ELEPHANT SONG
Barry B. Longyear
To Martin Fleishman, M.D.
THE ELEPHANT
The elephant's a beast, 'tis said, That wears its tail upon its head; And where the beastie's tail should be, A wrinkled suit's all one can see. It eats too much, its brain's too small It takes up room from wall to wall; Ears too big, and feet too flat, Now, who could love a thing like that?
Yet, bullhands tell of circus rings Surrounded by those smelly things. Ballet girls would perch on top While bullhands followed with a mop And spade and barrow to haul away The stuff the beasts et yesterday. Bullhands speak of those squashed flat By giants who are sorry that Their keepers, friends, companions all Must be scraped from off the wall.
Bullhands sing in tones adored Of all of those who have been gored, Or torn apart, or trampled down By some bewrinkled, tusked clown. It's sad to say but it's no act, They love the beasts, and that's a fact. And if you have but half a wit, Can't find that 'pon which you sit, Your back is strong, your mind is weak, Your sense of smell is not at peak, Then what they say, my friends, is true: You can be a bullhand too.
The Admiralty Office of the Tenth Quadrant Federation announced today that the circus starship, City of Baraboo, enroute to the planet H'dgva in the Tenth Quadrant, failed to report in accordance with its flight plan four days ago. Ninth and Tenth Quadtant deep space radio searches detected neither distress calls nor automatic emergency beacon signals. Standard trade route sweeps have been begun.
The ship, housing the entire company of O'Hara's Greater Shows, the first of the interstellar circuses, is presumed to have been lost with all hands.
BILLBOARD, May 29th, 2148, p.l.
ONE
In the darkness, above the atmosphere of the strange planet, ten smaller crafts detached themselves from a great ship, fired their entry burns, and fell toward the planet's surface. When the shuttles were little more than points of reflected light, the great ship seemed to wobble, then roll. For a moment the ship's movement seemed to stabilize, then its powerful engines gave a brief, blinding flash, the ship nosed over, and dived toward the planet.
A huge man with a bandaged head moaned and opened his eyes as he felt the reality around him shaking, then slamming to a devastating halt. He closed his eyes as pains that could melt steel shot through his head.
Noises. The smell of acid. The smell of smoke.
He drove awareness from his mind. There was so much to drive away. A dying ship, a dying show, a dying daughter—
"Get these two patched up, fast! I need them back on the radios."
"Are we down?"
"Are we down, Mange? Hell yes we're down! Just put a dent in a goddamned mountain!"
... so much to keep away: a dying show, a dying daughter, dying itself, the bulls—
He opened his eyes and stared blankly at the blur of rushing, screaming bodies. Someone had said something about the bulls—
"Jesus, we're spread all over the place!"
"Fire control, down to the main carrousel! Pony? Pony Red, where are you?"
Unintelligible crackles, words.
"Get down to the main carrousel! The bulls and horses've broken loose and are shredding the place. Fire control, where'n the hell are you? Flame in the port carrousel!"
The bulls. Something about the bulls. And fire.
He lifted an arm. Tingling numbness covering his body. Data began to enter the blank circuits of his mind. The bulls. Have to get to the bulls.
"What about the atmospheric readings?"
"Screw 'em! If the air out there's no good, it doesn't matter much, does it? With that Hartford going in the port bay we don't have enough left in here to light a match. Open the damned vents and hit the fans!"
"That was some great landing, Fireball."
"You try and deadstick in one of these bastards, punk! It's got the glide angle of a brick."
"I said it was a good landing—"
"Where'n the hell are the others?"
"Try the radio, stupid—wait. What's that call?"
"It... it's the Baraboo, skipper. It's out of control.... It's diving into the atmosphere... Signal's dead."
The voices. He pushed himself up from the couch and stumbled toward the voices. But now the control cabin was silent.
There was a breath of fresh air on his face, and he inhaled. He gulped at the air, and gulped again. His vision cleared a bit and he could make out the shuttle crew standing like statues before the control banks.
"You. Fireball. What is it?"
The command pilot of the Number Three car turned her head and looked at him. She seemed not to notice the blood dripping from her forehead. "The Baraboo. It... it just got exed. We got away just in time."
Fireball nodded at another crewmember. "Try and raise the other cars."
The crewmember stabbed at some buttons. "Any cars, this is Number Three. Where are you?" She listened, then tried again. "This is Number Three. Any cars, where are you?"
He rubbed his eyes, sat down on the edge of a couch, and looked at the shuttle's pilot. "Somebody said something about the bulls."
Fireball Hanah Sanagi squatted next to him. "Bullhook, it's hell down there. The outside hatch to the loading runs is jammed. The bulls are going crazy." The pilot stood and shouted toward the hands that stabbed at the communications bank. "What about fire control?"
"Forget it."
"Anything yet from the other cars?"
"Not yet."
Bullhook Willy got to his feet and supported himself against the couch's backrest as a crackle filled the compartment. "Hey! It's Number Ten! One, Four, Five, and Ten are within sight of each other near a big body of water." The crewmember talked rapidly into the communications system. "We're pretty bunged up. Came to a stop against a mountain. Heard anything from the others?"
He squinted his eyes against the light coming through the cockpit observation ports. Through them he could see bright sky, green trees hung with golden hair, a range of mountains.
More crackling. "Wait! I'm getting a strong signal from Number Six. Six can see Number Eight. Eight can't see Nine, but is getting a good signal. Number Two? Where are you, Number Two?" Silence. "Can anyone get a signal from Two? What about Seven?" Crackles, desperate calls, silence. "Okay, let's try and figure out how far we are from each other and in what relation."
On the couch rested a meter-long gold-tipped hook and goad. Bullhook Willy picked it up, turned, pulled himself through the compartment door, and headed down the dark companionway. The smell of it. Hot insulation, boiling hydraulic fluid, and overpowering every other odor, the smell of burning flesh—
The frantic calls from the control cabin were soon covered by the screams of the animals. He turned into the companionway leading to the huge cage of rotating tubes that held the elephants. An emergency light flashed in his face, then out of the darkness and smoke a voice yelled.
"Pony! Pony Red! It's Bullhook! The boss elephant man is here!"
Bullhook held his hand between the light and his eyes. "Waxy, you want to get that damn light out of my face."
The beam of light dropped as Bullhook supported himself by placing a hand against a bulkhead. The bulkhead was hot. Too hot. That was the smaller port carrousel containing half of the remaining Perches. Bullhook withdrew his hand. "Waxy, what about the horses?"
The dark shape holding the emergency light shook his head. "No good. Pony Red had to seal off the port carrousel to try and contain the fire. Doesn't look good. There's no fire in the starboard horse barn and in the main carrousel, but the smoke and lack of air is driving the nags and bulls crazy."