There was a femininity to the machine, Jaxx gave Das that much. Something about the decorative scales – although the design was purely practical, geared to have the shale and water pockets sluice right off the burrower. He didn’t believe in a monk’s ability to bring them luck. But he did believe in spirit signs, and the look of those scales reminded him of the silver slab bolted to his scalp.
D’Angelus was clearly less concerned with the look of the machine and more with its speed. “I’m thinking they’ve got fifty knots on us by now. Headwind means they’d be fools not to head southeasterly. You’re the map man, Das. Where’d we need to come out to track the freaks down?”
Das sucked in his cheeks. Fishing the miniature tin scroll of a Mapbox from an overall pocket, he typed in co-ordinates with a grimy finger. “We got a straightish run, boss, through some of the widest bore tunnels. We’re pushed on time but, Saints willing, we’ll come out at Hide or Bromlin in time to catch the circus landing.”
“Hide has the permanent site,” said Jaxx. Bigger towns had year round pitches for the travelling circuses and other vagrant performers, consisting of fixed wooden seating and a concreted dust ring. Some even had gas lamps dotted around the showground, just begging for a struck match.
D’Angelus clapped his hands. “No point standing here gassing about which way Herb’ll swing that floating puffball of his.”
A ripple of heavy chains echoed about the cavern and the monk flinched instinctively. But they were not in the freshly cracked chambers below where sound had a far deadlier impact and the men paid him no heed. Instead, the hatch at the rear of the burrower lowered to form a gangway. Securing filter masks over their faces, the ten men Jaxx had selected transformed into insect hybrids – the hard black leather air chamber protruding off their faces like mandibles, the reflective visor resembling one large compound eye. Striding up the ramp and disappearing inside the cargo hold, they fell into a herd-like symmetry. The rub of chains resounded about the cavern again and the hold buttoned up.
Das stabbed a finger at the Mapbox. “Yep, that’s the way of it.”
He pocketed the device and slumped off to the front of the burrower. Cracking his shoulders to loosen them, he took hold of a winch handle and revolved it with effort. Jaxx considered knocking Das aside and performing the task himself. It surprised him to find that Das, a sack of skin and bone, had some muscle to him. The titanium head crest levered up, providing access to the cab.
D’Angelus gestured to a metal ladder.
“After you, Father.”
SIX
“You see him?” Rind had her wrinkled face to the gap.
“I’m looking.” Tib was impatient. Sights like this were rare, even in the harsh world of Cyber Circus. It would be a crying shame to miss it.
“I spy with my little eye...” Rind’s siblings tried to crowd her spy hole.
“...a great fat pig flapping in the wind.” Ol finished her sentence, over enunciating her words with relish.
They were tucked in behind the calliope. The great spread of the instrument lay on the other side of a mezzanine of pipework. Only the Scuttlers had the strangeness of limb and agility to fit between the calliope’s flesh and folds. Crouched down on pinched knees and hard forearms, hoary shells perched above like ovipositors, the children squinted through gaps in the fibroid floor. Suspended under the front rib of the circus, and visible now and again when the clouds dissipated, was the patibulum girder. It was attached at the bough by steel guide ropes, but otherwise free to revolve in the tremendous airflow. Every so often, they would hit turbulence and the stretcher would buffet up against the toughened sponge at the breast of the ship. The Scuttlers watched the crucified Pig Heart get dragged across the barnacled sponge.
Rind fed the tip of one clawed limb between her lips and sucked it. “He’s a gonna,” she said, seemingly sad of the fact.
Nim watched the tassel fly’s lazy looping flight near the ceiling silk. Its wings were a glorious sunset bisected by veins of blue neon. The thorax and head were coated in that velvet blackness peculiar to insects, softness that provoked a desire to touch alongside bristly abjectness. Nim shivered and stretched her long pale limbs across the bedcover. The satin felt good beneath her skin and she needed that. Something gentle after the violence of the men hours earlier.
The tassel fly circled above in a whisper of wings. Nim remembered the attack in waves; the first slap that knocked her sideways, a man pinioning her, another gnawing her breasts, a third bruising his way inside of her, slop-jawed and territorial.
She moved her bare legs up and down the silk sheet. Think of the good. That’s what she’d always done when put to work at the Elegance Saloon. So she concentrated on the purring undercurrent of the circus in flight. The powder pink ribboned corsetry which she had so carefully stitched... Prying hands and lustful faces washed across her mind again. Nim tensed her neck muscles and forced the memory aside. Her heart was a tight punch behind her ribs. The good stuff. The smell of spiced incense from the pierced metal resin burner. The tremble of a thread of tiny bells suspended near the doorway. The swiftness of the ship through the night.
A voice spoke from beyond the screened doorway.
“Can I come in, Nim?”
She recognised the timbre. Hellequin. The HawkEye. It hurt her that he was so quick to cash in on her Saints’ oath. Not because she expected him to be above desire, only that her own flesh felt like a weight. But the tears would heal, the bruises fade.
Forcing herself up onto an elbow, Nim wondered if he would prefer the gas lamp dimmed. The current spat like hot fat below the surface of her skin; if he was intent on her colours, he might not notice the stains the other men had left. She kept her robe closed for the time being though and answered, “Yes, I am ready.”
A hand parted the soft flow of fabric at the doorway. Hellequin entered the dressing room. He’d discarded his frockcoat, the striped waistcoat showing more of his skin. Nim’s gaze lingered on the blue and red hawk tattooed on the outside of both his upper arms. Signature of the HawkEye regiment.
She stared at his face. After several weeks encountering the soldier on board, she still couldn’t make sense of the clockwork left eye. It made her gut sore to think that this apparently cognisant man had chosen to butcher himself in such a way. She was aware of the arguments of self-sacrifice, the promise of excellence in the field of war craft. But in simple terms, Hellequin had agreed to his own deconstruction and rewiring, and Nim could not begin to comprehend why. What she did understand were the consequences of biomorphing. Hellequin might have chosen where she had enjoyed no such choice, but in the end they were both made freaks by the process. Both at home in Cyber Circus.
She tried to remind herself of their similarity while easing her legs off the bed and slowly walking towards her guest.
“These are my terms and they are not up for discussion. This is a one time thing. Outside of this hour, you will not call on me. You will not presume to act familiar with me before the crew, and you will not loiter outside my dressing room anymore. I may not have the strength to always fight off my attackers, but while I’m living in this circus, I will live as a free woman. I will not be guarded!” She stalked over to the thin gilt stalk that grew up from the floor and served as a bedside table, grasped a large hour glass and turned it over.
“I’m not here for that.” His hand closed around hers as she started to undo her robe.
Rage enveloped her. “This is the only thing I have to offer you, Hellequin. I have no Jackogin, no smoke sticks, no leaf wad, and I’m all out of patience. So let’s screw or else take your unwelcome ass back out the way you came.” Her blood eyes flashed. Not a man alive could break her.
The soldier dipped his chin. “I came to see how you were.”
“Just dandy. Thanks for asking.” Nim pointed at the doorway. “See you around, Hellequin.”
The manufactured eye telescoped in on her, amber lens burning. “How are you, Nim?”
“You’ve asked me that already and I’ve answered.”
“Are you hurt? I can have Herb call in a doc next time we land.” Hellequin tipped back his head. The steel
