummeted through them.

  Then all was still again.

  The trainer, who said his name was Sir Douglas, grinned, his scar standing out against his near-ebony complexion. "See what I mean?"

  "Maybe," Njangu said. "Uh… where'd you get the scar, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "Muldoon… that's the leopard over there… gets moody first thing in the mornings. And I was being a little pushy." He gestured. "Accidents do happen, don't they."

  "They do," Njangu said, moving toward the cage door. "By the way, what do these fine friends of yours eat?"

  "Meat," Sir Douglas said with a ferocious grin. "As much as I'll let 'em have."

  "Have they figured out yet, that we're meat?"

  "No," the trainer said. "But they're working on it."

  Njangu noticed Garvin's habits were changing. Now he would sleep all day, waking at nightfall for a light meal, then doing business all night long, breaking frequently to visit various acts around the ship. At dawn, he'd have a big meal and half a bottle of wine, and retire.

  Njangu caught him eyeing Darod Montagna, but so far nothing had happened.

  So far.

  Besides, Njangu had other business to take care of, with two Intelligence Section assistants. He was interviewing, as subtly and thoroughly as he could, everyone who joined the circus about where they'd come from, what they knew of the collapse, and their own personal travels.

  A problem was that circus people don't especially like to get personal. They were reluctant to say where they came from, but would say "I was with the Zy-mecas," or "I came from Butler and Daughter."

  Njangu, so far, was amassing confusion. Some worlds or sectors seemed to have made a decision to declare their independence from the Confederation. Nobody seemed to know what happened to the Confederation officials assigned to those areas.

  Other worlds, Njangu found, seemed to have lost contact. Their freightliners went out and didn't come back, ordered cargoes never materialized, troops were never replaced, and so forth.

  A few troupers had specific stories—of expecting an act or a relative to arrive, and no ship ever appeared in their skies, or contracts had been signed, but the transport never showed up.

  There didn't seem to be any single crash, just a series of crumblings.

  Njangu had no theories whatsoever.

  "Great gods playing feetball," Dill said. "They're goddamned enormous!"

  "Nobody really realizes how big an elephant is until they get close to one for the first time," Garvin said. "Isn't that right?"

  "We would not know," one of the slim brown-skinned men said.

  The other man nodded. "We have been around our friends since… since we were born."

  One of the men was named Sunya Thanon, the other Phraphas Phanon. They had sixteen elephants, all named, plus two babies, no more than an E-year old, Imp and Loti.

  "Do you wish us to display our friends' skills?"

  "Not necessary," Garvin said. "I watched the holo you sent me. You are more than welcome."

  "Good," Sunya said. "Feeding our friends on our small budget becomes wearisome." He, like Phraphas, spoke careful, unaccented Common as if he were more familiar with another language.

  "But we must caution you." Phraphas said. "We are searching for a place, and if, in our travels, we find a way to reach it, we must insist on being allowed to leave the show instantly."

  "I suppose that can be arranged," Garvin said cautiously. "And that place is?"

  "Have you ever heard of a planet named Coando?" Sunya asked.

  "No," Garvin said. "Not that it means much, for I'm not an astrogator."

  The two looked disappointed.

  "We do not know its location either," Phraphas said. "But we heard of it once, and determined we must make it our life's work to go there with our friends."

  "Why is it so special?" Dill asked.

  "The legend is," Phraphas said, "that men of our culture left ancient Earth… with the elephants they had always worked together with… to make their home on a planet that was jungled, hot, like the land they came from.

  "But here, no one would hunt their friends for their skins, for the ivory of their tusks, or… or just for the monstrous pleasure in killing something bigger than they were.

  "The tale is, they found such a world, and named it Coando, and, as they developed this world, being careful to keep it as it was, as their homeland had been before it was despoiled, and then sent expeditions back to Earth, to bring wild elephants to join them.

  "That, the tale goes, is why elephants are so rare, with only the friends of the circus, who choose to work with us, and some others around what was the Confederation.

  "That is the world we seek, the world we have been seeking, as our parents did before us, and their parents before them."

  Dill thought of saying the obvious, then realized he wasn't that much of an asshole. He and Garvin exchanged looks.

  "I assume," Garvin asked, "that you've asked since you've been here on Grimaldi?"

  "Asked, and consulted star charts," Sunya said. "But without success."

  "That's all right," Dill said, surprising both Garvin and himself. "Coando's out there… and we'll find it or, anyway, find where it is. Maybe when… if… we reach Centrum, we can see if the old Confederation master records still exist."

  Sunya looked at his partner.

  "You see? I knew we had luck when we first saw this ship approach from the skies."

  Garvin and Dill turned the beasts and their handlers over to Lir, started back for the ship.

  "Anybody ever tell you that you're a sentimental slob?" Garvin asked.

  "And, of course, you're not?" Dill asked.

  Garvin and Montagna watched the horses pour through the hoops and around the ring like milk, liquid grace, while two long-haired women and an impressively moustached man with equally long hair sat, rolled, tumbled on their mounts' backs as if they were standing still.

  "I am going to learn to do that," Montagna said firmly. "No matter how hard it is."

  "You'll do fine," Garvin said absently. She smiled at him, reflexively moved a bit closer. They caught themselves, and stepped back.

  The man, Rudy Kwiek, leapt from the back of one, did a double roll in midair, and landed in front of the pair.

  "Are my vrai not wonderful?"

  "They are
," Garvin agreed. "What's the gaff?"

  Kwiek looked injured.

  "There is no gaff. My horses, my vrai, are from a very special, very sleek family, bred only by a few Rom on isolated worlds, and almost never allowed to be seen in public.

  "And I have the best of the breed, an attraction so special and so highly trained your circus should not only count itself lucky to have the chance to sign us, but it will double, nay triple your bunce."

  "Yeh," Garvin said flatly.

  "Maybe," Montagna said, "you wouldn't mind having one of your horses lift a foot?"

  "Ah," Kwiek said. "The lady is not only beautiful, but bright."

  "No," Montagna said. "I just thought I saw metal gleam when your horse jumped that stand."

  "Ah once more," Kwiek said. "I must work with the animal. I must confess that I have made my poor horses' task a bit easier."

  "What?" Garvin asked with a grin. "A little anti-grav unit in each shoe?"

  Kwiek bowed.

  "I can see I will have no secrets with you, Gaffer. Perhaps we should adjourn to your office and taste a bit of the raki I have brought with me, and discuss in what manner my wives and I shall be able to work together."

  Garvin nodded.

  "Sorry about that dinner invite in town, Darod. It's going to be a hard night's bargaining."

  "I am not going to sit on that beast," the young woman stormed.

  "And why not, my temperamental little one?" the circus's choreographer, a tiny and somewhat effete man named Knox said. "We've been promised they do not eat people."

  "I won't, because… because they've got hairy little spikes all over them, and I don't want my bottom to be a pincushion."

  Monique Lir, standing near the hull's gangway, muttered to Garvin: "They're all like that. All goddamned thirty of those goddamned showgirls. They won't do this, they won't do that, they don't care what their contracts say, their room's too hot, it's too cold, it's too close to the horses, it's too… aargh. Boss, please. Give me all thirty of them for a week, and I promise, those that're left won't be doing any more of this frigging sniveling."

  "Now, now," Garvin soothed, hiding a grin. "We must allow for artistic temperament."

  "Temperament my left tit," Lir snarled. "All they're supposed to do is wave their pretty little asses about, smile like they've got an idea what day it is, and be frigging foils for the clowns."

  "Speaking of which," Garvin said.

  "Now, Adele," Knox said, still calm. "I really don't want to put pressure on you… but if you won't take that assignment, I'll have to find you another."

  "Anything!" the blonde stormed. "Anything but that!"

  "Heh… heh… heh… anything?" and suddenly Professor Ristori slunk into view, wearing a long black raincoat and hat. "We have, ho-ho, we have, a little sketch…" and extended one leg, with a baggy pair of pants on it. He pulled on the other leg, and the pants leg was revealed as no more than the cuffs, and a pair of suspenders going upward.

  "A sketch, a sketch," he said, "most funny, perhaps a little adult, a little adult, a little adult for our younger sort, where you and I are wedded, wedded forever, for eternal bliss.

  "I roll you onstage, in a wedding bed, and then, after I make my ablutions, abluting, abluting, then I climb into bed with you, singing, and we embrace. Then you discover, somehow, in the bed with us, are two, perhaps three of my friends… little people… who I've invited—"

  "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.
<
br />   " '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 Cum-bre, 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 bally-hoos, drawing the crowd inside.