Sideshow

by Sheri S. Tepper

  “My dear Syrilla, Danivon did it because he’s been trained to do it. Enforcers are trained to report wickedness.” He brackets his speech with sips from a porcelain cup heavily crusted with gold. Members of Council Supervisory have recently reinvented (for the umpteenth time and under another name) both teatime and the Baroque.

  “Did he have to be so public about it?” she asks in a high, affected voice, a little-girl voice belied by the ageless cynicism of her eyes.

  Boarmus grunts impatiently, weary of the woman. She’s a stick: thin to the point of emaciation, a well-groomed, talkative, much ornamented stick. He is bored with her and others like her. He is tired of himself, of being who he is, where he is. He is a much put-upon man. He had never wanted to be Provost, so he now recollects, conveniently forgetting many of the evasions and contortions he had gone through to end up with the job. Besides, that was long ago, when he was young and inept—and ignorant!

  He says: “The rule is that one must assert guilt in the Rotunda, loudly, so a great many people hear the charge and it can’t be hushed up. Danivon Luze was taught what we’re all taught, that we can be forgiven for being naughty, but never for being covert about it. We all learned that as children, back in Heaven.” He longs briefly for that island home of the Supervisory people, that sea-washed paradise of tropical foliage, breeze-cooled days and velvety, star-washed nights. Small enough payment, Heaven, for what they go through!

  “Of course,” Boarmus continues in an ironic tone, “we of Council Supervisory unlearn it during our first tour of duty here at Tolerance. Not being one of us, Danivon never unlearned it, that’s all.”

  “Poor old Paff.”

  Boarmus slits his pouchy eyes and runs a pudgy hand over his bare and sloping skull, murmuring, “Poor old Paff has been raping and murdering children since he reached puberty. We preferred not to notice, that’s all.”

  “But he was one of us, Boarmus! And they were only ordinary children. Molockians and that.”

  “Quite frankly, I don’t think—”

  “No. It’s no excuse. Of course not. The Diversity Law admits of no exceptions. He had no right to take any children, not even Molockians. He had to Let Them Alone. I know that, Boarmus, I was merely feeling sorry for him.”

  “Damn his nose, nonetheless.”

  “Paff’s nose?”

  “Danivon Luze’s nose.”

  “I haven’t heard anything about his nose. I know who he is, of course.”

  Boarmus contradicts her. “No one knows who he is. We only know who he became after he got here.”

  “What is it about his nose?”

  Boarmus’s laughter bursts in a soggy spray, like a mud bubble. “He sniffs things out. Corruption. Or trouble. Or whatever.”

  “How very odd.”

  “Odd, perhaps. But useful,” he replies, nodding ponderously. “I have found Danivon to be quite irreplaceable.”

  “Just by virtue of this smelling out? I mean, really….” She subsides into silent thought. Poor old Paff. A pedo-necro-phile, without question, but such a courtly man. Always so elegantly dressed. Paff would take advantage of the finalizer booth, of course—the only honorable thing to do. If he couldn’t bring that off, something would happen to him. The Frickians would manage it quietly and neatly. They always did in such cases.

  Boarmus muses, stroking his massive chin, regretting he has mentioned Danivon’s usefulness. He hadn’t intended to discuss Danivon with Syrilla, whose discretion he trusts no farther than he can fart against a high wind. Danivon has recently committed a tactless act. One might almost say an indiscretion. Boarmus knows about it, but no one else does, yet, and Boarmus hopes to remedy the matter before anyone does. Danivon Luze must get out of Tolerance before he has opportunity to repeat his lapse. Not that Danivon has done anything purposefully wrong. He has erred out of mere curiosity, Boarmus is sure—though there are those who will assume worse motives for the act, if they find out.

  “I’m not sure I’ ve ever actually seen him. Danivon, I mean,” says Syrilla, still following her own thoughts.

  “As a matter of fact, he should be here momentarily,” Boarmus announces. “I’ve decided to send him to Panubi.”

  “You’re sending him to find out about the dragons!” squeals Syrilla in pretended surprise.

  Boarmus glooms at her from beneath his heavy brows. Why does the fool woman insist upon this girlish posturing! All the fashion just now, posturing. Every social occasion given over to giggles and squeals and standing about with one’s hands flapping like some wide-winged wader bird about to take off! Well, no amount of squealing and chattering can make a surprise out of the matter. When people on Panubi report seeing dragons where there have never been dragons heretofore, certainly someone has to be sent to look into it.

  “And that must be him coming now,” cries Syrilla, clapping her hands and gesturing awkwardly toward the stairs up which an erect, brightly costumed figure is approaching. “All done up in ceremonials too.”

  “As is proper,” Boarmus mutters. “Though damned conspicuous.” No one on the lower balcony can miss those nodding purple plumes, that swirling, wide-sleeved purple coat, those scarlet trousers and shirt, the tap-tap of those lustrously polished gaver-hide boots.

  Danivon Luze, striding up the stairs as though on parade, knows he is showy. Considering how rumor runs floodtide in Tolerance, he’d planned it that way, wanting no appearance of connivance or conspiracy when summoned to a meeting with Boarmus. Danivon doesn’t really trust Boarmus, doesn’t think he likes Boarmus, though he’s not really sure. Sometimes Boarmus smells like old sin itself, and other times like Uncle offering cookies. No telling in advance whether today’s summons is for naughty Luze or neffy-with-a-sweet-tooth Luze. So, Danivon comes as though on parade, which makes him conspicuous, yes, but also anonymous, his individuality subsumed into the regalia, so to speak, into a uniform formality of manner and stance: not Danivon Luze at all, but merely a Council Enforcer, Tolerance Post.

  Danivon stops the requisite number of paces from the tea drinkers, executes a stylish salute that ends in a bow, the appropriate depth of which has been calculated to the last finger’s width. Straightening, he assays an appropriately deferential manner. “Sir,” he says, sweeping bonnet into hand. “Ma’am,” standing easy, relaxed.

  Boarmus doesn’t ask him to sit down, but then Danivon hadn’t expected he would.

  “You’ve heard about the messages from Panubi,” Boarmus says. “This business about the dragons.”

  “Only in passing, sir. Nothing definite.” Actually, Danivon probably knows more about the so-called dragons than Boarmus does. Dragons, certainly, but also sightings of other, indescribable things, plus screams in the night and people gone (or mostly gone) in the morning, an unusual roster of horrid happenings, even for Elsewhere. All this has been served up for Danivon’s delectation in the Frickian servants’ quarters, far below this exalted level. Boarmus doesn’t spend time as Danivon does, down with the flunkies, hobnobbing with messengers from the provinces or with recently returned maintenance techs and supply vehicle drivers.

  Boarmus purses his full lips and pontificates, mostly for Syrilla’s benefit: “So far as we know, no animals resembling dragons exist on Elsewhere, though there’s nothing to prevent persons from low-category places from costuming themselves as dragons, or persons from high-category places from manufacturing bi-oids to resemble dragons.” He sips his tea, noting with satisfaction that his voice has betrayed no urgency, no overtones of panic.

  Settling the cup into its saucer, he goes on: “There is an additional matter. Some years ago, while you were still a youth, I received a message from Panubi. Not from one of the provinces, but from some other entity, centrally located on the continent. It was one of a series of such messages that seemed unimportant and equivocal at the time, not to say enigmatic. Now, however, inasmuch as this dragon business has come up …” He sips, watching Danivon’s eyes. Was Danivon, possibly, smelling some
thing useful?

  “Might one ask what the message said, sir?”

  “Um,” says Boarmus, “a petition is how I took it. To the people of Elsewhere. To … ah … leave Elsewhere, perhaps.”

  “Ah,” says Danivon, unenlightened. “Ah?” says Syrilla eagerly. “You never told me that, Boarmie.”

  “There was nothing to tell. Someone or something located in Central Panubi sent a message. It could have been a joke. It could have been the work of a madman.” Boarmus shrugs, elaborately casual, and turns to Danivon once more. “The message concluded with these words: ‘R.S.V.P. Noplace, Central Panubi.’ I talked to your friend Zasper about it at the time, as a matter of fact. Twelve or thirteen years ago, it was.”

  “Ah,” says Danivon again, considerably confused.

  “Zasper felt it didn’t warrant an answer. Now, however …” His voice trails off, as he considers. He doesn’t intend to mention that a fifth petition has arrived. Syrilla doesn’t need to know that. Neither does Danivon. Particularly not the undignified details. He does not often take a woman to bed these days, and when he does, he does not expect her to go into hysterics at the sight of words suddenly printing themselves in large purple letters across the skin of his buttocks and belly! “Rethink their position,” indeed! Luckily she had the good sense to keep quiet about it.

  Boarmus sets the humiliating memory aside and perseveres. “Your talents are unique, Luze. You’re well equipped for the task. I suggest you begin by consulting with Zasper Ertigon. He may have had some further thoughts in recent years.”

  It isn’t quite what Danivon had expected. He had sniffed something in the air, but not this. Even now, here, with Boarmus not two paces away, he sniffs something other than this. Old, cold Boarmus, lizard-eyed Boarmus, greedy Boarmus, is lying to him. No, that doesn’t smell right either. Maybe not exactly lying. Just not telling the whole truth. Just not telling something … something very important.

  “Sir.” Danivon nods, concentrating. His nose twitches sharply, and he suddenly knows some of what is in Boarmus’s mind. “You have wondered whether these so-called dragons might actually be enslaved persons?”

  Even knowing Danivon’s ability as he does, it is hard for Boarmus not to show surprise. In light of the strange invitation, the idea of enslaved persons had indeed crossed his mind, but it isn’t a thought he intended to mention in Syrilla’s hearing. Well, too late. He shrugs, yawns. “I suppose anything is possible, my boy.”

  “How would enslaved of the Hobbs Land Gods get here?” demands Syrilla in an apprehensive tone. “Our defenses are proof against the Hobbs Land Gods. Our Door is guarded; our force-net would report any incursion from space!”

  “You’re perfectly right, Syrilla,” Boarmus murmurs.

  She substitutes melodrama for apprehension, laying a twiggy hand on her chest to cry breathily, “Just think! Enslaved ones!”

  “Well, all these matters can be examined simultaneously,” Boarmus says smoothly. “Dragons and enslavement and invitations and ‘noplace,’ wherever that is, plus whatever routine Enforcer duties may pop up on the way.”

  “Sir,” says Danivon mildly, trying to digest this all at once. “Am I to go alone.”

  Boarmus doesn’t care whether he goes alone or in a company of hundreds, not so long as he goes, but saying so would trivialize the matter. For Boarmus’s purposes, this mission must look quite important indeed! Not an emergency, which might frighten Council Supervisory into fatal spasms, but important, nonetheless.

  Boarmus frowns to show he is considering the matter. “Not if you think it best to take others with you. I’ll leave the details to you, Luze. I have every confidence in your abilities.”

  “Sir,” says Danivon again.

  Boarmus nods weightily. “Offer what inducements you think appropriate. Requisition whatever equipment you consider necessary. Before you leave, check with the Complaint and Disposition schedule: there will undoubtedly be some routine business to take care of on your way.” He waves a negligent hand, illustrating the trust he places in Danivon Luze. “Besides, it’s time Central Panubi was explored.”

  He said this to Zasper years ago. He has said it to others since. After twenty or so generations of human occupation on Elsewhere, the center of the continent is still labeled “Panubi Incognita,” one of those places on maps where the lines trail off into emptiness and cartographers traditionally print “Here be dragons.” Considering that some pixieish conceit led the original cartographers on Elsewhere to do just that, perhaps no one should be surprised now that the dragons have actually shown up.

  Allegedly shown up, Boarmus reminds himself. Allegedly. Though whether allegedly or actually, Panubi Incognita serves as a good excuse to get Danivon gone before … someone finds out what he’s done.

  Danivon receives a dismissive nod, bows, about-faces, hooks his right thumb in his belt to give his coat a swagger, and stalks off toward the stairs, gaver-hide boots gleaming, purple plumes nodding, purple coat swirling at the hem, golden badge on his shoulder shining, soft red shirt and trousers rippling beneath in silken perfection. Behind him the two supervisors sip at their cooling tea and watch him go, Boarmus with slight perturbation, Syrilla with appreciation for the fine picture he makes. Exemplary, she thinks. Truly exemplary.

  A Frickian servant brings hot tea and pours. A long, silent moment passes. Syrilla leans forward to set her cup upon the table when a sudden motion catches her eyes. On the Rotunda floor a guard has moved! She leans farther forward, disbelieving. Even though Door guards aren’t supposed to quiver so much as a muscle, one of them has moved! No … two … two have moved!

  Boarmus has seen it too. “The Door!” he breathes.

  Her eyes flick across the big Door as she follows Boarmus’s pointing finger. Not the big Door. The Arbai Door? But the Arbai Door doesn’t do anything! It has never done anything!

  It is doing something now! Scintillating, sparkling, flinging coruscations of bright light around the Rotunda and through the high-arched opening into the balcony, sequined schools of spark-fish, swirling and reversing. Most of the guards are moving, shifting uncertainly toward and away from the glittering gate, casting doubtful glances over their shoulders, waiting for someone to tell them what to do, their weapons twitching in their hands.

  Syrilla is half out of her chair when the clap of thunder sounds. She has time to see the guards cowering, and then the Arbai Door flashes like lightning, blinding her, blinding everyone. When she can see again the light has gone, leaving a dark spidery blotch struggling on the Rotunda floor.

  Guardsmen raise their weapons. Someone—Danivon, it is—shouts a command as he descends the last few curving steps at a dead run. The weapons are lowered, reluctantly. Danivon arrives at the struggling thing on the floor at the same time as the officer in charge. In a moment they tug at the blotch, the thing, raising it up.

  Syrilla and Boarmus stare in disbelief as they move toward the stairs, actually breaking into a trot as a confused babble rises from below.

  Later, after Danivon assures everyone that his nose tells him the creature(s) is essentially harmless, after an Alsense machine is obtained and set before the arrival so that its (their) language can be understood, after the creature(s) explains that it (they) had, only moments before, existed in Predispersion times, a time so remote that only Files has any detailed knowledge of it at all—only then do the people of Tolerance learn that their accidental and extremely agitated guest(s) are Bertran and Nela Zy-Czorsky.

  Elsewhere on Elsewhere, in Enarae.

  Fringe’s pa died all of a sudden. His name appeared in the daily bulletin published by Enarae Executive Systems for the benefit of the next of kin. When Fringe, now in her early thirties, followed custom and went to review Char’s Blood Book in the Hall of Final Equity, however, she found she wasn’t Char’s daughter anymore.

  Blood Books of all deceased were posted in the Hall for the convenience of family and claimants. The first page always listed family me
mbers, since they would be liable for the debts of the deceased. Char’s Book had only one name in it: Yilland so-called Dorwalk, adopted daughter of Char Dorwalk. There was no mention of Fringe herself or of her brother Bubba.

  Fringe kept herself still, even when the surroundings blurred a little. She felt something rather like pain, though it wasn’t really—maybe more a final awareness, like stepping off a cliff and only then noticing it really was a long way down.

  “I didn’t know,” Fringe blurted, almost in a whisper, not meaning anyone to hear.

  A huge, shiny-headed bystander, who’d been glancing curiously at Fringe, jerked his head toward someone across the hall and mumbled, “That’s her. That’s Yilland.”

  The only woman in that direction was talking in a high, distressed voice to one of the Final Equity arbitrators. She was wispy, skinny, perhaps a little younger than Fringe, and though her words didn’t carry, her voice did—an abrasive sound, like a knife being whetted.

  “Don’t want to intrude,” the bald-headed giant offered. “My name’s Curvis. Last time I saw you, you were just a little thing with a great mop of red hair. Now here you are, all growed up, but you’ve still got it!” He stroked his glistening pate and made a wry mouth. “Still got those funny eyes of yours too.”

  Fringe nodded, acknowledging that she still had her natal accoutrements. Did the nosy ogre think she might have sold her hair? Her stone-green eyes? Or given them away? Well, why not. People did sell their features sometimes. Features, organs, appendages. Sometimes they were forced to.

  He made what was meant to be an apologetic grin and shrugged one enormous shoulder. “Somebody told me your pa adopted her. You honestly didn’t know?”

  “I didn’t know,” she repeated, so surprised she forgot it was none of his business. “But then, I haven’t talked to Pa for … well, for quite a while.”

  “Old barstid,” commented Curvis, shaking his massive head as though this confirmed an earlier opinion. “Doing a thing like that to his own blood.” He stroked a capacious pocket on his chest where something moved beneath the fabric. Some device. Or a live thing, maybe.