by Chris Bunch
“Uh … right … your com number’s here on the application,” Garvin said. “I’ll … we’ll be in touch within a day or so.”
Kekri Katun got up, slunk to the door, turned back, and looked at him.
“I think performing … with you … with your circus … is just about the most exciting idea I’ve ever known,” she breathed, and the compartment door slid closed behind her.
“Phew,” Garvin muttered, went for a beer, decided he needed something stronger and got out the brandy decanter. The door slid open again, and he jumped.
“Phew indeed,” Njangu said. “She keeps herself nicely shaved, doesn’t she?”
He found and opened a beer.
“So what are we going to do about her?”
“I’m just the security man,” Njangu grinned. “Of course, you’re going to hire her.”
“Why of course?”
“Because it’s always good to have a spy right under your eyes.” Njangu snickered. ‘Or thighs as the case may be.”
“Aren’t we being a little hard on her? What’s this spy business?”
“Not as hard as she’d like it to be,” Njangu said. “Come on, Garvin. Get your head out of your crotch and back in gear. Women like her don’t blow in your ear … or mine, either … because they think we’re the best-hung items since the elephants.”
Garvin slumped down in his chair.
“Yeh. You’re right. I was being dumb. You got any idea who she might be reporting to?”
“I could make a guess,” Njangu said. “Since she didn’t object to offplaneting, that’d suggest to me she’s working for somebody with longer-range views than either Fili or who’s that guy running for the Constitutionalists.”
“And the folks who’ve got long-range views would be — ”
“The Directors?”
“Perzackly.”
“So why shouldn’t we just tell her the position’s filled?”
“Because they’ll try again … whoever they are … maybe buying one of our roustabouts, maybe filtering another agent in,” Njangu explained. “If they already haven’t. We’ve had twenty-three people quit — all citizens, naturally, who decided they like Tiborg so far, and added, uh, about thirty of the locals. Not counting ol’ Cooin’ Kekri.
“Hire her, then … oh yeh, do you have a tendency to talk in your sleep?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Then turn her into our agent. Screw her black-and-blue, and get her singing our tune.
“Or else I can pop a shot in her pretty little ass, and have her singing like a buzzard, telling us everything including what, specifically, that Director Berti wants, and never realize it when she wakes up. Remember how they screened us when we joined the Force?”
“Yeh.”
“The first way’s a lot more fun, by the way.”
“Uh …”
“I’ll never tell Jasith,” Njangu said. “And there’s surely no other reason for you not to sacrifice your virtue for the Force, now is there?”
He smiled, evilly.
Garvin glowered, realized that he must know about Darod, probably the whole damned circus knew.
“She signs on,” Njangu said, “and I’ll have all her gear shaken, and make sure if she’s got a com it won’t work very well … and whatever she transmits goes straight into my security trap.
“Come on, Garvin. Where’s your fighting spirit? And weren’t you the guy who was bragging, back in Grimaldi, what with all the midgets and freaks and Chinese acrobats, that this was starting to feel a lot like a real circus?”
“Circuses don’t generally have spies,” Garvin said feebly.
“Then be innovative! Start a new tradition! You owe it to yourself!
“Besides, think of ol’ Randulf on her wedding night.”
• • •
“It’s all done with lights,” the little boy insisted.
“Of course,” Jiang Fong agreed.
“And … and mirrors,” the boy said.
“How clever,” Fong said. “You must have a closer look.”
He picked the boy up from his lift and tossed him, spinning, shrieking, up to his wife, Qi Tan, balancing on her hands three meters in the air on a weaving forked pole. She caught him with her feet, tumbled him about, tickling him with a finger until he stopped screaming and started laughing, then tossed him from one hand to another as she swayed, then dropped him back down to Gang.
Gang set him breathless, back in his lift, and Jia Yin, just a meter high, walked up to him, balancing a tray with four bowls, another tray with glasses atop that, four other clear trays with tiny budvases and flowers in them, and, on top of everything, a huge vase almost as big as she held on her chin.
“Lights and mirrors, you said,” she piped. “Would you like me to jump, and all these glasses will land in your lap? You and your liftchair will be very wet.”
“No, no,” the boy protested.
“But I am going to do it anyway,” and she jumped, and glassware cascaded, but somehow was caught, juggled, hurled back into the air and, in somewhat reversed order, balanced again.
The boy watched, fascinated.
“I wish I could juggle,” he said in a low voice.
Jia Yin heard him, leaned closer, still without spilling anything.
“After the show,” she promised, “I will show you how easy it is.”
“Even for somebody who can’t walk, like me?”
“Especially for someone like you, ‘cause you’ll pay closer attention.”
• • •
A thousand meters above the hospital, a Nana-class patrol ship orbited.
“All units,” Haut Chaka, who’d taken a three-rank reduction in rank to go with the circus, “I’ve got me a good possible. Illuminating him … now!”
The other Nana boat and two aksai watched screens and the laser indicator flashing across them.
“He’s been circling the hospital since we got here,” Chaka went on. “No ID, no big journoh markings, so I put a viewer on him. Zoomed on in, and what we’ve got is a lim full of gunnies. One of the stupid bastards even waved his blaster or whatever it is around a little, enough for me to see. Over.”
“All Safety elements,” Njangu said into his com. “This is Safety Leader. Suspect he’s gonna go strafin’ when this breaks up. Try for us, and if he gets some of the ankle biters we’re being nice to, that won’t matter.
“We’ll take him out now. Lir … hit him. Gently. You aksai hot rods, track him. I want more than just a handful of dead punks. Big Bertha, get the third aksai in the air and homing on the other birds.”
Mikes clicked assent.
Below, hidden behind a clump of brush, Lir checked the sights on her Shrike launcher, set the missile’s fuse to proximity detonate, turned the homing device off, aimed well off the lim, and fired.
The Shrike exploded twenty meters from the goonwagon, and it spun, almost pinwheeled, then the pilot gave it full power, gunning away in panic.
“Tracking,” Chaka said, and the aksai followed at altitude, above the clouds.
The lim sped around the city, on north, to a spattering of islands.
“It’s coming in for a landing,” Chaka said, and swept the area ahead first with radar, then with infrared.
“Looks like there’s something down there,” he reported. “Maybe a nice little landing field.”
All three of the aksai were orbiting below the Nana boat.
“This is Boursier One. I’ve got a visual flash through the clouds. It’s a field, with, oh, ten or twelve lifters. A couple of them looked like they were armored, or anyway set up for some kind of police or military use.”
“This is Safety Six,” Njangu ‘cast. “Arm ‘em up, troops. I’d like a nice clean billiard table down there. Take out all buildings and anybody you happen to want to shoot at. Clear.”
The aksai inverted, and dived, pilots’ fingers/claws blurring across sensors as the attack ships shot downward.
> Boursier, firing lead, toggled half a dozen Shrikes.
The missiles blasted across the field as Dill and Alikhan swept in low, chainguns roaring. Lifters exploded, and one of the three hangars burst into flames.
Men ran out, across the field, toward the safety of the jungle or water. Few made it.
Boursier came back in, a solid wave of shells sweeping the field, and the last scattered small antipersonnel firebombs from two hundred meters.
Chaka brought his patrol ship down low and slow, thought two lifters were insufficiently damaged, donated a pair of Shrikes to the cause, then climbed.
“I don’t see anything left to break, Safety elements. Let’s go on home.”
• • •
Both Garvin and Njangu thought it was very interesting that there were no holo reports of the destruction of the airport.
“I guess it’s not in anybody’s best interests,” Njangu said.
“Which says something about this whole damned power structure, doesn’t it?” Garvin said, a bit disgustedly. “I should’ve given Darod and Lir the go-ahead.”
“To do what?”
“Never mind.”
• • •
“Men are nothing but hard dicks and no brains!” Darod Montagna stormed to Monique Lir.
“So what else is new?” Lir said, grinning. “And what has the boss done to piss you off this time?”
“I just saw him walking outside the ship with that … that popsy he went and hired!”
“Isn’t he entitled to walk anywhere with anybody he wants?”
“Not with her!”
“Hoboy,” Lir said. “Darod, my young former Executive Officer, you are getting, like they say, your tit in a wringer. If you’re all jealous that he’s just walking with this Katun, what are you going to do when we get back to Cumbre, and you’ve got to realize he’s sleeping with Jasith Mellusin?”
“That’s different! She was ahead of me in line! She outranks me!”
“Hoboy twice,” Lir said.
• • •
“This Circus Jaansma has certainly paid for itself,” Dorn Fili said. “I know the big rally night after this will get our workers to pour in their last bit of energy. Not to mention how it’ll look on the holos.”
“The offworlders have done well for us,” Sam’l Brek agreed. “But we’re getting close to election day, and I keep thinking of all those credits we’re giving them, and how I’d like to have them for a last-minute blitzkrieg.”
“Use the after-campaign funds we’ve got set aside for our supporters,” Fili said.
“I could do that,” Brek agreed. “But that would leave our friends a bit angry. If only we had a way to recoup some of that circus money … mmh.
“You know, I think I’ve got the beginnings of an idea.”
“Could it get back to us?” Fili asked.
“Very doubtful, at least if I set it up right, with the correct people.”
“Don’t tell me any more,” Fili said. “Just do it.”
• • •
“Something interesting,” Njangu told Garvin. “We did a thorough shake on your bimbolina’s gear, and guess what we found?”
“A nifty little sender?”
“Nawp.”
“A serious interstellar com?”
“Nawp.”
“What did you get?”
“Nothing … except that your Kekri Katun has too much in the way of cosmetics, and interesting taste in lingerie.”
“Nothing?” Garvin said, a bit incredulously. “What does that mean? She isn’t a spy?”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Njangu advised. “It just means that she’s been trained a little better than I thought.”
• • •
Penwyth passed the com across to Freron, who heard the automated teller say he now had somewhere over half a million credits to his account.
Freron smiled pleasantly, took keys from his pocket, and gave them to Erik.
“The box is nine-eight-five-four, at the Military Banking Institute. It’s quite large, so you might think of taking a confrere with you.” He gave the address, added that no one would bother anyone carrying the keys.
Penwyth went to the apartment door, opened it, and gave the keys, and where they were to be used, to Ben Dill. Two hulking roustabouts were behind him.
“Now,” Penwyth said, coming back and sitting down, “we’ll just wait here until my friend Ben says he’s back at the ship safely.”
Freron sighed.
“I suppose, in this dirty business, no one trusts anyone else.”
“I trust you implicitly, Kuprin,” Erik drawled. “I’d just like to hear a couple more stories about how it was, serving in a planetary force under the Confederation before I leave.”
• • •
“Everybody’s on an Annie Oakley tonight,” Garvin told Sopi Midt. “All political sorts, so don’t rape them too badly.”
“Hadn’t a thought of it. Naw,” Midt said, “I’m lyin’. Always hated those bastards who think, ‘cause they know which end of a ballot box to stuff, they’re somethin’ special.
“Still can’t figure why you let them put us in their pocket.”
Garvin made a face. “Maybe I was worried about the gate, this first time out for real. Sure as blazes not something I’d be doing over again.”
“Ah well,” Midt sympathized. “So far, outside of that poor showgirl, nothing’s gone awry. I’ll tell you, I’m glad we’ve got their buckos doing security. My people’ve taken a dozen or more guns off floppies in the midway.”
“Any idea who they were working for?” Garvin asked.
“Di’n’t ask. Somebody with a gun on my midway who ain’t workin’ for me is nothin’ but trouble, so we disarmed them, give ‘em a thick ear, sent ‘em on their way.”
Midt leaned closer to Garvin.
“Got a suggestion, Gaffer, if you don’t mind. Are you plannin’ to stick around until election day?”
“I don’t know,” Garvin said. “I’m inclined to think not a chance.”
“Good. Good. Very good,” Sopi approved. “ ‘Cause the minute the tab’s taken, one side’ll be thinkin’ about revenge, believing we somehow turned the tide, and the other’ll be trying to get out of paying us.”
“I’ve had the Social Democrats pay in front.”
“ ‘At’s good,” Midt approved. “Guess you are your father’s kid.”
• • •
By dusk, the Social Democrats were thronging in from across the planet, and several ships had come in from other planets in the system. Garvin, looking out from the nose of Big Bertha, dimly hearing the band in the great hold below, was thankful for the outer screen of Fill’s security people. This crowd, which promised to be a solid turnaway, was burying the ducat grabbers and circus security.
He looked at himself in a mirror, adjusted his white top hat, curled his whip under his arm, and, the picture of youthful dignity, went to the lift taking him to the center ring.
Overhead, several acrobats were tossing each other around, the ra’felan catching them. He saw Lir among them, doing a spinning twist, almost missing her catcher, and being swung back up to the trapeze.
• • •
The man was tall, skeletal, with short hair and neat beard. He wore a shirt blazoned FILI FOR PREMIER, as did most of the other entrants. The shirt was too large for him, which helped hide the gun and shoulder stock in his belt. That wasn’t intended for the task he’d hired on for, but to ensure his own escape amid the hoped-for debacle.
There was a metal detector at the gangway, but there was a press around it, and it was easy for the man to sidestep the device and enter the ship’s hold with the happy throng.
• • •
Phraphas Phanon hadn’t exaggerated when he said he might be able to come up with something more spectacular than Sir Douglas could envision.
After much rehearsal, they had a number.
A lion menaced Imp, one of the babie
s. Imp didn’t see the trunk that took him around the waist, lifted him to safety on the top of another elephant. The lion reared, roaring.
On a howdah on a third bull, Sir Douglas cracked a whip, as two tigers leapt onto the howdah with him. His pistol cracked, and they cowered back, jumped to the back of another elephant, just as three bulls reared, paws together, and a fourth lifted Imp to safety as other cats darted around the center ring.
The audience was agape in amazement.
And that was just the opening.
• • •
Njangu Yoshitaro was prowling the midway, looking for any signs of trouble, when it found him.
He’d ducked behind a wheel of fortune stand, intending to cut back to Big Bertha through the back, avoiding the crowd.
Njangu had only a moment to notice a woman had followed him, turning to see what she wanted. The anesthetic dart snapped into his neck before he could draw his gun.
Two men followed the woman, carrying a long canvas roll that looked as if it belonged somewhere in the circus.
Njangu was rolled into the middle of it, and the men picked it up, and, moving without haste, went back down the rear of the midway, into the parking area, and slid the roll into a lifter.
Seconds later, the three were aboard and the lifter was airborne, heading for the capital.
CHAPTER
9
“Welcome, welcome, Social Democrats of all ages,” Garvin chanted, “to the finest show in the galaxy. We’ve got clowns and bears and lions and tigers and beautiful women, and men stronger than oxen … all brought to you by the good graces of Dorn Fili.”
The crowd cheered, and Garvin snapped his whip twice. As the clowns mobbed him, he tried to concentrate on the routine, but kept thinking that now, with Penwyth back with the loot from Freron … or what he hoped was loot, awaiting analysis … they could pull in their horns and get away from this mess.
• • •
“Unroll him,” the woman ordered, and one of the two men in the lifter obeyed. He turned on a small sensor, ran it around Njangu’s neck, held it in front of his open mouth.
“Sleepin’ like a babe,” he reported. “Vital signs just fine.”
“He’d better be,” the woman said. “The man said alive only. And that there’d be paybacks if we screwed up and killed him.”
