Midway Relics and Dying Breeds: A Tor.Com Original (3 page)

I knew that, even as I knew that it was not, had never been, my call. The air in the tent still felt colder, like something had just died there. “Oh.” I wanted to rage at him. I wanted to shake him until he understood how inappropriate it was to keep playing his little power games while our grandmother was sick and dying and far away. All I could do was stand there like a good little cousin, waiting for him to dismiss me. There was nothing left for us to say to each other. We had used our words up long ago.

“You can go now,” he said, jerking his chin toward the door. “I have no more need of you.”

“Thank you, cousin,” I said, and turned, walking briskly away before he could change his mind. Once the airlock-like tent flap was sealed again behind me, I allowed myself to breathe out and unclasp my hands.

My palms were bleeding from the tiny half-moon wounds my fingernails had made. I keep my nails cropped short, to make it easier to handle the reins. It’s amazing what stress will do.

That cheap side-market rope wasn’t the only thing approaching its bearing strain.

*   *   *

Maybe I should have gone back to the animals and relieved Bay of her duty, but I was feeling petty and small, and so I left her there. Let Davo relieve her, if he didn’t want her stuck shoveling horseshit all night long. Freedom was rare for me while we were traveling, and so I took advantage of the chance to wander through the camp as it was being established around the roots of the surrounding trees. Little neighborhoods were springing up around the larger tents of the Big Men, most of which were as big as Davo’s but twice as welcoming. Seresa’s tent had walls of gauze and mosquito netting, and at least two of the cousins who worked midway entertainment were inside, the mournful cries of their fiddles sounding sweetly through the wood. Marcus’s tent had thick cloth walls and the doors were often closed, but only to keep the smoke inside: he was a firm believer in the restorative powers of marijuana, and his boys had probably been lighting up the second that the stop was called. Anyone who cared to join them would be welcome.

For a moment, I hesitated, considering the virtues of going to Marcus’s tent, slipping inside, and letting a haze of sweet smoke carry the day’s bruises away, taking all my troubles with them. I pushed the idea reluctantly aside. Forgetfulness was dangerous, even when it was the safe, sweet kind that Marcus and his carefully hydro-tended pot plants had to offer me. I still needed to pitch my tent, check on Billie, and call the Bone Yard.

Calling the Bone Yard may have been the most important part.

There was a time when a show like ours would have traveled by road, burning fossil fuels and leaving a carbon footprint the size of the sky behind us. That gave way to hybrids and biodiesel long before my time, but there are pictures hanging on the walls back in the Bone Yard, and some of the oldest costumes still smell of gas fumes and speed, like they caught the wind in their fibers and just refused to let it go. The highways were all torn out years ago, replaced by railroad tracks and narrow bike trails. There’s a sailboat “road” along the coast, artificial tide baffles designed to keep the little boats out of the undertow without interfering with the local ecosystem. Anything to reduce the damage that we humans can do to these places just by moving through them. Some travelers learned to have smaller feet, to leave narrower tracks behind them. Others learned to fly in private craft and self-powered machines, sparing the earth entirely.

And then there are those, like the carnival, who took to the air without letting go of the ground. It’s a neat trick, one that requires a constantly shifting balance of teamwork and technology, but it’s worthwhile, because as long as we can walk that razor’s edge, we’re free. We’re barely outside the reach of a hundred laws, and as long as we’re one of very few dandelions operating like this, we’re unlikely to ever have one of those laws really clamp down on us. We move like dandelions have always moved: roots on the ground, and seeds in the sky.

Cousins waved and called my name as I made my way through the camp, but none of them asked me to stop; they could see that I was distracted, and they were respectful enough to let me hold my peace. Most of the people who flew or rode with us were there for reasons of their own, and those reasons had taught them not to intrude on the private grief of others.

The boxy cube of my tent was sitting untended on the forest floor near the larger, already erected tent that held the animal husbandry supplies. I pressed my thumb to the tag, waiting long enough for the microsensors to register my identity before jumping back and out of the way. Our tents were rejected milspec, the sort of thing that seemed like a dandy idea on paper, and proved to be more trouble than they were worth once they started rolling out of the replicators and into actual field conditions. Confirm your ID with a tent and watch it unpack like magic, preparing to surround you in all the comforts of home while out in the wilderness! And technically that was true—the tents unpacked themselves, handling the setup process with a speed and elegance that human hands could only envy.

That was the problem. They unpacked so quickly that people could be seriously injured if they stood too close. One of the younger cousins had suffered a broken leg. One of the older cousins had managed to lose a hand. Those were the sort of injuries that resulted from standing too close to an opening tent when it was wrapping itself around obstacles. A closing tent …

None of us would ever forget Cousin Mae, who had decided that she could no longer live with her life and its contradictions, and had ordered her tent to collapse itself while she was standing inside. The synthsilk was capable of applying far more pressure than the human body could withstand. It was also watertight. Mae died quickly, and she didn’t leave any mess for anyone else to clean up. Knowing her, she would have been proud at how successful a suicide she was.

The tent finished unpacking itself in less than thirty seconds. Unlike Davo, I had no furniture to move in; just the cot, wall shelves, and comms terminal that were built into the tent itself. I wiggled my toes in the dust outside the door once, like a prayer or a promise to the forest, before I opened the flap and let myself inside.

*   *   *

Supposedly, the entire West Coast has free, reliable connectivity through the cloud, which accounts for the trees and raccoons and robust weather patterns all being considered individuals who have a right to be heard. And that’s generally true when you’re near the heart of Cascadia, or skirting the poppy fields outside of Oakland. They have strong repeaters and self-propagating smart dust there, and they keep the signals flying. With the carnival camped deep in the mossy, damp-aired heart of the forest outside Portland, I had to negotiate with eight different local channels before I could get them to share signal strength and boost my call high enough to catch the attention of a relay satellite. Those
are
free and reliable, once you can establish a connection.

The Bone Yard runs on a virtually antiquated VoIP system once a local connection has been made, which is in turn rigged to screamers for those occasions when calls come in and there’s no one in the house to answer them. I sat on the edge of my bed, pleating my skirt between my fingers, and waited for the screamer to catch somebody’s attention.

I was in luck: I had only waited about a minute when the neutral black screen was replaced by the weathered, well-loved face of my grandfather, Angelo Freeman. He smiled when he saw me, his teeth still white against the brown of his skin, despite his advanced age. Unlike most of the men in our family, he had never smoked, never chewed tobacco, never even taken up drinking coffee. He swore the world was stimulant enough, and that a midway man needed a smile that could outshine the moon. From most people, that would have sounded stupid. From Grandpapa, it sounded like scripture.

“Ansley,” he said, eyes crinkling at the edges. His voice held all the warmth that Davo’s lacked. “My dearest girl. What moves you to call an old man so late in the evening?”

“As if you didn’t know,” I said, my smile echoing his. It was an involuntary response. Even in my darkest moments, my grandfather had always been able to make me smile. “How is Grandmamma?”

His smile faltered, although it didn’t die completely. “So Davo spoke with you.”

“He did.” He would have kept the news from me if he could, but being a Big Man didn’t free him from the demands of family. If Grandpapa wanted me to know something, I would know it, although Davo had doubtless put off sending Bay to find me for as long as he possibly could. “I’m sorry he intercepted your call.”

Grandpapa’s barely perceptible wince told me that I’d guessed right about Davo setting a snoop on my phone. Dammit. “I shouldn’t have called while you were working. I did my turns on the circuit. I know better than a thing like that.”

“I’m never too busy for you and you know it,” I said, waving his concerns away. “You’re answering everything except for my question, Grandpapa. How is Grandmamma?”

“Eh.” His bony shoulders rose and fell in a shrug that was half admission of defeat, half exhaustion. “The doctors, they do what they can, and the aunts, they do a little more, but this isn’t a disease her blood knows how to fight. It burns her, and every day she’s a little further gone.”

I didn’t say anything. I waited. After a few minutes of awkward silence, he sighed.

“She coughed up blood and froth this morning. She’s been moved out of the Bone Yard and into a hospital clean room, where she won’t have to worry about me when she’s already unwell. She hasn’t infected a one of us, but that doesn’t get to matter now. The virus is most virulent when its host is running out of things to burn. Sixty years my wife, and now that she’s dying, they take her away from me.” For a moment, he looked very small and very frail, a skeleton wrapped in the winding shroud of his own worn-out skin. Not for the first time, I wondered how long he would hold himself to life after she left us.

Not long, I was sure.

“Davo said you want us home after the Portland show.”

“I would want you before that, my little crow, but we have commitments to keep, and those people paid their deposit for a slice of history. Our troubles don’t give us the right to deny them.” He straightened, a bit of the strength coming back into him. “How is Davo?”

I hesitated. There was every chance in the world that he had taps on this line, or clever little listening devices creeping up the walls of my tent, ready to catch and magnify any hint of insurrection. It was easy to blame it on the fact that I had refused to marry him, but even then, he hadn’t proposed out of love: he’d done it because he wanted to possess me, because I was better with my hands and better with my voice and better in the eyes of our grandparents. He was a Big Man here. Speaking against him would be foolish.

But this was my grandfather asking, and I had never lied to him. “He’s getting worse,” I said. “He gives orders that don’t make sense. He sets the younger cousins to tasks that they don’t know how to do, and then he blames them when things go wrong, when they get hurt. I’m afraid something’s going to break soon.” I was afraid that it was going to be me.

“Ah.” Grandfather shook his head, looking honestly sorry. “There was a time when he would never have been made Big Man, and when you would never have been asked to serve in a show where he
was
a Big Man. I’m sorry, my dear. If there had been any other choice—”

But Davo’s father had been a Big Man, and my grandfather’s eldest son. To refuse the title to
his
son would have been the kind of insult that could tear our family, and our carnival, apart. It’s hard to be a living fossil. Sometimes you have to yield, even when everything you have screams at you to hold the line.

“There wasn’t another choice,” I said, more harshly than I intended to. “He leaves me alone with the animals, for the most part. He hasn’t come to my tent in over a year.”

“Ah. The animals.”

There was something in Grandpapa’s tone that made my blood run cold. “What did Davo say?”

“He has another offer on your pet. A serious offer. One that’s big enough to … well. Big enough to do a lot of things.”

“She’s
mine
. That was what we agreed on when I found her.” Little snuffling thing in the junkyard of a firm that should never have been allowed to play with genes, all lanky limbs and outsized head. I hadn’t known what she was at first—I’d looked up all her vitals later, while Uncle Ren was arguing over her purchase price—but she’d been mine from that very first look. We were kindred spirits, she and I, creatures that were never meant to walk this world, in this place and this time.

“I know. And what he says he can get for her isn’t worth what it would cost us as a family. But I am not there to protect you, my crow girl, and he can make decisions without me. Be careful. He means you ill.” Grandpapa looked sharply to the side, sighed, and then looked back to me. “I must go. Give my love to Bay.” Then the screen went black as the connection was severed from his end.

I sat frozen on the edge of my bed, lips and fingers numb with the implications of what he had just said to me.

“But she’s
mine
,” I whispered.

Only silence answered me.

*   *   *

There are people who’ll tell you that we live in a virtually post-money world now, where everything is freely available for the taking, and no one should ever want for anything. They’re right, in a way. No one is hungry when they don’t choose to be, except for maybe the children of people who have chosen a Paleolithic lifestyle. No one sleeps without a roof over their heads unless that’s what they’ve decided to do. Basic medical care is available to everyone. It’s a utopia by twencen standards, and everything would be wonderful if it weren’t a utopia that’s full of
humans
. And we are still human, no matter how far some people push the limit of what that means.

Some things will always be for sale. Favors. Information. Specialty goods, like wine or Marcus’s weed, or Seresa’s musicians, who vanished into private parties and museum galas whenever we stopped by a large-enough habitation. It’s the primate in us. It wants ownership, and once it has ownership, it doesn’t want to give it up unless it’s for something it views as a fair trade. Society can kill money as much as it wants to. Barter will endure.