Story Excerpt

Beggars Mounted
by Eric Del Carlo

Stir the Pot. Stir the Pot! So the call rings out across the floating estates. These, the glimmering realms of the aristocracy, the sumptuous abodes strung as pearls on a necklace along the edge of the auroral splendor of deep-space phenomena, the fantastical light show of the Pot, all those gases and dust, all that burning wonder so impossibly pleasing: because the rich must always have beachfront property.

Kim arrived at the appointed hour. The shuttle’s interior was silent and betrayed no sense of motion; such utter stillness was expensive. He did not know they had docked until the doors parted. He had come with the other wranglers. They were a motley lot, picked by lottery and randomly assigned to the privileged youth who this day must prove themselves by diving into the Pot to capture and ride a Beast.

The wranglers waited in an antechamber. Creamy walls, creamy lighting. Kim was satisfied he fit in with his fellows: a little scuffed, a bit grubby, an unwashed mien without actually being unwashed—because he would be in close confines with his lordling—the whole rugged presentation.

He had thoroughly researched his role. In order to be in the pool of potential participants in this aristocratic rite, he’d had to pass the entry exam. It was necessary he know everything there was to know about the Beasts. Still, some wranglers would be better than others. This was the arbitrary factor, the tumble of the dice that made the ritual interesting. It kept the proceedings honest; or else it was just a component of inane tradition. But it was a desirable gig. And so everybody standing in the waiting area was anxious to get on with it, to get that much closer to the payday at the end of this extravagant, gaudy, somewhat hazardous sacrament, which only the affluent could dream up for themselves.

Servitors came into the chamber, and though these were gleaming mechanisms, they managed to appear haughty as they looked over the assembled rabble. In dulcet tones they explained the next phase of the event, which had commenced long before the shuttle had ferried everyone over from the scruffier precincts outside the estates.

Kim imagined a marathon dinner party, the elite children mocked up in starched finery, arrayed according to some obscure pecking order along a mammoth table laden with endless delicacies, while string music was played by the finest instrumentalists and the parents presided in militaristic frippery as they pronounced portentously on matters of great moment.

But the pre-hunt festivity turned out to be something quite else. No way Kim could have researched this. Another set of doors opened, and this time there was neither silence nor stillness. Sound crashed in on them, and they were led, one after the other, into the chaotic arena beyond.

The music was blistering noise, a kind of operatic madness by way of tectonic upheaval. This was music that could raise or destroy whole landmasses, it seemed. Movement came in a blind cascade. Images avalanched over themselves, hitting the walls of the vast circular room. War footage, Kim saw, and a cold hand tightened in his gut. Somehow, the endless snippets of explosions and vaporizations and screaming, bloodied faces was timed with the music, so that the battle scenes were beaten by drums, and shredded victims sang tenor over the soaring crescendos of live weaponry.

It was also a scene of played-out orgy, some Roman figment. There was a table and foodstuffs, like Kim had imagined. But if it had started out neatly presented, it was now rubble. Platters and tureens were overturned. Food littered the floor. So did bodies, although these weren’t the dead and dying being projected onto the walls; they were the team sent in to populate the bacchanalia, and they’d apparently already done their work. Stripped and sullied, lying about on mounded pillows. Giggling or dozing. Here and there one bruised or another weeping.

But the youths were still mostly on their feet, with a few swaying from having overindulged. Kim hoped whoever he got wouldn’t be too mind-altered. Then again, that might work out just fine for him.

The mechanical servitors delivered each wrangler to their proper master. A youngster with a shock of dashingly disheveled red hair turned to Kim. His face was lovely, almost sculptural, with soft amber eyes and slack lips. He was dressed formally—also as Kim had presaged—but the raiment was rumpled and stained, like he’d been rolling about with one of the ambiguously gendered playthings. He appeared unfocused, barely registering Kim’s presence.

Just as Kim was wondering if he should introduce himself, and wondering too how he could make himself heard, the cacophony of music cut out and the images vanished.

In this abrupt and rather jarring quiet the lad sighed and rubbed his eyes with both palms. “Finally,” he said. It was another moment before he dropped his hands. But now he gazed at Kim with some attention and shrewdness. When the servitor started to recite his titled name, he waved it away in mid-syllable. “I’m Robyn,” he said. “They told me your name when I drew you in the lottery, but I can’t remember it now.”

“My name is Kim.”

“Kim. Okay. I have to say, Kim, you don’t look like a wrangler.” It wasn’t an unfriendly look on his face. “I think that’s a good thing. I know people get an idea of how one ought to appear. Knee-high boots, shiny leather coat. Something rakish added, like an ascot. Oh, it’s all too much, really. You look like you’re ready to do some piloting.”

“I am, m’lord.”

The princeling—Robyn—was unbuttoning the few still done-up buttons on his tunic. He tossed it away and then stepped out of his trousers as well, unselfconsciously. Before he was fully nude, a fresh set of clothes had been delivered. He proceeded to dress himself. His outfit was functional. Kim saw that there were no adults in the room. So, the parents left this entirely to their offspring. But the pressure would surely still be on these youths: must perform well for Pater and Mater, must—

Robyn strapped a holster to his thigh. In it was an over-key, with a pearl handle stained by age. It had the look of an heirloom. The ’stick would override a Beast’s functions. Only the aristocracy possessed these. Kim would have to take it off him, a complication. But he thought of his own payday, and what he—and he alone—would have to do to earn it. All that was ahead. It was out there in the Pot, waiting for him.

Robyn caught him looking at the holster.

“My father carried it when he stirred the Pot. I said I would too, so . . .” The young lord, sharing unexpected intimacies. Perhaps it would make him easier to handle when they were out among the Beasts: he wouldn’t see Kim’s betrayal coming.

The traditional wrangler boats were docked just outside. Kim said, “We should get to our craft, m’lord.”