Cherubim

by David Hallquist

  Nobody likes the extra security duty on what looks like a resort planet, but at least everyone is taking the physical threat seriously.

  My new skin has grown in nicely, at least. It feels as good as the original, it’s now a proper shade of regulation blue, and there’s even stubble where my hair and eyebrows are growing back in.

  Finally, I can record a message for home where I don’t look horrifying.

  So…what can I possibly say to explain what people are seeing about this place?

  Somehow, I’ve got to try, so I begin, “Hey, everyone, I miss you all. It’s been hard finding a time to properly speak with everyone; things have been crazy down here at Venus.

  “Speaking of crazy, I’m sure everyone has seen that image of me making the rounds—” I’d better be specific, there’s no telling how that original image of me and the salamander has been altered and mutated as it’s spread, “—so, yes, I did get into a fight with a Venusian salamander, but everyone’s fine. Well, not everyone; the salamander is dead. Sorry, Amy, I won’t be able to bring a salamander back for you.

  “Anyway, I’ve seen a lot of wonderful things here, and also a lot of terrible things. It’s all reminded me how much I miss home and all of you. Hopefully, this won’t go on too much longer and we can all see each other again soon.”

  I finish and send the recording.

  Now, let’s see—that big Cirque thing is tomorrow, and I’ll need to look my best for that as I’ll be out in front of all the Venusian peacocks in my honor guard role again. Hopefully, tonight I’ll be able to actually get some sleep. I feel like I could sleep for a decade.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 8

  Circus Macabre

  The Cirque is an exercise in the absurd.

  Everything is over the top. The seats are covered in the finest fabrics, railings are still-living woods that have grown into sinuous motion-sculptures. Shining, glittering jewel-birds fly overhead, while the crystalline dome above shows the prismatic orbital mirrors lighting up this part of the night-time sky in celestial splendor.

  From down here, the damage done to the mirror system doesn’t look all that bad.

  The arena is a small one, at only 1,200 meters across—just a local gathering for a select few. Still, thousands shout and cheer like they’re millions. Everyone’s come for the show. The Venusian nobility are there, of course, in their glittering attire and splendor, ensconced in private viewing boxes—much like the one our ambassadorial party is in. The other castes and clades are also present in all their bewildering variety, there to see—and maybe take part in—the bloody spectacle to come.

  Sure, there’s everything one would expect in a major exhibition: full sensory interactive giant holograms, immersive augmented-reality sensory systems for everyone, and, of course, the thundering voice of the announcer as he blends in with the rising chorus of the mnemonic interactive neural sonic theme of the band. Wafting through the heady air with the chants and cheers of the spectators is a mélange of pheromones and bio-reactant nanotech info-pollen.

  You could experience all that in the privacy of your own home, a viewing booth, or through cybernetic augments. That’s not what makes the Cirque special. No, what attracts Venusians, jaded and bored with every possible luxury or pleasure available, to the Cirque is something no amount of simulated spectacle can possibly achieve—bloody reality.

  The Cirque is one of the few places in “civilized” space where one can go to see deadly, violent spectacles, for real and in person. While most of the spectators are safely behind armored diamond walls with anti-lasing coatings, there are a bunch of idiots who’ve paid extra to be up front in the “splash-zone” so they can get a more real—and much riskier—experience. Finally, there are the lunatics who want to jump in and fight the various pit monsters themselves or duel each other like ancient world gladiators.

  This whole arena is a carefully crafted focus of mob psychology to instill wonder and terror, and to direct violence in a manageable fashion for the interests of Venus. They started out with some comedic acts, basically live-action plays with slapstick violence to get everyone to pay attention and to kill time for the fashionably late nobles to arrive. Then came a lot of opening acts: griffons, manticores, and a variety of other chimera, battling to the death for the bloodthirsty crowds. When someone got hit with a stray tail spike, they were taken away, and the space was filled with even more eager event watchers.

  Eventually—inevitability—human gladiators entered the ring. “Human” in this case meant anything from the apparently human Venusian nobles to a wide variety of lower clades in all their endless variety. There were professional, paid fighters, prisoners fighting for a chance at freedom, and even crazed volunteers from the audience itself. They fight engineered monsters, and eventually…each other. Sometimes the floor is charged or filled with acid or various obstacles, and death traps or robots are unleashed on the fighters to make it more “interesting.” Stray shots landing in the “splash zone” produce predictable results, and both audience members and gladiators are pulled out by medical staff with professional speed. Maybe most of them will even make it; Venusian medical science is among the most advanced. Still, the pain, injury, and risk of death are all quite real…which is the point of the whole thing.

  It’s all senseless killing and blood-sport for the purpose of spectacle. I’d rather be almost anywhere else, but I have to be here with the ambassadorial party. Because he was invited, and the games are in his honor, he didn’t want to insult the Venusians, and—

  Oh, wow…

  OK…the dragon is actually impressive.

  Glittering in blue and violet scales, it spreads its wings, over 20 meters wide and covered with scintillating fractal patterns that shift and flash as they change in the bright lights. It claws at the ground with four diamond-taloned limbs, digging up arena sands and armored floor plating with equal ease. Deadly musculature is apparent all over the creature, and it glares at the cheering audience with barely contained fury. It arches its neck back and cuts loose with a blast of searing fire into the air, and the thermal pulse forces the nearest audience members to shield their faces and pull back.

  This thing may be related to a salamander, but it’s as different from them as a lion is to a newborn house kitten. The obvious deadliness of the creature, the heady, violent atmosphere of the Cirque, and the cheering crowds are affecting me…and I find myself wondering if I could actually take that thing down. I shake my head, clearing my thoughts from the red haze threatening to descend.

  This place is getting to me—as it was designed to.

  Eight men walk out to battle the dragon, clad in glittering armor, bearing mirror-bright shields and glowing pikes. They march into the arena in file, then turn to face the crowds and salute us with raised pikes and visors. The crowd goes wild with cheers and applause. Even the dragon nods its terrible head for a second—either in respect or as a trained response; I don’t know which.

  The pageantry for the main event is perfectly choreographed: sunlight bursts from behind carefully arranged clouds, streaming in through the crystalline windows in sunbeams drenching the arena floor. Flower petals rain down in flashing iridescence into the light as the music soars to a crescendo. It’s a moving and stirring show. It’s a shame it’ll soon be marred by slaughter.

  That done, they set up in a formation of spears and overlapping shields and advance on the snarling, rampant dragon. It’s a magnificent display of bravery, apparently simple melee weapons and armor against a perfect living killing machine.

  The dragon rears up and breathes a sheet of brilliant white fire over the advancing formation. They raise their mirrored shields, and the dragon’s fire parts around them. One failed to raise his shield in time and falls to the sand—now molten glass—screaming. The others continue to advance, their armor glowing orange and red and emitting vapor from their cooling systems.

  The gladiators lower their lances and streams of roarin
g lightning answer the dragon’s fire. Electricity arcs over, around, and down the dragon’s scales, unable to form a path though it’s natural magnetic armor. Still, they infuriate the creature even more, and it bellows and flaps its wings in response. They advance on the distracted monster.

  The dragon charges them first. With a roar, the enraged creature rushes into the formation, and glowing pikes skip across scales, yet a few manage to bite deep. Mostly their pikes pierce wings, fouling them and helping to slow the rampaging monster. The dragon manages to get his jaws around one of the gladiators and shakes him around like a dog with a rat before throwing him clear across the arena.

  With their pikes either stuck fast in the wings or body of the dragon, or broken on the ground, the gladiators drop the hafts of their weapons and draw their swords. The blades are gleaming crystal, with harsh blue plasma coursing across their edges. They spread out, surrounding the dragon, and strike with cut and thrust. The dragon’s strange armor is able to turn these deadly weapons, but not entirely, and it’s soon bleeding from multiple cuts, while the various pikes stuck in him slow and limit his movements. Even so, the dragon vents its wrath on those around it. Deadly diamond talons lash out with inhuman strength around him, breaking and shattering armor, while the tail whips around, sending men flying.

  I find myself cheering for the bravery of the fighters confronting the deadly creature, armed with nothing but apparently antiquated weapons. I also find myself rooting for the dragon, who, in spite of being outnumbered and surrounded and confronting foes it cannot understand, still fights on bravely.

  In the end, the maimed dragon gives a primordial bellow of victory and limps off the battlefield. The wounded fighters are gathered up by the medical teams, and the crowds go insane with cheers. I find I’m standing and cheering, too.

  Venus finally got to me, too, but not in the way I’d expected it to.

  Someone’s walking out onto the now-cleared arena floor, skirting the patches of cooling glass and blood. He’s got the perfect chiseled features of a Venusian noble and is wearing the purple and blue livery of House Dragon. Baron Marcel Veishnagaupte, my augments supply helpfully.

  He addresses the cheering crowds, and his voice also comes through the speakers and my augments clearly. “People of Venus! Have we not given you a show?” They cheer louder. “And have we not entertained our noble guests with the best we have to offer?” More cheers in assent roll from the stands. He nods. “Yes. And so, as is custom, should we ask for one of their number to honor us in the Cirque?” Wild cheers erupt, and he smiles.

  Uh, oh…

  “I would like for our guests to honor us with battle. I humbly—” he beams with pride, “—offer to battle their finest warrior in personal combat.”

  Commander Rackham isn’t going to like this one bit. I don’t want to see his face when he’s called down here and told he needs to fight in this circus…

  “I would ask Lieutenant Commander Michael Vance to join me in a contest of skill and battle!” he shouts.

  Huh?

  The crowds go wild, cheering. “That’s the Salamander Guy!” one exclaims. Soon, there’s a chant forming up. “Salamander Guy…Salamander Guy…Salamander Guy…” Holographic signs pop up in the stands, demanding the “Salamander Guy” fight.

  The puffed-up dandy down there is smirking at all this, drinking it in.

  To make things worse, my live image from cameras is now hovering over the whole arena…uh, I’m not glaring that badly—am I? I look around, but everyone in the box is looking at me.

  Aw…nuts…

  I’m honor guard. I’m supposed to stand for the honor not just of the ambassadorial staff, but also for Jupiter. I can’t just run off and pound a Venusian noble, but there’s also the matter of ignoring a public challenge in my position. Which will cause more trouble?

  Then, there’s the constant minor jabs throughout the time we’ve been here. We’ve been drugged, manipulated, lied to, insulted, and outright attacked. I’ve had it with Venus and the Venusians. Maybe it’s the atmosphere of the Cirque, or maybe it’s just enough, but I’d really like to pound this jumped-up popinjay into the ground.

  I can think of several reasons I shouldn’t fight. I don’t have any gauge of my opponent or his abilities. This could turn into another farce that further humiliates our diplomatic mission. I don’t have the right to go off and get in fights while in my current role. There could be serious diplomatic fallout if I wring the Venusian’s neck.

  With all that, I can only think of one reason to fight him—it would be very satisfying to wipe that smirk off his face.

  “Well, Lieutenant Commander…?” He waves elaborately, going into a formal bow.

  “Sir?” I turn to the ambassador…

  He nods, his face set in stone. “Do it,” the ambassador says.

  “Yes, sir!” I smile. For once, the ambassador’s made a decision I’m fully behind. I’m going to enjoy taking Pretty Boy down.

  * * *

  The Venusian sand feels strange under my toes, probably because it’s not really sand, but some other matrix. All the bloodstains and chips of molten glass from the earlier fights have been removed with practiced speed. I’m down to my trousers and undershirt. There’s no sense getting my uniform dirty, and I don’t want to take any chances with any garments the Venusians would offer. My opponent is likewise barely garbed, and is standing in a relaxed posture, with his hands near his side and a slight smile on his face.

  We’ve decided on a “friendly wrestling match.”

  Yeah, right…

  Venusian Pankration—all powers—means exactly that—anything goes. This isn’t the sanitized version of wrestling often seen throughout the solar system, but a brutal contest, where one of us will force the other to submit or die by any means necessary. Joint locks, vital strikes, and chokes are all just part of the game.

  That suits me fine; I train like that myself. Jovian Gravcom isn’t a show martial art or a self-defense technique, it’s a killing art for the battlefield. Venus is a third my normal gravity, so I’ll be able to jump around the arena easily with more mobility than my opponent. I’m also at least four times his size, with Jovian strength to boot.

  It doesn’t seem fair.

  The back of my brain whispers warnings to me. The Venusian is standing there confidently in a relaxed posture with no sign of anxiety at all, and he certainly knows I killed a genetically engineered war machine with my bare hands.

  So what am I missing? He’s genetically engineered, of course, and likely packed with cybernetic augmentation, but there’s only so much room in the skinny guy for augments. He’s almost as tall as I am, but there’s no way he’ll possibly be able to match my strength and toughness.

  My augmentation comes fully online—as I’m sure his is, too—slowing apparent time and boosting my reflexes and strength way past superhuman. Nothing’s been outlawed in this fight, and I intend to win.

  “Begin!” echoes through the arena.

  I rush. Muscles that have spent a lifetime fighting Jupiter’s crushing gravity, further augmented by cybernetics, practically give me flight in the weak Venusian gravity. My augmentation has the world moving in slow motion, so even though I’m closing in a flash, it seems like I’m floating across the arena.

  The Venusian goes for a straight heel kick to my midsection. It’s a good kick, and hits like a magnetic rail-driver, but it’s not good enough. The blow would rupture the internal organs of a normal man, but my internal armor and augmented musculature take the blow just fine. It breaks my momentum, though, and gives my opponent a chance to take a step back and stay at range.

  He sweeps the ground, throwing up a shower of sand, and tries to use that to trap my leg with his. No good—he might as well try to tip over an arcology tower.

  Closing for a clinch, I feint at his eyes.

  He doesn’t fall for it, and instead goes low and gets a hold of my arms, trying to get me in a lock.

  P
erfect. He’s now in a clinch with me, and I can use all of my strength, mass, and leverage to…

  Wha—?

  The world stops making sense, like physics decided to check out and ignore everything in a bizarre mirror-universe where up is down.

  First, he breaks my grip instantly and effortlessly. My hands and arms slide right off him, as his skin turns into a completely frictionless surface it’s impossible to get any kind of grip on at all. Then his bones and joints shift and bend in impossible ways to wrap themselves around my joints and points of leverage. It’s like wrestling a python. Then his frictionless skin becomes an unbreakable adhesive, giving him an unbreakable hold.

  I’m flying off the ground, somehow…That leg down there from his attempted sweep is working as a pivot to tip me over and hurl me headfirst to the ground, hard enough to break a normal man’s neck. My armor and augments hold, and I’m fine, but my opponent is writhing like a snake and locking me up.

  I try to break out, but nothing works. My strength and weight just don’t seem to matter—there’s no way to break his lock and get a grip on him. He’s everywhere at the same time, and there’s never a point when he’s open and vulnerable, never an instant that he makes a single mistake.

  The smart thing to do would be to tap out, but I wasn’t doing the smart thing when I got in the ring with him, and I’m not going to start now…

  He moves on to submission holds. These aren’t the usual stress maneuvers on limbs or pressure points—oh no. He’s shutting off my air, my blood, and my peripheral nervous system with crushing force. I’ve got cybernetic backups for everything, but that won’t last forever. He digs rock-hard thumbs into my eyes. My armored corneas don’t break, but I discover pain has a color—it’s a bright purple-red explosion of light and blackness.

  Since my augments are keeping me awake and alive, he goes after those next. Current courses through my body, making my muscles spasm, and interrupting my augments. The color of pain brightens to a light blue with green highlights. Failure alarms flash in my sensorium—systems are being overloaded, infiltrated with hostile software, and in danger of cascade failure.