Le Cirque Navire

by Chele Cooke

  One of the roustabouts had already had his jacket taken from him. It was tossed into a corner with such a stern look that the man hurried away without even apologising. If the townsfolk didn’t catch on to the unfamiliar faces of the people in their midst then they would certainly be suspicious at the sight of a central planet tailored jacket shepherding them into the pay-to-enter tent, worn by someone pretending to be another eager customer. Sometimes Cole truly believed that some of the men on the ship didn’t have the brains to be there. He might have tossed them if training someone new wasn’t such a hassle. While performers were picked up every so often when he noticed an innate talent, or he was in need of a new act, the back crew were harder to replace. Not many people wanted to leave their homes and join a jump ship to work manual labour. They had enough of that from the Coalition.

  The promise of liquor and new sights helped, but it didn’t bring in enough people to allow him to red light half his crew.

  Still, the roustabouts did their jobs well enough and soon the cavernous centre of the ship was filled with murmurs and shouts as their visitors waited for the show to begin. Every spot on the benches in the main ring had been filled and children perched close to the railings, their knees scuffed with straw and sand as they shuffled for a better view.

  Cole strode out into the ring. Children squealed and pointed, glancing over their shoulders to tell their parents that the man from the gates had just arrived. Adults shushed each other with every step he took across the sanded ring. When he turned on the spot and bowed to each of the stands in turn, the crowd was silent.

  “Long, long ago, back when Earth was the only planet we called home, we named the fates that controlled the destiny of this universe and every soul within it,” Cole spoke to the crowd, his voice carrying to the back seats as easily as to the children kneeling on straw. “We named these fates ‘Gods’. With their omniscience, they protected us from harm and in return we paid them with mortal entertainment.”

  He stepped in a slow circle, sweeping his attention across the crowd as he spoke. The lights above the seating dimmed until a sea of dark faces blurred together, and around him, spotlights began to pulse and flicker around the ring.

  “Well, tonight ladies, gentlemen, and children, it is time for the Gods, and the universe, to dance for your entertainment. I introduce to you Apollo, Poseidon, Hermes, Eros, Atlas, and Zeus, with their most gracious goddess, Artemis.”

  The six black horses strutted into the ring followed by Artemis. Her white toga dress shone in the strong spotlights, throwing the horses into stark contrast. Gems the colour of lilacs to the darkest amethyst, from peach to sunset had been woven into the horses’ manes and tails, winking like stars as they moved. Artemis came to the centre of the ring, taking her position as the galaxies charged around her.

  Cole strode through the gap behind Atlas and pushed aside the velvet curtain leading into the preparation area. Solaris was already there, his thick trunk buried deep in a bucket of water as his wide ears flapping back and forth. It had cost a small fortune to get the animal from a failing zoo on an outlier in the 7th rim, and a much larger fortune to keep him in good health whilst aboard a ship. He pleased every crowd, however, so Cole was happy to keep him around. Spectacles; that was what the townsfolk came for, and an elephant was definitely that. He was sure that most of these people had never seen an elephant in their lives, let alone seen one that could balance on a ball and stand on his hind legs. He patted the side of Solaris’ neck, listening to the whoops of the crowd.

  The call came over the heads of the clowns.

  “Mr. Hatliffe, Mr. Hatliffe.”

  Cole turned away from Solaris and craned his neck. Kenneth Clarke was pushing his way past clowns, swearing as he received a face full of wiry red wig. His own hair wasn’t nearly as shocking, but it was curly none the less. Cole wondered whether that was why he disliked them. The small hover mule standing between them had wheels attached so that it didn’t need the loud, spluttering engines, and three dwarves were arranging props underneath the seating. A dog yelped as it was unceremoniously shoved in between rubber hammers.

  “We are in the first run, Mr. Clarke, I would appreciate you keeping your voice down,” Cole chastised as the pilot came to a stop in front of him.

  “Yes, sorry Mr. Hatliffe,” Kenneth panted.

  “What is it?”

  The ship’s pilot looked away from him, wringing his hands as he stared over his shoulder at a swearing clown. He shuddered at the sight of all eight of them piling into the tiny transport and turned away.

  “I was watching the gates and the townsfolk coming in,” he said quickly. “I recognised one of the men.”

  Kenneth tugged a litcom from behind his back like drawing a weapon from a holster. He spun it around, the most capable of gun-slingers, and held it out. On the left, a looped video of a dark-haired man walking through the midway, and the right, the same man stared up at them from a registration photograph.

  “I was sure I recognised him, sir. He’s a captain in the coalition military. It’s one of the same men who was looking around earlier.”

  The man in the video turned to speak to someone, a dark-haired young woman at his side, who beamed up at him in return. Cole handed back the litcom.

  “Please find Mr. Western for me.”

  “Sir? Shouldn’t we be rounding up these soldiers?” Kenneth fiddled with a few of the display buttons on the litcom, though he stared at Solaris beside them.

  “And what do you suggest we will be doing with them?” Cole laughed, raising an eyebrow. He waved him off. “Mr. Western, if you please.”

  Kenneth gave the clowns a wide berth as he hurried from the preparation area.

  Three more acts had been and gone before Jack Western made his appearance. The clowns had repacked the broken mule (minus the dog) and hurried off for a short rest before their next performance. Solaris was enjoying a slosh of whiskey and lemonade, a serene smile on his face. The hay burners were doing what they did best, costing him money in new food, while Laliyah—known as Artemis in the ring—brushed them down.

  Jack took up a position next to him, tossing a juggling ball idly between his hands and watching the horses. Laliyah swept her long black braids over her shoulder and readjusted the white shoulder of her dress against her dark skin before crouching and checking Zeus’ front hoof.

  “You wanted to see me?” Jack asked.

  Cole surveyed the young man for a moment. It had been a risk to take him onto the ship considering his background, not that he’d had much of a choice. Once their second night had rolled around in Roiheuwl it had become clear that Western was the one to fill their open slot with the advance men, despite his worrisome history. Sure enough, the man had been almost indispensable. His connection to Romero troubled Cole, relationships between crew and performers often created problems, but he shook off his caution and clasped his hands before him.

  “Yes, we have an infestation.”

  “Thieves?”

  “Worse,” Cole said, searching Western’s face for a reaction. “Soldiers,”

  Sure enough, Jack carefree demeanour disappeared at once. His body stiffened and he slowly rocked his head to the side, stretching out his neck as he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the horses.

  “We know of one, but where there is one there are likely more,” Cole continued, smirking.

  Jack blinked rapidly and finally turned to look at him. His lips were pursed and he held the juggling ball at his side while he rubbed the back of his neck.

  “And you’d like me to clear the decks?”

  Cole reached out and laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder, pulling him in closer. The younger man shuffled and shifted his weight, frowning. Cole chuckled and patted him between the shoulder blades. Pulling out a litcom he showed Jack the photograph Kenneth Clarke had sent him of the soldier.

  “No, no. These rats are clever. The moment we begin setting traps they will sneak even further into the woodwork.�
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  Leading Jack over towards a large table laden with props and costumes, Cole slipped the litcom into his pocket and reached out to pick up a length of blood-red silk. He slid it through his fingers, the soft sheen of the material catching the light.

  “You must find this man, this rat, and ensure that he enjoys himself.”

  “Sir?”

  “Go as a patron, enjoy his company,” Cole said, his eyes alight. He lifted the silk and draped it around Jack’s shoulders. “Make sure he enjoys everything our ship has to offer.”

  Jack pulled the silk from his shoulders and wrapped it around his hand, enclosing the juggling ball in a tight cocoon.

  “What good will that do?”

  “Mr. Western,” he soothed. “Should the dear Captain Tack enjoy the circus, he might change his mind on bringing troops down upon us.”

  “You really think that’ll work?”

  The smile that slipped across Cole’s lips was tight and forced.

  “Well, that depends on how well you do your job, doesn’t it?” he murmured. “Perhaps you should go change into something more appropriate and get to it instead of questioning my decisions.”

  Jack gave him a short nod and walked away without another word. Cole watched him go, the red silk still wrapped around his hand like a blood-soaked wound. He smirked and turned back to the horses, patting one of them on the hindquarters. Western had been a pain to take on board the ship, but he knew his job and made sure to do it well since he knew what happened to those who didn’t.

  The tents were clumped together along the main path through the outer midway until they walked through a tunnel of colour. Stripes of multi-coloured fabric shone under the light of the stars and the flame torches that had been set along the paths. Silver and bronze bells jingled through the air like laughter and Lachlan found it impossible not to let a small smile curve his lips when he saw the glow of excitement on the children’s faces. How long had it been since they’d had something to be truly excited about?

  People swept in and out of the tents, flitting in and out of the crowds heading towards the ship. Many had already gone in already but Hadley had begged for him to stay back and see more of the small performances before heading into the main ring. He didn’t mind her suggestion. Hanging back and exploring would give him a better feel for the layout than sitting in a crowded ring. It would give him a better idea of where their problems would lie when the soldiers came back tomorrow. Plus, they had plenty of time to see a run through of the main acts.

  Performers sauntered through the crowds, patrons moving out of the way, forming huddles around the acts while others slipped past, moving onto the next attraction. In the distance, music danced up into the air, but no matter how Lachlan looked, he couldn’t find the musicians. Whenever he turned, it seemed like it was coming from a new spot.

  Within a circle of adolescents, a man tossed shining bronze balls into the air with ease. Lachlan blinked and paused, peering over the heads of the younger audience to count the balls. Each time one touched the juggler’s hand another was leaving it. It was fascinating watching the curves that arced and spun, the balls glinting off the light. There had to be at least seven, perhaps more.

  Hadley slipped forwards to stand in front of him. He pulled her close, not wanting to lose her in the crowd. When she turned to look up at him, her face was alight with the same excitement as the children around them.

  A girl in front of them shrieked making Lachlan jump, turning to her pointed hand. Behind the juggler, a man drew a short, curved sword. Patrons scuttled out of the way. The noise around the brightly dressed juggler rose to a deafening cry as the man advanced. There were too many people. Lachlan knew he would never get through them without hurting someone. His hand went to his holster before he realised it wasn’t there. He’d not wanted anything to give away that he wasn’t like everyone else. The man in dark brown linen turned the sword in his hand. He lifted it over his head and flung it into the air in an arc. The sword swung blade over hilt, shining in the torchlight. Without missing a beat the juggler caught it by the handle and tossed it in amongst the fast moving balls. Metal over leather, the curve caught the light again, flashing blades of fire into the night. Cries of terror turned into ecstatic laughter and shouts of glee. Lachlan gulped and tugged Hadley to pull her onwards.

  “Can you believe that?” Hadley breathed in relief. “I thought that man was going to kill him.”

  Her voice was filled with amusement, like she couldn’t believe her own stupidity for thinking such a thing. Lachlan glanced back at her and nodded. His own relief was not amused, but cautious. What would have happened if the juggler had missed? Lachlan couldn’t tell from their distance but the blade had looked sharp. What if they’d hit a child?

  Lachlan looked at the path in front of them. A large crowd had gathered around a woman who, from the lit baton she held up in one hand, and the smoking one in the other, was swallowing fire. It made Lachlan’s throat ache just to think about it. Spotting a thinner path between two tents, he curved off to the left, not missing the disappointed sigh from his sister.

  “Want a reading, deary?” an old woman in gaudy shawls croaked at them. “Perhaps for yourself and your lady love.”

  Whatever interest may have been held as the woman spread a set of battered but elaborately painted cards in her hand was lost the moment she spoke. Lachlan laughed haughtily, his first true amusement in this charade.

  “If you actually had any sort of talent, you’d know that this is my sister,” he said coolly.

  The woman’s beady eyes narrowed and she rounded on Hadley.

  “Good for you, then, dear,” she said with silky distaste. “This one is full of negativity, only focuses on his career. His only love is for his uniform. Gave up his only chance at love the first day he put it on.”

  Hadley sniggered behind her hand and groaned as Lachlan pulled her onwards away from the woman.

  “Oh, come on, Lach,” she teased. “She had you down to the letter!”

  “She’s a charlatan and a fake,” Lachlan replied. “Just like all of them.”

  Hadley pulled her arm from his grasp and stopped in the middle of the path. Two women, giddy and giggling, swerved past her and Lachlan had to steady one of them before she toppled sidelong into a tent. He stared after them. It had been a long time since he’d seen the effects of alcohol, longer since he’d felt them himself, but he did not remember it working so quickly before, and there was certainly more at work with the two women than the glee of the cirque.

  “Why did you even come if you’re so sure it’s all fake?” Hadley asked.

  Lachlan turned back from the retreating backs of the drunk women and gazed at his little sister.

  “I told you why, Hads,” he said, stepping closer. “This place needs to be taken down. To do that we need to know everything we can. There are three other men of my squad here. They’re all doing recon.”

  Hadley scowled and glanced over her shoulder.

  “Well, I came here to have fun, Lachlan, not to work for you.”

  He didn’t want to be a disappointment to her and no doubt the cirque would be the last type of exuberance anyone on Corapolvo saw for a long time. She might as well enjoy it as much as she could tonight. Though, the worry that nagged at him refused to go away.

  “Alright. Alright, I’ll stop, I promise,” he told her gently. “But please don’t drink anything.”

  “What?”

  “The alcohol, I know they have it. Please, don’t drink it.”

  “Lachlan…” Hadley complained. “I’m twenty-one, I’m not a child.”

  “Promise me,” he insisted, “and I won’t say another bad thing about this cirque tonight.”

  Hadley thought about it for a moment before nodding. Lachlan placed both hands on her cheeks and kissed her forehead.

  “You are a good sister occasionally.”

  When she pulled from his grasp her scowl had been replaced with a soft smil
e and a roll of her eyes.

  “Come on, there are some more performers over there,” Hadley suggested, pointing.

  They wandered further down the slim path until it met up with another branch of the midway. A large space had been cleared at the intersection of the two paths where two men dressed all in black duelled with fire. Balls of flame hung on the ends of heavy chains from each fist and they spun and circled, twisting and turning. Flaming tails licked the air and shone in the eyes long after it had moved by, creating arcs and spirals in the air. They spun them in slow, beautiful arcs that barely missed each other. They twisted with such speed that they created hoops of fire in the sky. Lachlan watched, transfixed by skill and a complete lack of magic. This he could accept. This he could revere. The wiry men in their black uniforms had created their art on skill, not on trickery.

  “Do you think they ever hit each other?” Hadley asked over the cheers and gasps when the fire moved a little too close for their comfort.

  “While practicing, probably all the time,” Lachlan murmured back.

  Hadley grasped his hand tightly—the way she used to as a child—and led him around the outside of the gathered crowd. In amongst the smoke of the fight, the scent of lemons and sugar was stronger than ever. Lachlan stared over his shoulder, wishing he could stay and watch the fiery duel a while longer.

  They slid through gaps in the crowd, anxious to reach the next attraction. Perhaps it was his sister’s excitement that wore off on him, or the sight of glee all around him, but he grinned as broadly as a child before he remembered himself and his job.

  Up ahead, watching a man lift large and heavy looking objects over his head, Lachlan spotted two of his men, Paul and José. They laughed raucously at the sight of the strong man and suggested that he lift them to prove it wasn’t a trick. When the strong man dropped the heavy weight bar, making the ground shudder beneath it, they stepped forward, tripping over themselves and slapping each other on the back.