Cyber Circus

by Kim Lakin-Smith

  “Means I’ll get my rematch with this Pig Heart maybe tomorrow, maybe half a lifetime from now. But I will get it.”

  “I say screw the maybe. I say a man makes his own luck.”

  “So we go after them now. But what about the HawkEye? He’s unnatural.” Jaxx scratched the scar matter edging the butt plate at his brow.

  “None of us got a real look at that suckerloop. Sure, he comes in last thing to snatch the pig out. But why’d he act coy unless he’s a grifter with fake ink and a tin eyepiece?” D’Angelus shrugged. “Only thing that matters is the goon took out three of my men. Not a problem if our raid had been successful. A few dust handlers in exchange for a whore worth her weight in gold? It’s business. But we got our blood spilt and for nothing. What’s more, I missed out on the wolf bitch too and that is one lost opportunity too far.”

  He stepped down off his limestone pedestal. Slinging his head left and right, he took in the men who milled at the entrance to the mine, a vast maw in the face of the blasted cliff. Dust handlers for the most part, he concluded, men whose spines had hooked from labouring under sacks filled with the stuff. There were also a few wheaters who’d exchanged that useless livelihood for thuggery. They carried their rock rifles under an arm like the farmers they once were.

  The only figure who intrigued him was a solitary Zen monk, wearing a black robe secured with a belt full of relics – shrivelled dead things and blooded scraps of fabric alongside strings of bottle-tops, the clinking of which was designed to ward off the devil. A traditional sackcloth hood covered the man’s head, belted at the neck with twine. The mouth was partially buttoned to allow for breath. The eyeholes were gorged out.

  D’Angelus squinted across at Jaxx. “I lost Earl this evening so I’m promoting you. There’s leaf wad, crates of Jackogin and whores aplenty for your trouble.” His mouth hardened. “Help me track the bitches and bring them in. And while you’re there, tear each of those circus freaks a new asshole.”

  Jaxx nodded. “We navigate the bore tunnels and intercept them. But you should know I can’t use my tracker skills this side of Zan City. That blood nest leaves its crust in the air.” His nostrils flared.

  “This side of the Zan we’re no worse off then. Should the hunt stretch out beyond that hole, we’ve got an extra trick up our sleeve.”

  D’Angelus started for the mine entrance. Jaxx accompanied him.

  “Want me to pick ten men?” Jaxx kicked up dust as he walked.

  “Fill up the cargo space. There’s space for four up front: you, me, the driver, and one more.”

  D’Angelus stopped.

  “You religious, Jaxx? Your savage ways been tamed to those of the Saints?”

  Jaxx shook his head, moonlight glancing off his bolt plate. “I’m a spirit man, boss. The Saints are too...” He considered his phrasing. “Stiff.”

  “I should hope so. Saints wouldn’t be much use to us alive!” D’Angelus patted Jaxx’s shoulder. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll keep religion on my side.” He showed his tic teeth.

  “Father!” he shouted at the hooded figure. “The miners can live a day without your silent ministering. You and I, we’re going underground and, by the Saints, you’d better bring me luck.”

  * * *

  “I’d have preferred to grease up Old Billy there.” Das nodded across the cavern at a huge bore machine. The thing boasted five drill heads, each a quarter long again as the main cab. “But there’s still a hairline fracture in one of those pretty drills. Given the time scale, I went for the next best. Wanda-Sue.”

  Jaxx eyed the smaller burrower. The cab was covered in titanium scales. A great sweep of the metal rose up off windshield, like a hopper’s bone crest. Out front, a giant corkscrew captured the glow of gaslight inside the cave, its surface moving liquidly.

  There was a femininity to the machine, Jaxx gave Das that much. Something about the decorative scales – although the design was purely practical, geared to have the shale and water pockets sluice right off the burrower. He didn’t believe in a monk’s ability to bring them luck. But he did believe in spirit signs, and the look of those scales reminded him of the silver slab bolted to his scalp.

  D’Angelus was clearly less concerned with the look of the machine and more with its speed. “I’m thinking they’ve got fifty knots on us by now. Headwind means they’d be fools not to head southeasterly. You’re the map man, Das. Where’d we need to come out to track the freaks down?”

  Das sucked in his cheeks. Fishing the miniature tin scroll of a Mapbox from an overall pocket, he typed in co-ordinates with a grimy finger. “We got a straightish run, boss, through some of the widest bore tunnels. We’re pushed on time but, Saints willing, we’ll come out at Hide or Bromlin in time to catch the circus landing.”

  “Hide has the permanent site,” said Jaxx. Bigger towns had year round pitches for the travelling circuses and other vagrant performers, consisting of fixed wooden seating and a concreted dust ring. Some even had gas lamps dotted around the showground, just begging for a struck match.

  D’Angelus clapped his hands. “No point standing here gassing about which way Herb’ll swing that floating puffball of his.”

  A ripple of heavy chains echoed about the cavern and the monk flinched instinctively. But they were not in the freshly cracked chambers below where sound had a far deadlier impact and the men paid him no heed. Instead, the hatch at the rear of the burrower lowered to form a gangway. Securing filter masks over their faces, the ten men Jaxx had selected transformed into insect hybrids – the hard black leather air chamber protruding off their faces like mandibles, the reflective visor resembling one large compound eye. Striding up the ramp and disappearing inside the cargo hold, they fell into a herd-like symmetry. The rub of chains resounded about the cavern again and the hold buttoned up.

  Das stabbed a finger at the Mapbox. “Yep, that’s the way of it.”

  He pocketed the device and slumped off to the front of the burrower. Cracking his shoulders to loosen them, he took hold of a winch handle and revolved it with effort. Jaxx considered knocking Das aside and performing the task himself. It surprised him to find that Das, a sack of skin and bone, had some muscle to him. The titanium head crest levered up, providing access to the cab.

  D’Angelus gestured to a metal ladder.

  “After you, Father.”

  SIX

  “You see him?” Rind had her wrinkled face to the gap.

  “I’m looking.” Tib was impatient. Sights like this were rare, even in the harsh world of Cyber Circus. It would be a crying shame to miss it.

  “I spy with my little eye...” Rind’s siblings tried to crowd her spy hole.

  “...a great fat pig flapping in the wind.” Ol finished her sentence, over enunciating her words with relish.

  They were tucked in behind the calliope. The great spread of the instrument lay on the other side of a mezzanine of pipework. Only the Scuttlers had the strangeness of limb and agility to fit between the calliope’s flesh and folds. Crouched down on pinched knees and hard forearms, hoary shells perched above like ovipositors, the children squinted through gaps in the fibroid floor. Suspended under the front rib of the circus, and visible now and again when the clouds dissipated, was the patibulum girder. It was attached at the bough by steel guide ropes, but otherwise free to revolve in the tremendous airflow. Every so often, they would hit turbulence and the stretcher would buffet up against the toughened sponge at the breast of the ship. The Scuttlers watched the crucified Pig Heart get dragged across the barnacled sponge.

  Rind fed the tip of one clawed limb between her lips and sucked it. “He’s a gonna,” she said, seemingly sad of the fact.

  * * *

  Nim watched the tassel fly’s lazy looping flight near the ceiling silk. Its wings were a glorious sunset bisected by veins of blue neon. The thorax and head were coated in that velvet blackness peculiar to insects, softness that provoked a desire to touch alongside bristly abjectness. Nim sh
ivered and stretched her long pale limbs across the bedcover. The satin felt good beneath her skin and she needed that. Something gentle after the violence of the men hours earlier.

  The tassel fly circled above in a whisper of wings. Nim remembered the attack in waves; the first slap that knocked her sideways, a man pinioning her, another gnawing her breasts, a third bruising his way inside of her, slop-jawed and territorial.

  She moved her bare legs up and down the silk sheet. Think of the good. That’s what she’d always done when put to work at the Elegance Saloon. So she concentrated on the purring undercurrent of the circus in flight. The powder pink ribboned corsetry which she had so carefully stitched... Prying hands and lustful faces washed across her mind again. Nim tensed her neck muscles and forced the memory aside. Her heart was a tight punch behind her ribs. The good stuff. The smell of spiced incense from the pierced metal resin burner. The tremble of a thread of tiny bells suspended near the doorway. The swiftness of the ship through the night.

  A voice spoke from beyond the screened doorway.

  “Can I come in, Nim?”

  She recognised the timbre. Hellequin. The HawkEye. It hurt her that he was so quick to cash in on her Saints’ oath. Not because she expected him to be above desire, only that her own flesh felt like a weight. But the tears would heal, the bruises fade.

  Forcing herself up onto an elbow, Nim wondered if he would prefer the gas lamp dimmed. The current spat like hot fat below the surface of her skin; if he was intent on her colours, he might not notice the stains the other men had left. She kept her robe closed for the time being though and answered, “Yes, I am ready.”

  A hand parted the soft flow of fabric at the doorway. Hellequin entered the dressing room. He’d discarded his frockcoat, the striped waistcoat showing more of his skin. Nim’s gaze lingered on the blue and red hawk tattooed on the outside of both his upper arms. Signature of the HawkEye regiment.

  She stared at his face. After several weeks encountering the soldier on board, she still couldn’t make sense of the clockwork left eye. It made her gut sore to think that this apparently cognisant man had chosen to butcher himself in such a way. She was aware of the arguments of self-sacrifice, the promise of excellence in the field of war craft. But in simple terms, Hellequin had agreed to his own deconstruction and rewiring, and Nim could not begin to comprehend why. What she did understand were the consequences of biomorphing. Hellequin might have chosen where she had enjoyed no such choice, but in the end they were both made freaks by the process. Both at home in Cyber Circus.

  She tried to remind herself of their similarity while easing her legs off the bed and slowly walking towards her guest.

  “These are my terms and they are not up for discussion. This is a one time thing. Outside of this hour, you will not call on me. You will not presume to act familiar with me before the crew, and you will not loiter outside my dressing room anymore. I may not have the strength to always fight off my attackers, but while I’m living in this circus, I will live as a free woman. I will not be guarded!” She stalked over to the thin gilt stalk that grew up from the floor and served as a bedside table, grasped a large hour glass and turned it over.

  “I’m not here for that.” His hand closed around hers as she started to undo her robe.

  Rage enveloped her. “This is the only thing I have to offer you, Hellequin. I have no Jackogin, no smoke sticks, no leaf wad, and I’m all out of patience. So let’s screw or else take your unwelcome ass back out the way you came.” Her blood eyes flashed. Not a man alive could break her.

  The soldier dipped his chin. “I came to see how you were.”

  “Just dandy. Thanks for asking.” Nim pointed at the doorway. “See you around, Hellequin.”

  The manufactured eye telescoped in on her, amber lens burning. “How are you, Nim?”

  “You’ve asked me that already and I’ve answered.”

  “Are you hurt? I can have Herb call in a doc next time we land.” Hellequin tipped back his head. The steel eye whirled and adjusted. “Still got that rip in the ceiling where I came though earlier. I’ll see Herb about that too. It’s letting bugs in.” He stretched up a hand and swatted the tassel fly.

  Nim imagined she heard the tiny knock as the insect hit the floor. She clutched the rails at the end of the bed and peered over. The fly was beautiful brokenness.

  “Want to know how I feel, Hellequin? Rip the skin off my bones and crawl under if you could? Thing is, I don’t fit neatly into your view of the violated. I have been gangbanged before and, every time, I lock up the fact and throw away the key.” She got off the bed and stood up, her spine immaculately straight. “Your prying concern means shit. There’ll be no display of sobbing hysteria. Those men robbed me of nothing... except a peaceful evening.” She gestured curtly towards the doorway.

  The HawkEye toughed up. “I’m not asking you for details. There’s been damage inflicted and it strikes me as right that someone should check on you. Pig Heart’s being keelhauled as we speak for his part in it. He’s no innocent, but he’s been with the circus long before either of us came along, and today Herb had to dole out that hellish punishment on his chief pitchman because you want to live as a free woman.” Hellequin shook his head. He exhaled heavily. “Saints almighty, Nim, you peddle a dangerous trade. Even if D’Angelus doesn’t force you back to his stable, there’s always gonna be some goon fixated on a beauty with the mods you’ve got. So you don’t appreciate me watching your back? I say tough.”

  Nim swallowed painfully. “You’re trying to pin Pig Heart’s punishment on me? The man betrayed us!”

  Hellequin gave a sharp laugh. “And that’s the only thing you take away from everything I’ve just said. Desirous Nim, you are one self-occupied doll. I’m talking about you putting the whole troop in danger and unnecessarily so.”

  “You are not my keeper, Hellequin. Said yourself, the need to protect is hardwired into you thanks to Daxware.”

  “Just explain this to me, Nim. If everyone in this troop is so convinced they are their own agents – owe no mind to anyone, just keep their eyes on the money – then how come Pig Heart’s guilty of a crime? And if there’s no idea of belonging to something, why’d men die for you today?”

  “Because they were in D’Angelus’s way, plain and simple. And don’t forget I wasn’t the only prize he was eying. Rust was on the list too.”

  “Rust’s used to having blood on her hands. She can protect herself.”

  Hellequin’s hands went to his hips. Nim saw the shift in muscle beneath his tattooed upper arms. She was more attuned to the ebb and flow of the body than most – it was her job to be. Despite the violence she had experienced so recently, she was instinctually drawn to the HawkEye. His arms looked like hard-packed leather with tattoos stitched in.

  Lust was alien. She felt immensely tired suddenly. “What exactly do you want from me, Hellequin?” she said softly.

  “I want your permission to do as I am coded.”

  “You want to stand guard over me?”

  “Yes.” Hellequin lost his soldier reserve. He worked a hand around his jaw. “More practical to stand guard outside the door, I suspect.”

  Nim wore a faint smile. “I suspect it would be.”

  The soldier squatted down at the end of the bed. Nim heard the concentric rings of his steel eye revolve as he examined the carcass of the tassel fly.

  “Fragile little bug,” he said softly.

  * * *

  Time was a tumble of hurt bones and muttered half words for Pig Heart as he hung crucified beneath the front rib of the ship. Wind stung each ear flap. Muscles strained. Flesh bled where it had been sliced open at each impact. The scream of air slipstreaming around him was added to suddenly by the drag of chains.

  Pig Heart sensed a square open above him. Seconds later, he was drawn upwards at a measured pace. The instant he was winched inside the ship, the hatch bolted back down and the noise cut off. Peace settled around him.

&
nbsp; The iron patibulum was dragged aside from the hatch and he was lowered to the floor, a hand guiding the crucifix down so that he lay face up. His head sang with vertigo. And his body – oh, his body! – it seemed to tear into itself over and over. He blinked repeatedly. His vision stayed blurred, the fibrous ceiling overhead reduced to an incongruous mass. He tried to move. The agonies intensified and he yowled.

  “Hush, Pig Heart,” said a sibilant voice – salve to his hurt body and mind. “A bad bad thing it did talking with those bare men. But it’s suffered enough.”

  The hemp rope slackened then fell away; Pig Heart felt its imprint remain in the blistered flesh at his wrists, upper arms and waist.

  “It must crawl now to Rust’s den.”

  Pig Heart felt something wet and rough at his throat. Rust raised her head. Tangled hair hallowed her face and spilt down. She kept her tongue poked out, stained with his blood.

  “Legs won’t carry me,” he mumbled.

  “Pig’s too fat to drag. Crawl.”

  Only for Rust. Only for that grime-spattered bitch. Rolling off the patibulum, he felt the stiff matter of his clothing against his raw flesh like hornet stings. It took every last trace of energy to persuade his hands and knees to support his weight.

  He started to crawl. Waves of agony broke over him. He hurt down to his soul.

  SEVEN

  D’Angelus nipped at his smoke stick, temporarily misting the view pane. The drug did little to soothe him. He was all about the flesh trade. This subterranean world was bloodless. No amalgam of fibre, fur, sweat, colour and death. Miles below Humock as they were, there were only the bore tunnels – great caverns blasted out the limestone, which reminded D’Angelus of a flameless hell.

  The Sirinese, Jaxx, was strapped into the bench seat to his left. He brushed his elbow against the sleeve of the monk strapped in to the right of him.

  “A home fit for the devil himself, hey, Father?”