Circus: Fantasy Under the Big Top (14 page)

Let me tell you about the city, sir. Like an adder’s kiss, sharp and deadly. It’s important. Very important. Let me tell you about Quin and his meerkats. I work for Quin now, and that’s bad business. I’ve done terrible. I’ve done terrible things—the deadest and deadliest of the Dead Arts, the cold pricklies of the soul. I’ve killed the Living Art. I’ve killed the living. And I know. I know it. Only. Only the flesh comes off me and the flesh goes on like a new suit. Only the needle goes in and the needle comes out and I don’t care, though I try with all my strength to think of Shadrach and Nicola.

But the needle goes in and . . .

Let me tell you about the city
. . .

Scream Angel

Douglas Smith

They stopped beating Trelayne when they saw that he enjoyed it. The thugs that passed as cops in that town on Long Shot backed away from where he lay curled on the dirt floor, as if he was something dead or dangerous. He watched them lock the door of his cold little cell again. Disgust and something like fear showed in their eyes. The taste of their contempt for him mixed with the sharpness of his own blood in his mouth. And the
Scream
in that blood shot another stab of pleasure through him.

He expected their reaction. The Merged Corporate Entity guarded its secrets well, and Scream was its most precious. Long Shot lay far from any Entity project world and well off the jump route linking Earth and the frontier. No one on this backwater planet would know of the drug, let alone have encountered a Screamer or an Angel. That was why he had picked it.

Their footsteps receded, and the outer door of the plasteel storage hut that served as the town jail clanged shut. Alone, he rolled onto his side on the floor, relishing the agony the movement brought. He tried to recall how he came to be there, but the Scream in him turned each attempt into an emotional sideshow. Finally he remembered something burning, something . . .

. . .
falling
.

It had been one of their better shows.

He remembered now. Remembered last night, standing in the ring of their makeshift circus dome, announcing the performers to an uncaring crowd, crying out the names of the damned, the conquered. Each member of his refugee band emerged from behind torn red curtains and propelled themselves in the manner of their species into or above the ring, depending on their chosen act.

He knew the acts meant little. The crowd came not to see feats of acrobatics or strength, but to gawk at otherworldly strangeness, to watch aliens bow in submission before the mighty human. Trelayne’s circus consisted of the remnants of the subjugated races of a score of worlds, victims to the Entity’s resource extraction or terraforming projects: the Stone Puppies, lumbering silica beasts of slate-sided bulk—Guppert the Strong, squat bulbous-limbed refugee from the crushing gravity and equally crushing mining of Mendlos II—Feran the fox-child, his people hunted down like animals on Fandor IV.

And the Angels. Always the Angels.

But curled in the dirt in the cold cell, recalling last night, Trelayne pushed away any thoughts of the Angels. And of
her
.

Yes, it had been a fine show. Until the Ta’lona died, exploding in blood and brilliance high above the ring, after floating too near a torch. Trelayne had bought the gas bag creature’s freedom a week before from an
ip
slaver, knowing that its species had been nearly wiped out.

As pieces of the fat alien had fallen flaming into the crowd, Trelayne’s grip on reality had shattered like a funhouse mirror struck by a hammer. He could now recall only flashes of what had followed last night: people burning—screaming—panic—a stampede to the exits—his arrest.

Nor could he remember doing any Scream. He usually stayed clean before a show. But he knew what he felt now lying in the cell—the joy of the beating, the ecstasy of humiliation. He must have done a hit when the chaos began and the smell of burnt flesh reached him. To escape the horror.

Or to enter it. For with Scream, horror opened a door to heaven.

Someone cleared their throat in the cell. Trelayne jumped, then shivered at the thrill of surprise. Moaning, he rolled onto his back on the floor and opened his eyes, struggling to orient himself again.

A man now sat on the cot in the cell. A man with a lean face and eyes that reminded Trelayne of his own. He wore a long grey cloak with a major’s rank and a small insignia on which a red “RIP” hovered over a green planet split by a lightning bolt.

The uniform of RIP Force. A uniform that Trelayne had worn a lifetime ago. Grey meant Special Services: this man was RIP, but not a Screamer. RIP kept senior officers and the SS clean.

The man studied a PerComm unit held in a black-gloved hand, then looked down at Trelayne and smiled. “Hello, Captain Trelayne,” he said softly, as if he were addressing a child.

Trelayne swallowed. He was shaking and realized he had been since he had recognized the uniform. “My name is not Trelayne.”

“I am Weitz,” the man said. The PerComm disappeared inside his cloak. “And the blood sample I took from you confirms that you are Jason Lewiston Trelayne, former captain and wing commander in the Entity’s Forces for the Relocation of Indigenous Peoples, commonly known as RIP Force. Convicted of treason in absentia three years ago, 2056-12-05 AD. Presumed dead in the MCE raid on the rebel base on Darcon III in 2057-08-26.”

Trelayne licked his lips, savoring the flavor of his fear.

“You’re a wanted man, Trelayne.” Weitz’s voice was soft. “Or would be, if the Entity knew you were still alive.”

The Scream in Trelayne turned the threat in those words into a thrilling chill up his spine. He giggled.

Weitz sighed. “I’ve never seen a Screamer alive three years after RIP. Dead by their own hand inside a month more likely. But then, most don’t have their own source, do they?”

The implication of those words broke through the walls of Scream in Trelayne’s mind. Weitz represented real danger—to him, to those in the circus that depended on him. To
her
. Trelayne struggled to focus on the man’s words.

“ . . . good choice,” Weitz was saying. “Not a spot the Entity has any interest in now. You’d never see Rippers here—” Weitz smiled. “—unless they had ship trouble. I was in the next town waiting for repairs when I heard of a riot at a circus of
ips
.”

Ips—I.P.’s—Indigenous Peoples. A Ripper slur for aliens.

Weitz stood up. “You have an Angel breeding pair, Captain, and I need them.” He pushed open the cell door and walked out, leaving the door open. “I’ve arranged for your release. You’re free to go. Not that you can go far. We’ll talk again soon.” Looking back to where Trelayne lay shivering, Weitz shook his head. “Jeezus, Trelayne. You used to be my hero.”

Trelayne slumped back down on the floor, smiling as the smell of dirt and stale urine stung his throat. “I used to be a lot of things,” he said, as much to himself as to Weitz.

Weitz shook his head again. “We’ll talk soon, Captain.” He turned and left the hut.

Think of human emotional response as a sine wave function. Peaks and valleys. The peaks represent pleasure, and the valleys pain. The greater your joy, the higher the peak; the greater your pain, the deeper the valley.

Imagine a drug that takes the valleys and flips them, makes them peaks, too. You react now to an event based not on the pleasure or pain inherent in it, but solely on the intensity of the emotion created. Pain brings pleasure, grief gives joy, horror renders ecstasy.

Now give this drug to one who must perform an unpleasant task. No. Worse than that. An immoral deed. Still worse. A nightmare act of chilling terminal brutality. Give it to a soldier. Tell them to kill. Not in the historically acceptable murder we call war, but in a systematic corporate strategy
—
planned, scheduled, and budgeted
—
of xenocide.

They will kill. And they will revel in it.

Welcome to the world of Scream.

—Extract from propaganda data bomb launched on

Fandor IV CommCon by rebel forces, 2056-10-05 AD.

Attributed to Capt. Jason L. Trelayne during his subsequent trial in absentia for treason.

Feran thought tonight’s show was their finest since the marvelous Ta’lona had died, now a five-day ago. From behind the red curtains that hid the performers’ entrance, the young kit watched the two Angels, Philomela and Procne, plummet from the top of the dome to swoop over the man-people crowd. Remembering how wonderfully the fat alien had burnt, Feran also recalled the Captain explaining to him how that night had been bad. The Captain had been forced to give much power-stuff for the burnt man-people and other things that Feran did not understand.

The Angels completed a complicated spiral dive, interweaving their descents. Linking arms just above the main ring, they finished with a dizzying spin like the top the Captain had made him. They bowed to the applauding crowd, folding and unfolding diaphanous wings so the spotlights sparkled on the colors.

Feran clapped his furred hands together as Mojo had taught him, closing his ear folds to shut out the painful noise of the man-people. As the performers filed out for the closing procession around the center ring, Feran ran to take his spot behind the Stone Puppies. Guppert the Strong lifted Feran gently to place him on the slate-grey back of the nearest silica beast.

“Good show, little friend!” Guppert cried. His squat form waddled beside Feran. Guppert liked Long Shot because it did not hold him to the ground as did his home of Mendlos. “Of course, Guppert never go home now,” he had told Feran once, his skin color darkening to show sadness. “Off-planet too long. Mendlos crush Guppert, as if Stone Puppy step on Feran. But with Earth soldiers there in mecha-suits, now Mendlos not home anyway.”

Waving to the crowd, the performers disappeared one by one through the red curtains. Feran leapt from the Stone Puppy, shouted a goodbye to Guppert, and scurried off to search for Philomela. Outside the show dome, he sniffed the cool night air for her scent, found it, then turned and ran into the Cutter.

“Whoa, Red! What’s the rush?” The tall thin man scowled down at Feran like an angry mantis. The Cutter was the healer for the circus. “Helpin’ us die in easy stages, s’more like it,” was how the Cutter had introduced himself when Feran had arrived.

“I seek the Bird Queen, Cutter,” Feran replied.

Sighing, the Cutter jerked a thumb toward a cluster of small dome pods where the performers lived. Feran thought of it as the den area. “Don’t let him take too much, you hear?”

Feran nodded and ran off again, until a voice like wind in crystal trees halted him. “You did well tonight, sharp ears.”

Feran turned. Philomela smiled down at him, white hair and pale skin, tall and thin like an earth woman stretched to something alien in a trick mirror. Even walking, she made Feran think of birds in flight. Philomela was beautiful. The Captain had told him so many times. He would likely tell Feran again tonight, once he had breathed her dust that Feran brought him.

“Thank you, Bird Queen,” Feran replied, bowing low with a sweep of his hand as the Captain had taught him. Philomela laughed, and Feran bared his teeth in joy. He had made the beautiful bird lady laugh. The Captain would be pleased.

Procne came to stand behind Philomela, his spider-fingered hand circling her slim waist. “Where do you go now, Feran? Does Mojo still have chores for you?” He looked much like her, taller, heavier, but features still delicate, almost feminine. His stomach pouch skin rippled where the brood moved inside him.

“He goes to the Captain’s pod,” Philomela said. “They talk—about the times when the Captain flew in the ships. Don’t you?”

Feran nodded. Procne’s eyelids slid in from each side, leaving only a vertical slit. “The times when those ships flew over our homes, you mean? Your home, too, Feran.” Procne spun and stalked away, his wings pulled tight against his back.

Feran stared after him, then up at Philomela. “Did I do wrong, Bird Queen?”

Philomela folded and unfolded her wings. “No, little one, no. My mate remembers too much, yet forgets much, too.” She paused. “As does the Captain.” She stroked Feran’s fur where it lay red and soft between his large ears, then handed him a small pouch. “Feran, tonight don’t let the Captain breath too much of my dust. Get him to sleep early. He looks so . . . tired.”

Feran took the pouch and nodded. He decided he would not tell the Captain of Philomela’s face as she walked away.

Merged Corporate Entity, Inc.

Project Search Request

Search Date: 2059-06-02

Requestor:
Weitz, David R., Major, RIP Special Services

Search Criteria:

Project World:
All

Division:
PharmaCorps

Product:
Scream

Context:
Field Ops / Post-Imp

Clearance Required:
AAA

Your Clearance:
AAA

Access Granted. Search results follow.

Scream mimics several classes of psychotropics, including psychomotor stimulants, antidepressants, and narcotic analgesics. It acts on both stimulatory
and
inhibitory neurotransmitters, but avoids hallucinogenic effects by maintaining neurotransmitter balance. It enhances sensory ability, speeds muscular reaction, and lessens nerve response to pain. It affects all three opiate receptors, inducing intense euphoria without narcotic drowsiness.

Physical addiction is achieved by four to six ingestions at dosage prescribed in Field Ops release 2.21.7.1. Treated personnel exhibit significantly lowered resistance to violence. Secondary benefits for field operations include decreased fatigue, delayed sleep on-set, and enhanced mental capacity.