Sideshow

by Sheri S. Tepper

  Fringe saw the anxiety, and met it with a rueful smile. “You’d be happier with someone more … settled, Danivon. People like me may be interesting for an occasional passionate encounter, but we’re too prickly for comfort. We’re hot and we’re cold, we’re sharp and we’re dull. One minute we’re sweet, and the next we’re bitter. And when you think we’re here, with you, we aren’t. We’re always somewhere else, dreaming something else.”

  “I’m glad we have that settled,” said Nela in an amused voice. She stood up and brushed herself off, feeling through the silkiness of her shirt the sensuous swelling of her breasts. She put out one foot to admire the shiny short boots and the flowing skirt that lashed at her calves. She pushed at her hair, throwing it into charming disarray, and offered a soft delicate little hand to Bertran. He stared at her for a moment, then took her hand in his own larger, calloused one, and pulled himself to his full height with a great swelling of muscles and tightening of rugged jaw beneath his virile beard. He was a full head taller than she. He looked at Fringe and she at them. They seemed to shine.

  The twins, Danivon thought, were like campfires, warm and comforting. But Fringe was a light so distant it could hardly be seen. She shone like a diamond one might set upon a finger. One might want to touch it. One might want to possess it. But if one came close enough to hold it, one would be burned to ash.

  And given the choice, he admitted ruefully to himself, he would pick another fate. Given the choice, he would sit beside the campfire, telling tales of the marvels he had seen—other places, other times.

  “I wonder if Zasper knew about me?” Fringe asked the air. “I wish I could ask him … ask him what I’m supposed to be.”

  Somehow Danivon managed to smile as he held out his hand to her. Indeed. Zasper had known about her. Had known and had longed after her with his last breath, wanting her to be … whatever she was.

  Jory and Asner sat upon the terrace, holding hands.

  “I don’t like this ending,” she said. “It’s not a happy ending. I like happy endings. If I’d known it would end like this …”

  “We don’t have to stay around for it,” he told her gently. “We don’t need to take part.”

  “I know,” she said angrily. “But I brought all these people here. I will not run. I will not refuse to share what I’ve brought them to.”

  “Of course not,” he said, trying to think of something that would change the subject. The trouble was, there was only that one subject left.

  “What will happen to Great Dragon and his children,” he asked. “The Arbai Device has never managed to touch him, has it? Surely he will escape the Brannigans.”

  She said pensively, “I know he can escape them, if he will. He has stayed here such a very long time. He should have gone out exploring once more, as we did together. Or returned to his old homeworld long ago, to dance with his fellows in the moonlight.”

  Great Dragon had stayed for reasons of his own, as Jory well knew, but Asner ignored this. “After all this time, does he still remember his home?” he asked gently.

  “I’m sure he does. As I do mine?”

  “Do you really remember yours, Jory?” He could not believe she did. He could scarcely remember his own.

  She sat and rocked, the question going around and around in her head. It seemed to her she did remember Earth. Lately, she remembered it compulsively, as though something besides herself required the memory. She remembered the sound of larks in the dawn, with the grass gemmed and the air like silver. She remembered the leap of a fish in a pond, the spreading circles of light, the glint of scales, the glancing eye. She remembered trees towering, leaves lilting, the shatter and shimmer of sun in the woods, the cry of cicadas, the squeak and murmur of small furry beasts in the branches. She remembered the smell of green, the feel of growth, the touch of grandeur.

  She remembered mountains, shadow on shadow, the creep and crush of stone reared up, the hollows of the furnaces of the deep, great abysses of rock where the fires dwelt, had dwelt, dwelt no longer, filled with blue lakes and clean air, with great, white continents of cloud moving over them like the blessing of a mighty hand.

  She remembered the glory of the sea, the waters of the world washing upon its shores, the finned creatures of the sea, the seethe of calm, the crash of storm.

  Had that been home? Perhaps not, for she remembered coming away from it, in search of something else. Duty. That had been it. In search of duty.

  She remembered Grass, the endless prairies of it, the beauty of its gardens, the glory of its forest, the stunning wonder of its human and alien people. Was that home? She came away from that too, still seeking. Not duty this time, but her given world….

  To circling worlds, ringed and glorious, where the fires of creation still burned. To a pavane of suns, remote and marvelous, wearing their planets like necklaces. To human worlds and alien worlds, to places earthly and unearthly. She remembered them all, remembered leaving them all. Which of them had been home?

  Perhaps in the end, where one’s love was, was home.

  “See there,” whispered Asner, pointing toward the woods.

  They came across the meadow: Nela dancing on her lovely feet, moving across the meadow like a princess, joyous and beautiful, with Bertran tall and powerful just behind her, a smile barely lighting his face, his eyes glowing wonder as he came to take Jory’s hands.

  So here they were, what they longed to be. Woman. Man. Joy flowed from them into her.

  She marveled that there was time for a little happiness yet. No matter that all time would end soon, this they would have to carry into the darkness.

  “Fringe?” she asked. She had no way of knowing unless she asked. She could not feel Fringe.

  “She’s behind us somewhere,” said Bertran.

  They went away with Asner, and soon Fringe came from the woods: a shadow, an uncomfortable presence.

  “Well, child?” Jory called.

  “Well, Jory?” She came to take the old woman’s hands. “I see the Hobbs Land Gods have finished with you.” Jory looked deeply into her eyes. “Or you with them. So you stand alone?”

  “I stand alone, Jory.” “Are you now unenslaved?”

  “More than in my past, Jory. I was enslaved then, just as you said. To one thing or another.”

  “And now you feel free?”

  Fringe smiled doubtfully and shook her head. “How would I know?”

  Jory murmured, “At various times in my life, I’ve felt freedom—usually briefly and never completely. As I recall, however, even partial freedom can be disconcerting. Even if one has to deal with it only briefly.”

  “Even if it were only for an instant, Jory, I would welcome the experience. I’d trade a longer life elsewhere for that feeling.”

  Jory reached up to touch her face. “Then you’re a fool, child. But whoever said we were not, you and I.”

  Fringe seated herself beside the rocking chair. “I may be a fool, Jory, but you’re not. That much I’m sure of.”

  “What tells you that?”

  “The presence of Great Dragon tells me that.”

  The old woman cast her eyes down, asking softly, “What do you know about him?”

  “Very little. What one can surmise.”

  “And what do you surmise?”

  “That he could, if he wished, follow the Arbai wherever they have gone.”

  “Probably. I don’t know for sure.”

  “I think they are no match for him.”

  “That may be true.”

  “But he won’t follow them, won’t … anything. Because he respects your feelings.”

  Jory shook her head slowly. “It seems to me it is less a matter of respect than it is of his own logic, his own ethics. He too chooses noninterference unless his help is sought. And it depends on the cause, and on who does the asking.”

  “If you asked?”

  “I am incapable of some things. Because of what I am.”

  “What
are you?” Fringe whispered. “Really?”

  “I can’t tell you. Really.”

  “You’re not allowed …?”

  “Simply can’t. The prohibition is built in. I can’t speak, or think too clearly, of what I am really, or I wouldn’t be what I am.” She laughed, a little ripple of real amusement. “Some of us can exist only because we’re not too aware of what we are. We are like the tiny particles from which the universe is made. If we locate ourselves, we can no longer move about our business. So long as we are moving about our business, we cannot say where, or what, we are. But—so I tell myself—if I have chosen well, chosen aright, you’ll figure it out. And then, perhaps …”

  They held each other and rocked slowly to and fro while the evening came down around them, each seeking strangely and wondrously for an answer that neither knew.

  “Victory,” cried Great Crawler; “Victory,” cried Subble Clore, the words splattering around the limits of themselves like molten lead. “Victory, victory, us the conquerors, them on the run, mop ’em up, make ’em gone!” It was like rounding up rabbits, or sheep. The Brannigans had all their devilish devices in a big, big circle, Clore’s and Thob’s and Bland’s and Breaze’s, all closing in, with the people running ahead, getting tighter and tighter in the middle. Like catching fish in a net!

  “What will we do when we get them all in the middle?” someone asked.

  “Capture them,” said Orimar Breaze, full of panic fire and eagerness. He wanted to get this over with so he could do something more interesting. “Put them in pens. Teach them to obey. Kill the bad ones.”

  “Why are you going to kill any of them?” the small intrusive voice asked, that same voice that had been asking too many questions recently! “Why will you do that? You’ve already killed too many people on Elsewhere. Why are you doing that?”

  “No, no,” Orimar snarled. “We haven’t killed that many. There are plenty left here, in different places. It’s just there, where the bad ones went. The ones that didn’t obey us. We have to kill those ones, who don’t obey us.” Orimar could not remember why this was true, but it had become the truest thing he knew. Himself was to be obeyed. Unquestioningly, immediately, to the death.

  The small questioning voice, that of Jordel the Engineer, did not speak again. At his last awakening, he had exercised two of the options he had bribed those long-ago technicians to install: he had ordered a body cloned for himself and he had chosen to stay awake until it was ready—very soon now. The others didn’t know. The others had been too busy out in the world, like a pack of dogs chasing chickens. Blood all over everything and still not enough!

  The process of reembodiment would take place inside the Core, as it had been designed to occur. Once embodied here, inside, he could intervene on behalf of the people of Elsewhere, if any of them were left. Until then, he could only ask questions, cause small doubts and even smaller delays. He snarled and fumed, knowing the delays wouldn’t be enough. At least two more days until his body was ready. Clore and the others would reach the massif of Panubi sooner than that.

  Clore said they would kill only some, but killing was like a fever in them. They compared totals, like hunters shooting birds. Jordel visualized himself a game warden, prowling desperately through the hunt, unable to protect what little was left.

  • • •

  “Well, so time comes to leave this place,” said Nela, being very brave because what she had become required bravery as a becoming part of itself.

  Fringe leaned toward the old woman. “Are you coming, Jory.”

  Jory, who had been sitting very still in her rocking chair for some little time, looked up and said, “Yes, of course, child. I’ll ride one of the horses.”

  “Asner?” asked Bertran.

  “Do you think I’d let her go alone?” Asner asked.

  “Great Dragon?” asked Fringe, looking around.

  “Do you think I’d let her go alone?”

  The voice reverberated in Fringe’s mind. Like a blow on an anvil. Like a tocsin, vibrant with foreboding. Fringe shuddered to her boot tops, struck dumb by this voice.

  “How about Haifazh?” asked Danivon, who had heard nothing.

  “I’ll come along behind,” said Haifazh. “But for a little time I will stay here, where I have had joy. Here beside the river with my child.”

  “Good-bye, then,” Fringe said, giving Haifazh her hand. “Good-bye.”

  Good-bye, good-bye. Nela and Cafferty and Latibor. Good-bye, good-bye. Jory and Asner and Danivon. Good-bye, Alouez and Jacent too. Good-bye.

  “How far away are the Brannigans?” Nela whispered to Danivon.

  “Not far behind us,” he said, struck almost motionless by her beauty. Was this Nela? Little spidery Nela? He cleared his throat. “They’re moving almost as fast as we are. Just as fast as the Arbai Device is retreating.”

  Nela dried her eyes on her sleeve and looked up to find someone had brought the horses, already saddled, and both Jory and Asner were dressed for riding.

  Fringe moved forward to lift Jory into the saddle. It was the only way she could travel. The old people couldn’t walk fast enough to keep ahead of the Brannigans.

  Then they moved away down the meadow, Nela beside Jory, Danivon beside Asner, Fringe striding along with Bertran at her side. Bertran, booted and cloaked and with a great plume in his hat, was full of questions about Enarae, about her training as an Enforcer. Such a little time, he felt, to learn everything he wanted to know about everything!

  Cafferty and Latibor were nearby; Alouez and Jacent were somewhere ahead: all of them staring forward as they marched, as though there was something they were going toward. If they looked forward, they avoided looking back. Fringe saw them, or imagined them, as a carved frieze on some great temple of man, marching toward the corner of a mighty structure. They would march forever, turning the corner at the sunset. Not one among them was cowardly or craven. Not one among them was unworthy. Even old Jory, high upon her horse, sat proudly and held the reins like a queen.

  So they went, not quickly but steadily, and behind them came the whine and yammer of the machines.

  A considerable distance west of Jory’s house, at the top of a low hill, Fringe stood aside to let the others go by while she checked her weapons. From this height she could look across the intervening valley to the place they had so recently left. She saw the meadow and the great tree and even the two stones, gleaming whitely, but there were no horses. No house.

  Jory and Asner had ridden on ahead. Danivon was nowhere near. “Bertran …” Fringe called softly.

  “I know,” he said as he came to stand beside her.

  “Where is the house?” she murmured thoughtfully. “Where are the horses?”

  “In the network, I suppose. In the Arbai Device. House, horses, cats probably—I imagine they were all created and maintained by the device. When the device withdrew, it took its creations with it.”

  “But the stones are still there,” she murmured to herself. And when he turned to follow the others, she stayed behind for a long moment, staring at the stones.

  They went forward again. Strangers mounted the hills before and behind them; strangers moved through the forests at either side. Someone moving off to their left was accompanying the march with the beat of drums, a steady, funereal beat, slower than a heartbeat, growing louder and nearer the farther they went. What had been a loose chain around Central Panubi was becoming a choker, a tight band drawn ever more closely around the massif, a belt of men, women, and children walking steadily toward the center of their ever-diminishing lives.

  “If we have to die, I’m glad it’s out here, in the sunlight,” Nela said to Danivon. “I would have hated to die back in that cavern, with those faces looking at me.”

  “Yes,” said Bertran, glancing at her over his shoulder. He had given thanks before, but he did it again, to the long-ago God of parochial school, the long-ago holy ones, saints and angels. Even for half a day it was good to stride
along beside a beautiful woman, talking of things he had never imagined. He wanted more, but it was good to have this!

  Behind them the edge of the world drew in. Behind them the glittering machines of the Brannigans glimmered and howled. Very soon they would overrun all of Panubi. Then they would finish what little was left of Elsewhere. Then, probably, Fringe thought to herself, they would kill one another.

  They came at evening to a grove of trees that stood only a hundred yards or so from the edge of the massif. They were weary with that tiredness that is the lesser part physical. “Soul-weary,” Jory said to Nela.

  “Soul-weary,” Nela repeated, seeing something beyond weariness in Jory’s eyes. “Are you all right?” she asked, knowing it for a foolish question.

  “I’m here,” said Jory. “At least for a time. Though I’ll confess that a long sleep would be welcome….” Not that they wouldn’t all sleep soon enough. She led her horse onto a bit of grassy meadow at the edge of the grove and plucked a handful of grasses to feed the animal, running her old hands over its glossy hide as it munched, laying her cheeks against its soft nose.

  She’s saying good-bye, Nela told herself. Saying good-bye to all this.

  Asner watched them from beneath the nearest tree while Danivon built a campfire and took food from their packs, doing what people were doing all around the circled edge of stone. Asner could see the fires from where he stood, a line of fires, arcing away to the right, to the left, vanishing from sight but continuing, he knew, all the way around. The retreating edge of the Arbai Device was only half a mile behind them, motionless now, as it had recently been at night, as though the Arbai themselves had granted the chill mercy of respite for a last meal, a last sleep, perhaps a last embrace. Beyond that line the little slaughterers jittered and danced, waiting for morning. And behind them, some distance to the east, a thing like a malicious mountain crouched still in the dusk. Great Crawler, Great Oozer, Mighty Mountain, Lord God Breaze. The other monsters were arrayed like compass points around the massif: Magna Mater and Glorious Lady Bland and the tripartite monster that was Chimi-ahm, Subble Clore.