by Terry Carr
CIRQUE
Terry Carr
www.sfgateway.com
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Contents
Title Page
Gateway Introduction
Contents
Begin Reading
Website
Also By Terry Carr
Dedication
Author Bio
Copyright
Arrival and departure are alike:
only the force of will
gives direction to time.
—The Book of causes
ALTON TECHNIKSSON went to the Morning Gate of Cirque every dawn. He arrived while the stars were still awash in the sky; he sat comfortably in the cold dust at the base of the Gate and watched as the sun rose over the ancient angular towers of the spaceport to the east, lighting the day and sending the stars away.
So when the foreigner from Aldebaran arrived, Alton saw the slow descent of the shuttle-ship, its teardrop shape haloed in the light of morning. He thought nothing about it: the robot shuttle came every morning, but it was usually empty. Earth had become a backwater planet in these late centuries; few people bothered to make the long journey from the teeming planet-systems of the galaxy’s core.
Alton breathed cool dawn air and watched as the sun, a red oval on the horizon, grew bright and round as it moved up into the cloudless sky. From time to time he blinked his eyes to adjust his light-filters; he had worn them for fifty years, but lately they had begun to irritate his eyes.
After a time he saw a low moving shape approaching from the spaceport, seeming to flow along the grassed-over path in its own shadow. It’s not a human, he thought without surprise. The visitors who came to Cirque from offplanet were seldom Earth’s own people.
As the foreigner came near, Alton saw that it was a millipede, three meters long, with fur glowing golden on its back. Alton had seen millipedes before; he had met many races of the galaxy in his century and a half of life. He watched calmly as the foreigner flowed toward him.
It stopped a few meters in front of him and curled its body upward to stand on its hind legs. Its eyes were large, dark and liquid; to keep its balance it moved its forward limbs in the air. A square green leather pouch was strapped to the forward part of its body like a chest-pack.
“I must find the River Fundament,” the foreigner said.
Alton saw from the light tan color of its fur that it was comparatively young. “You want the Winter Gate,” he said. He gestured with his left arm. “It enters the city from the north—that way.”
The foreigner glanced in the direction indicated and saw a path paved with worn flagstones running parallel to the edges of the cultivated fields of Cirque’s outer edge.
“The River Fundament flows into your abyss?” it asked.
“Sure,” said Alton. “We don’t have any other river. You can get a boat at the Winter Gate that will take you all the way to the Final Cataract.”
The foreigner regarded him silently for a moment. Its black shadow stretched toward Alton across packed earth, and he became momentarily fascinated by the exaggerated undulations of the millipede’s shadow-feet waving in the air.
“The Final Cataract is an area of many vines and low trees?” the millipede asked. “It is near the Cathedral of the Five Elements?”
“That’s it,” Alton said.
“I shall go to the Winter Gate, as you say.” The foreigner lowered its long body to the ground and resumed its smooth, flowing movement, heading northward along the flagstone path.
Belatedly, Alton’s curiosity stirred. “What news from the inner worlds?” he asked. Cirque was out of touch with the progress of history, human and otherwise.
The millipede paused, lifting and curling its body to gaze back at Alton. “Nothing of note is happening elsewhere,” it said. “Human trade thrives and expands as always. There is a limited war in the Crrlian system; it will end soon and be forgotten. Neo-Incan auras are popular on the human worlds. A man who has taken the name Hualpa Yupanqui grows rich and will contend for the position of Coordinator. Stellar inertia is the concern of inner-worlds science; discussion of its future has led to much controversy, but to no general agreement.”
“So you’ve come to Earth for lack of anything better,” Alton concluded.
“No. I come to observe the wonderful emergence from your Abyss,” said the millipede. It gazed quietly at Alton for a moment, great dark eyes reflecting the morning sun. “I am pleased that I have arrived for this day.”
Alton shrugged. “It’s like all days in Cirque. You’ll find we have a peaceful city; all our visitors say it’s beautiful. But Cirque is a city of centuries, not days.”
“Yes,” said the foreigner. “And this day is the heart of its century; Cirque comes to new life today.”
Alton suppressed a sigh. “Each day is the heart of all time,” he said, repeating a saying familiar in Cirque. He wished now that he had not stopped the millipede from leaving; he would prefer to contemplate the sun rather than trade banalities with this foreigner.
The millipede seemed to sense his dismissal. “I thank you for your words,” it said. It lowered its forebody to the ground, then lifted it again. “You would do well to watch the broadcasts today,” it said.
“I sleep during the day,” said Alton.
The millipede blinked its dark eyes, furred lids meeting for just a moment. “How strange that a human of Cirque should sleep through this day.”
“No stranger than sleeping yesterday or tomorrow,” said Alton. “Enjoy your visit.”
The foreigner smiled, its tiny mouth curling up at the edges. “I shall enjoy.” It lowered its forebody and resumed its flowing gait northward along the path.
Alton watched its departure for a few moments, then returned his gaze to the red morning sun. “Foreigners,” he muttered.
The people of Cirque gained their news of each day from the civic mind-broadcasts, telepathically sharing whatever experiences the all-seeing monitor of the city chose to share with them. Thus, when the millipede arrived, those people who were tuned to the broadcasts experienced a view from the base of the Morning Gate and saw the millipede come flowing out of the low sun across the gold-washed plain. They saw the foreigner as i
t approached the Gate, paused, and said, “I must find the River Fundament.” And they heard themselves say, “You want the Winter Gate.” And all the rest of that conversation.
Nikki experienced this encounter during breakfast, when she was still Nikki-One. This was her basic personality, not yet splintered by the capsule she had taken with her mango juice. Nikki was blonde and fat, and even in the cool of morning she itched with sweat. When the capsule took effect she would become Nikki-Two, with the heart of a gamin; then later Nikki-Three, the self-destroyer; and Nikki-Four, the singer of free space. By nightfall, if she gave herself sufficiently to her different personalities, she would be All-Nikki, serene and integrated as only the playing out of her conflicting drives could make her. Drug-induced parasanity was the rage in Cirque this season.
“Foreigners,” she muttered to herself as she spooned watermelon marmalade onto her bread.
“What?” said Gregorian, who had just come from morning ablution. He was dark-haired and paranoid, a lean man with piercing eyes; he liked to dress, as now, in black body-suits tight at the wrists and ankles. He and Nikki had lived together through the winter just past.
“The broadcast,” said Nikki, disengaging her mind. “Someone from Aldebaran, I think, has just arrived on the shuttle.”
“Oh,” said Gregorian, not greatly impressed. “Have you seen my sketchbook? I had it last night, by the fire.”
“Over there.” Nikki waved a hand toward his workbench. It was a wide table cluttered with scraps of wood of many shapes, sticks and blocks and cylindrical bores piled haphazardly. “I thought you’d want to get to work right away.”
“Good.” Gregorian lowered himself to sit beside her at the breakfast place. He ground salt onto his marmalade and took a bite. “This is going to be a tough day,” he said glumly.
Nikki munched her bread and said, “Mm?”
Gregorian glanced warningly at her. “Don’t ask.”
“But I didn’t,” Nikki protested.
Gregorian continued to look at her, his eyes narrow. “All right, I’ll tell you. Do you know the Cathedral of the Five Elements?”
Nikki brushed crumbs from her chin. “The temple at the Final Cataract? It has a gigantic spire.”
“That’s not a spire,” Gregorian said. “It’s a chimney.”
“Oh,” said Nikki. She wondered if she might change personalities before the heat of the day became great enough to make her start scratching. Then: “Oh!” she exclaimed, understanding.
“Yes,” said Gregorian. “They’ve commissioned a fire for their services tonight.”
Gregorian was a fire sculptor. He fashioned fires of wood, plastics and chemicals, laying his materials in patterns that determined the shapes and colors of the blaze they would produce. He was an artist who sculpted in flames, and already, after only one season in Cirque, he was considered one of the most promising new visionaries of the city.
“You took the job?” Nikki asked hesitantly.
“I had to. We can’t go on living the way we do without commissions, Nikki. Wood is expensive this season. I can’t work in synthetics all my life; they don’t have the grain, the texture. I have to take a job like this just to keep growing.”
Nikki regarded him with trepidation. Gregorian had always said he would never work for the temples as so many other fire sculptors did; he didn’t believe in turning his art to religious purpose. Yet here at the very beginning of a new season he had taken a temple commission. Was it because of her? She decided not to have another slice of bread; carefully she wrapped the remainder of their loaf and replaced it in its wall niche.
“Do you … have you decided what kind of fire you’re going to make?” she asked.
Gregorian scowled and turned away from her, looking at the materials on his workbench. At length he said, “It will have to be something dull, something tame. They don’t really want art; they only want pretty colors to focus on. The temples are even more conservative than you are.”
Nikki smiled nervously, hoping she wouldn’t have to argue about art with Gregorian so early in the day. “I’ve taken a capsule, Gregor. Maybe I’ll dance for you this morning. Would you like that? You said last time that I inspired you.”
He regarded her with distaste. “You’re fatter than ever. If you dance, you’ll look like a pregnant elephant.”
She flushed, and with the rush of blood she felt the first change coming over her. Her muscles were jumping and her head was light. “I’m on a diet,” she said faintly.
“You shouldn’t diet, you should fast,” Gregorian said, and rose from the table. He went to his workbench, prowled nervously around it and abruptly turned back to her. “I wish you’d go out today,” he said.
The room was whirling, a series of red and black strobes flashing through her consciousness. She felt sick. “Gregor—”
“Just go out,” he said wearily. He sat heavily on the floor beside his bench and stared morosely at the blank page of his sketchbook. Then he looked up at her, and his expression softened. “Really, I’ve got to work today.”
Nikki-One relaxed into her maelstrom, surrendering to the new personality that was emerging. She let it come and gradually felt the whirling lessen, saw the light in the room clear and stabilize. Her sick fears faded, a buoyant elation took hold of her, and she opened her eyes to a room suddenly sharp with detail and happiness. She was Nikki-Two.
“Oh, Gregor, don’t be a block,” she said softly, rising from the table and gliding toward him. His back was to her, his sketchbook propped on his knees. She came up behind him and touched him gently under the ears. “Can’t we go outside just for a while?” she asked. “We could go look for the foreigner.” "
He said, “Stop it, Nikki. I told you—”
“I’m Nikki-Two,” she said, running fingertips down his chest.
He pushed her hands away. “I said stop! I don’t care who you are.”
“Yes you do,” she said, smiling softly, remembering. She lay down on the floor next to him. “If we must stay inside—”
He looked at her with exasperation. “I told you I have to work. It doesn’t matter what little piece of yourself you’ve opened up to use on me. I’ve only got until tonight to finish this job. Now please don’t get in my way!”
She lay back and stretched her body, thrusting her full breasts into the clearness of the air. The room had become so silent, each tiny sound distinct, the fragrance of her own body warm and comforting. “Gregor,” she said again. “I’m Nikki-Two.”
He sighed impatiently. “No you’re not. Nikki-Two doesn’t exist. Look at yourself; you’re three stones fat—do you really think a little capsule can make you someone else?”
“But it has,” she said matter-of-factly. “Come on, Gregor, it’s morning, it’s a new day, let’s go outside and—”
He turned away from her, picked up his stylus very deliberately and began to sketch free-form patterns in his book. She saw the muscles of his upper back become taut with gathering anger.
“Gregor …”
He didn’t answer. He stared at the lines on the pad.
Nikki-Two rolled over and got to her feet with a light motion. She felt the fullness of her body as an ocean swell. She smiled softly.
“So I don’t exist?” she said. “Now who’s the conservative, Gregor?”
He dropped his sketchbook into his lap, sighing. “All right, Nikki-Two, you exist. Science is wonderful. But I’ve got to work; if you want to go out, go ahead. Go see the foreigner; see what tales he has from Aldebaran. Tell me all about it this evening.”
Nikki threw a light shawl over her shoulders. “I’ll be gone by this afternoon, you know. You’ll have to hear about it from Nikki-Three, maybe. Or Four, if you’re lucky.”
He smiled faintly, picking up his sketchbook again. “Some gamble—either a catatonic or a manic loudmouth. Do you really have all those women in you?”
“Nikki-One has. And don’t feel so sorry for yourself; you know yo
u’re crazy about Four.” She went to the door, opened it and paused. She turned back to him. “Do you love her more than me, Gregor?”
He threw up his hands in exasperation. “Go! Go out! I can’t deal with someone who’s jealous of herself!”
Nikki-Two laughed; she waved and went out the door.
The River Fundament entered Cirque from the foothills to the north; it flowed quietly through neighborhoods of low family dwellings where weather vanes poked inquisitively into the morning sun, then it reached the First Cataract and plunged fifty meters into a bouldered gorge. Below the Cataract it rushed frothing down its narrowed channel, while on both sides the city grew higher, walls rising ten or twelve stories from the river’s banks. Religious signs of a hundred sects adorned these building walls; concentric circles for the Centrists, merging patterns of color for the Universalists, crosses for the Christians. On the balconies, people gathered over breakfast and called to one another.
The center-city began at the First Cataract; below this point were shops and places of business and the signs of tradesmen. Traffic was increasing in the streets: people hurrying by on foot or unicycle, electric carts rolling silently with passengers already filling their backbeds. Plastic tires bumped over stones, and voices filled the air, shouts of greeting and advertisement. The streets smelled fresh with the dampness of morning.
A few kilometers farther downstream, the city’s buildings rose to heights of twenty stories. These were dwelling units, fantastic buildings of disc-shaped modules in many colors, looking like carelessly stacked poker chips. They were called the Apprentice Quarters from a time generations ago when youths had been required by ordinance to live there till they could afford to buy individual homes outside center-city … or farther inside center-city, in the case of those rare young people who became rich early. Many youths continued to live in the Apprentice Quarters all their lives, so now nearly a quarter of the population of these crowded modular buildings was over a hundred years old.
