Dark Ride
By almost every standard of the time, the carnival was undistinguished. Its caravans inched over the horizon like vast drowsy insects, metal shells painted in garish colours that had bleached under the sun. The engines throbbed with the strain and their hum could be heard for miles around, drawing people out onto the streets to watch as the arcades went up.
Aside from the usual assortment of mutants behind glass, onlookers could expect to see a troupe of contortionists, whose bionic joints clicked as they moved. There was an empath who hazarded predictions drawn from the secret longings of each customer; an acrobat who turned mid-air somersaults on the neck of a Krafayis. A dozen or so well-polished androids served drinks and tried to flag down passers-by.
In recent weeks, however, the carnival had had little need for on-the-spot publicity. During its first morning on display, the Infinity Box had earned more in credits than the contortionist troupe had managed for the entire season. There were rumours of interest from private collectors.
The way it worked was quite straightforward. First, an android led the way into a specially erected tent and invited each group to explore the Box for themselves. The youngsters scuffed at the blue paintwork. Older guests took several minutes to weave their way around, trying every inch for a false panel or tell-tale switch. Then, once everyone was satisfied, their host produced a key and the Box spilled open.
Cue awestruck gasps. Cue cyber-augmented visitors activating the 'record' function in their temporal lobes. For an additional few credits, the android would tie a hypersteel cord to the door handle and guide the party further in. Never too far, or for too long; early tours had revealed that dizziness could take hold after only a few minutes. Anyone even mildly psychic soon became overwhelmed. Sometimes the corridors themselves appeared to convulse, as though the Box was trying to eject its occupants. But provided the android kept a tight grip on the cord that led them back, fear was brief and even pleasurable. The lucky visitors walked out into the brazen sunshine revitalised, each pledging to withhold the surprise from the next group.
Thus the season passed away. The crowds grew with each new city and every morning. And as they did so, discontent loomed behind the scenes. The contortionists fretted that the Infinity Box would have them out of a job by the year's close. Elsewhere, the tour leader complained that the passageways looked unhealthy. While the gawkers continued to file in and out under his direction, in private he swore blind that the Box was injured. Taking him at his word, the executives in Big Top sent for the Krafayis's handler. She performed a diagnostic scan from the doorway, but could recognise nothing that might need fixing. Management gave a collective shrug and had the android decommissioned for his trouble.
Later that month, the visions began. To start with customers thought they were part of the show, and tailored their appreciative noises accordingly. Before long, however, it became clear that their presence was both unscheduled and unwelcome. The apparitions paid no heed to their audience. They would blink into view at the end of a corridor or the middle of a sentence and fade away with equal abruptness. A thin white-haired man shouted for his granddaughter. Another figure ran past on a loop, striped scarf trailing behind him, while a third danced to phantom music around the entrance hall's central column. Nobody could work out how to switch them off. Out of desperation, Big Top cancelled all further tours and ordered that the Box be sold to the highest bidder at the next port of call.
As night fell, the androids dismantled the tents. Off in the distance came the usual noises that heralded the end of a season; laughter, an incipient scuffle, music improvised on drums and whistles. The sound of warring feet grew closer. It was the Krafayis's handler emerging from the cages where the beasts were kept, and she had the owner of the Box in her grasp.
The androids hesitated. The utter wrongness of the situation confounded every directive. The handler put her livestock prod against the man's neck and shoved his face into the dirt. This is you, she said. Saboteur. Filthy fucking xeno. Tell us what you did to it.
The xeno raised his head a little. There was mud flecked across his lips and when he spoke his voice was harsh, as though he had lost the knack of using it. The power must've been damaged when we crashed. All the temporal planes, colliding. She doesn't have long. But if you let me inside, I can help, I can fix everything. Please.
She faltered, though only for a moment. The prisoner saw his opportunity and made a clumsy sideways lunge towards the Box. The handler had other ideas. Before anyone else could react, she had struck him down with the prod and shocked him once, twice, three times. Somebody cried out, a too-human cry of pain and fear. Prompted out of their standstill, the androids ran to where the xeno had fallen. He was sprawled on his back with his gaze fixed upwards, each breath coming in ragged gasps. Had they been sentimental (which they were not), they might have thought that the light playing across his face was beautiful. It's over, he said.
After that, fire.
After that, the story gets confused.
By the time everyone from Big Top arrived on the scene, the androids were twisted metal and the sole flesh-and-blood witness had run. Where the Infinity Box had stood, there was only an unburnt patch of ground. The memories salvaged from the androids' data banks revealed little. All their circuits had overloaded as soon as the blast hit. An internal investigation ruled that the xeno must have immolated both himself and the Infinity Box, by some unknown method. A biological defence mechanism, perhaps. People shivered, and thanked whatever god they believed in for their own survival.
The show was back on the road at daybreak. The engines strained all through the winter, and nobody came to see.