by Dan Abnett
‘Duboe! Duboe and the game agents!’
‘Don’t, Odysse!’ Bazarof yelled again, moving forward. I had no time for that. I kicked out a little psi-slap that slammed Bazarof off his feet and back into the kitchen wall.
Then I rolled forward until the giggling Bergossian was right in front of me.
+That’s very helpful, Odysse. What else can you tell me?+
He started to shake his head, as if he was tiring, like a man who has been on a wild circus ride which had been fun at the time but had left him feeling sick. Like a drunk who has drunk too much. I could feel the bitter tang of his nausea rising, the wild disorientation of a mind and body spinning out of control.
May the Emperor forgive me, it was delicious. Any extremes of physical experience, even the most unpleasant, are so alien to me that I cherish them.
But this was getting worse. It was as if the blissful, warm fluid of his thoughts was draining away. Shapes rose out of the liquid like submerged rocks exposed by the tide. The warm light in his head dimmed and a black dawn rose up around the rim of his mind.
+Odysse.+
The shapes were around me now, twisted, calcified, bone-brown, slick with the last of the warm fluid as it spattered and gurgled away. On the floor in front of me, Bergossian was starting to have some sort of seizure.
From behind, I heard Nayl hiss. ‘Get out of him. Boss, get the hell out of him!’
I realised… that I could not. I was sliding forward into the black-light landscape of his blighted, burned-out mind. For a moment, it seemed almost comical to me: as if I was perched, not in my suspensor module, but in an old-style, non-powered wheelchair, which had been set on a slope and I was rolling, rolling down, gaining speed, rushing headlong, without hands or feet or brake to stop me.
+Odysse. Let me go.+
Bergossian was thrashing around, cracking his head, heels and elbows against the floor. There was a screaming, but I could no longer tell if it was his physical vocalisation or some keening threnody surging across the scorched earth of his thoughtscape.
I plunged on, unable to stop. Before me, a vast wasteland of jet cinders and blackened material, twisted, bulbous, shattered, crusted. The sky was domed and full of rushing, splintered cloud. A sun, as red as a blood-shot eye, rose and climbed across the flitting heavens and set again in the space of a single breath.
The howling increased. The black landscape cracked open into a stinking abyss. A pit of skulls. Billions of human skulls, every single one tainted by the echo of its own death-scream. There were buildings before me, towers and spires and cyclopean citadels, all ruined, all made of solidified night. A burned city. A murdered hive. Was this Petropolis? Was this the future?
I fell between the vast towers, and saw their countless windows, row upon row, tier upon tier, deadlights like eye sockets, giving back no reflection, stained by unimaginable ages spent in consuming darkness.
Then I was stationary. The howling had stopped. I was alone in the silence, the ruins rising around me, the air heavy with ash and decay. There was broken glass underfoot and—
Underfoot.
Underfoot.
I started to shake. I was standing. I was whole. Feet, legs, torso, arms, fingers…
I looked down, and saw with eyes instead of photoreceptors. The crazed black soil under my naked feet was covered in a myriad shards of broken glass. Imperfectly, like a deranged mosaic, they reflected back my perfection.
I saw my face. The face I had once had. Gideon Ravenor, young, strong, determined. How I had missed that face…
Something was coming. I could hear it behind me. Something heavy, something fast, skittering and crunching the glass underfoot. Snorting. Growling. Spitting.
I wanted to turn. My remade body refused to move. In the broken reflection at my feet, I saw the hulking, hairy shadow of some great thing loom up behind my shoulder. Teeth flashed.
In the last second, the numberless glass fragments showed my reflection change and become true again. My true self. A knotted, bulging sack of scar-tissue and old burn-smears, the stumps of limbs, the ragged useless lump of a head, healed up and pink-smooth like a badly-sewn bag.
And entirely helpless in the grip of Chaos.
FIVE
YOU COULD HEAR the circus from twenty streets away and see it from ten. The horns, the sirens, the deafening come-ons from tannoys, the dancing light beams and the popping flares. It lit the city night of Formal G like a bowl of fire.
The approach streets and ramps were packed: jostling multitudes, laughing and drinking, and the peddlers, tricksters, hawkers and smile-girls who fed off them. It was a game night.
The circus drome was a colossal domed amphitheatre, its tiered and arcuated outer walls towering ninety metres high. But the great ouslite substance of it was just a shadow in the smoky night, lost behind the flash and dazzle of the raging lightshow. Red stablights on the tops of the walls crisscrossed the exuberant crowd. Screamer rockets banged up from the upper arches and fizzled into showers of green and white sparks. Twenty metres above the street on the main facade hung a massive wiron sign that flashed out the name CARNIVORA in letters three times the height of a man. The orange light tubes blinked out the word whole, then pulsed it in syllables – CAR-NI-VOR-A – before blazing out the whole again. Caged fires and glowglobes lit up the stadium’s exterior columns, and blue-white electric discharge danced up and down cathode filaments over the horseshoe arches of the public turnstiles.
Factory-grade hooters sounded above the roar of the crowd, and speakers blasted out the bass-beat hook of a popular pound number at inhuman decibels. In time to the music beat, even louder, the vox-horns played a recording of a male voice bellowing ‘CAR-CAR-CAR-NIVORA!’
Above the wiron sign, pulsing in time to it, and the beat, and the voice, a massive pict screen projected a loop of fast-edit images. There was a split second of a naked woman, body-painted gold, turning an aerial cartwheel, that smash-cut to a fragment of two armoured male fighters clashing chainswords. The screen smash-cut again to a violent half-second of some lidless, yellow-toothed saurian lunging at the camera, followed by a final smash-cut to a bloody, blurry decapitation that segued to white noise/pict-out as if the camera had broken. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! CAR-CAR-CARNIVORA! CAR-CAR-CAR-NIVORA! Over and over and over until the assaulting repetition was one numbing adrenal rush.
Patience Kys let the crowd crush sweep her along to public gate IV. She was gnawing on a meat-stick she’d bought from a ramp vendor, and openly drinking from a liquor flask. She laughed and joked and flirted with the moody hammers and indentureds in the crowd around her, posing with some, and gently dissuading the over-eager advances of others with subtle tweaks of telekinesis. In her tight black and emerald bodice and long net-lace skirts, and with her hair loose, she was just another smile-girl out to shout herself hoarse and drink herself blind at circus night.
Already, she was in with a group, a bunch of tanked-up clansters from the meat-pack sept. They were big men, noisy, filthy, their vat-muscled bodies rippling with studs and piercings and the distinctive acid-tats of their clan. One of them – Lesche – kept passing her his grain-liquor for a swig, and he insisted on paying for her at the turnstile. He thought he was in. His brothers certainly believed Lesche had pulled a high-formal party-girl who was slumming it in the sinks of G for the night.
The hammer’s hands were all over her, and she let him, up to a point. They flocked en masse through the gate, pressing forward past the stadium stewards towards the wooden stalls in the attic levels. The cheap seats.
There was a weapons check at the entrance to the attic levels. The stewards let the hammers through anyway – they knew better than to question the drunken, rowdy clansters with that many piercings. But the doorway flashed red as Kys went through. The stewards closed on her, despite the protesting roars from Lesche’s group.
‘I got no blades,’ Kys said, straight-faced. ‘Shush, you,’ she added to Lesche with a wicked grin. She ra
ised her arms high as the stewards aimed hand-scanners at her body, deliberately accentuating the corseting of her top, her pinched waist and elevated bosom. ‘See? It’s just the wiring in my bodice.’
The hammers roared approval. Realising they were on to nothing, the stewards waved her on. She laughed as she ran through, and Lesche grabbed her around the waist. She kissed him as they rambled up into the attic stalls and found a row with a good view over the primary stage.
The circus was filling up. Searchlights swept back and forth across the terraces, illuminating a raving mass of the populace. The pre-game show was just getting under way. The main arena filled the bottom of the stadium’s bowl. It was an oval measuring fifty by ninety metres, and it was surrounded on all sides by the rising terraces of public seating. It was not a single showground, but resembled rather the oblate cylinder of a revolver: there were six, circular cavities around the edge of the oval arena, and one large one in the middle. Massive hydraulic systems deep underground could raise or lower performance stages – logeums – into place in any of the cavities. The central one was for the night’s headline fight. Right now three of the outer logeums were hissing up into place, venting steam through their exhaust outlets. On two of them, twenty paired teams of knife fighters with silver fish-head helmets were putting on a display of speed bladework with hair’s-breadth accuracy. The crowd gasped. Knives in each hand, whirling like windmill vanes. Sparks sliding off meeting blades. Not a single scratch.
On the third outer stage, four twist clowns were pantomime fighting with mallets. They were all big, lumbering mutants, hunch-backed and ogrish, their disfigurements accented by white face-paint, rouged mouths and striped pantaloons. The audience loved them. The whole arena rotated so that everyone could get a decent view of the outer stages.
The out-stage displays continued as more siren fanfares sounded. A huge scaffold cage descended over the main logeum, winched down from the massive lighting gantries and over-stage platforms above the arena. The acrobats dropped down into the cage space, like coins into a collecting box, freefalling for heart-stopping distances before grabbing crossbeams and trapeze struts. They were all female, naked, painted gold. A mighty applause rang out across the stadium as they swung, caught, pulled full-ins and struellis, walked over flat bars, spun on wires, somersaulting and flipping. There was no net. The hard arena was thirty metres below the bottom spars of the performance cage.
Lesche slavered at the sight of the nubile gymnasts. He took a tug on his bottle and looked round to pass it to the girl.
But Kys had vanished.
CAR-CAR-CARNIVORA! CAR-CAR-CARNIVORA!
‘YOU! YOU’RE LATE!’ Mamsel Scissors squalled. Her voice was high-pitched and imperious, as befitted the circus’s troupe-mistress. She pulled up the hem of her long lace skirts and petticoats and stomped across the suspended boarding with her walking cane. It was twilight up here, under the stadium roof and amongst the lighting gantries. The swell of the crowd’s roar came up from seventy metres beneath. Gantrymen ran back and forth, hauling tension wires and adding sand-sack counterweights to the pulley systems. Reflected light speared back up through the board cracks in the staging under their feet.
Kara Swole, wearing a flesh-tight bodyglove so transparent she might as well have been nude, was smearing the last squeeze of a tube of gold dye over herself.
‘I’m sorry, mamsel,’ she said.
‘Sorry doesn’t bring in the punters! Sorry doesn’t put on a show!’
‘I know, mamsel.’
Scissors peered at her, her ancient lined face taught and inquisitive.
‘Do I know you?’
‘Yes, mam. I’m Kara, mam. You hired me last week.’
‘Last week? I don’t remember…’
‘You did, mam.’
‘I doubt it. You’re not right. Too short. Too much bust and hips.’ Scissors poked a gnarled finger into the giving softness of Kara’s left breast.
‘But you did, mam. You thought my handspring and diamond combo was particularly fine, and you liked my wire work.’
Mamsel Scissors stepped back, her withered hands folded over the knob of her cane. ‘Show me the move again.’
Kara breathed in, and lunged into a handspring that she flicked out of, spun a body-length fly-away in the air and came down stuck. The gantry boarding shuddered under the impact and swung very slightly.
Below, the crowd roared again, but not at her. They were out of sight up here.
‘Good,’ muttered Mamsel Scissors. ‘Where did you learn that?’
‘The Imperial pits, Bonaventure,’ said Kara.
‘I still don’t remember hiring you,’ Scissors went on, ‘and you’re late for the pre-show anyway. I won’t have that from my girls. You’re sacked.’
Kara shrugged. She’d got this far into the circus by passing as one of the acrobat troupe. It was enough. Frankly, she’d got herself up onto the gantry late deliberately. She hadn’t fancied risking her neck in the over-hung cage. Once, maybe, she could talk and pass as a dance-crobat, but perhaps, these days, the exertions of the lissom girls spinning below was a bit beyond her.
Still in the part, she frowned. ‘Sacked?’
The mamsel thumped her cane on the boarding. ‘Sacked! You heard me! Get dressed and get out!’
Kara walked over to where she’d left her belongings and gathered up her clothes.
‘Go home!’ Mamsel Scissors screeched.
Kara picked up her kitbag, palmed the compact auto-gun into her left hand, and headed for the ladders.
She was in now. That’s all that mattered. CAR-CAR-CARNIVORA! CAR-CAR-CARNIVORA! came the roar from below.
HARLON NAYL LEANED on the horn of the freight-rig as he edged it down the concrete slip towards the service ramp. The crowd parted slowly to let his ten-wheeler through. Every few seconds, the crossing stabs of the searchlights blinded him and lit up the drive-cab blood red.
He adjusted his microbead. ‘Coming up on it now,’ he whispered. ‘This better go good.’
‘Relax, Harlon. Piece of piss,’ Carl Thonius crackled back.
The shutter ahead was locked down. Stadium officials headed towards him up the ramp, pointing flashlights. They had to push their way through huddles of ecclesiarchy puritans protesting against the barbarity of the circus.
‘Now, Thonius…’
Nayl wound his cab window down as the stewards waved at him.
‘What’s this?’ yelled one.
‘Meat track for the spoliarum, sir!’
‘Yeah? What outfit?’
‘Buckanold’s Bushmeats, sir…’
‘Let’s see the slate,’ the steward said, holding up a hand.
Nayl handed out the data-slate. ‘Thonius…’ he hissed into the bead.
‘SCANNING NOW,’ CARL Thonius said, sitting back from his cogitator. ‘Five points, three points, one point… we’re up. I’m reading the guy’s slate coding now… decoding… decoding…’
‘Hurry the frig up!’ Nayl’s voice rasped.
‘Got it. Code’s clean. Feeding it through to your slate.’
‘SOMETHING WRONG?’ NAYL asked, peering out of the cab.
‘No,’ said the steward. ‘No, nothing. A slight registration delay.’ He handed the slate back to Nayl. ‘You check out. Go through, bay number fifteen. Open the gate, vehicle coming!’
The shutter clanked up into the arch. Nayl gunned the engine and rolled the freight-rig down into the stadium’s choragium. He could feel the thumping handclap and bellowing of the audience above his head.
‘Too close, Carl. Too close,’ Nayl whispered.
‘WAS IT TOO close?’ Ravenor asked.
In the back of the cargo-8, Thonius glanced round nervously from the cogitator at his master. Space was cramped. Between the cogitator set-up and Ravenor’s stowed force-chair there was barely room for the interrogator to sit. Frauka and Zael were exiled up front in the dingy cab. The boy was looking back at them through the chipped clearplex divid
er. Thonius decided he didn’t like the boy. His eyes seemed to be everywhere. Thonius didn’t like that at all.
‘Was it too close?’ Ravenor asked again.
‘No, no,’ smiled Thonius. ‘This is non-wired hacking. I had to wait until Nayl’s slate was close to the steward’s so I could get clean reception.’
‘And he’s in?’
‘They’re all in, sir,’ Thonius said. He looked at the sleek casing of Ravenor’s force-chair.
‘You’re wondering if I’m all right, aren’t you?’ Ravenor said.
Thonius jumped. ‘I thought Frauka was switched on!’ he declared. ‘How could you read me like—’
‘Frauka is switched on,’ the inquisitor’s voxsponder said expressionlessly ‘But I have eyes… and can read body language. You keep looking at me, Carl.’
Thonius shrugged. ‘That thing with Bergossian. It wasn’t good.’
‘No, it wasn’t. It hurt. I was unwise, and it scarred me. I’m recovering fine.’
‘But—’
‘But nothing, Carl. I probed an insane mind, and almost got caught in it as it collapsed. But I got out. Three days have passed. I’m healing.’
Thonius shrugged. He hadn’t been there, but Kys had told him how Odysse Bergossian had gone into spasm and then… well, exploded. Messily, she’d said, as if there was any other way. Kys said Ravenor had howled as he struggled free of the collapsing mind. A voxsponder shriek. A sound she’d never forget. Monotone. Anguished.
‘Fine,’ Thonius said. ‘That’s good.’
He paused and adjusted the wavelength setting of the voxcaster.
‘Getting signals. Kys is in. Kara too. Nayl is still mobile.’
‘Let’s get on with this,’ Ravenor said.
CAR-CAR-CARNIVORA!
The booming declamation came from above her, shaking the walls. The audience was joining in, stamping their feet and clapping in time. Bam-bam thump! Bam-bam-thump!
Patience hurried along the dim stone passageways under the seating, watching the glow-globes twitch as the walls vibrated. As she ran, she unfastened her skirts and let them fall, revealing the tight black and emerald bodice to be the top part of a bodyglove. Now she could move more freely. She adjusted her microbead headset, and pulled on her gloves.
