Circus Galacticus (11 page)

"A governance alert," Nola says as the screen switches to a polished woman in a dark green suit. Her plasticky voice fills the room.

"Citizens of the Core, we can now confirm reports that an uncontained genetic anomaly, one of the so-called Tinkers, is responsible for the recent devastation on Circula Fardawn Station."

On the screen, an image appears of a gray oblong hanging against a starry sky. Two curving arms sweep out from the main body, like the arms of a twirling dancer. Suddenly one of the arms brightens, flaring red, then blinding white. It explodes, sending a shower of glittering debris across the sky.

Nola gasps. Theon swears. Everyone in the cafeteria is riveted to the devastation on that screen.

The reporter goes on. "The official death count stands at 253, but is expected to rise. Dunosse Frexim, President of the Core Council, had this statement on the tragedy."

The image switches again, now showing a man standing at a podium and speaking vigorously. "I call on all citizens to report any suspected genetic anomalies to their local Governance Authority. We must ensure that these random and dangerous elements are provided the guidance and control they need to be productive members of society."

The woman with the plastic voice comes back on. "Our hearts go out to all those affected by this tragedy. The Red Hands have set up a dedicated netlink for those seeking information about survivors or interested in giving a donation. Thank you, and good night."

The screen winks out. Silence fills the room. Then Syzygy turns her mirrored eyes toward the Clown table and raises one hand to point right at me. She clicks her thumb and says, "Bang!"

I stare back in confusion for a split second. Then my Chocolate Supernova explodes, covering me in sweet, sticky syrup.

***

"How long do you think it'll be before they stop calling me 'Supernova'?" I groan, tossing myself down on the bed.

Nola, perched cross-legged on her own bed, winces. "People
still
call Jom 'Mooner.' It was right after he came on board and he'd just started fiddling with the autocook. He was trying to make salad dressing, but it came out as some sort of acid. And then he didn't realize and wiped his hands on his pants and, well..." Nola blushes, ducking her head slightly.

I can't help giggling. "Okay, I'll take being publicly drenched in chocolate over that any day. I wish I could get the stuff off, though." I sigh, noticing yet another smear of chocolate on my elbow. Three runs through the sonic showers apparently were not enough. "Too bad for Jom, though. He seems nice." I watch Nola carefully.

"Oh, he is!"

"He's
especially
nice to you."

"What? No, he's just ... really? You think so?"

"Did you not notice the ginormous Chocolate Supernova he gave you?"

"That was an accident. It didn't
mean
anything."

I snort. "If you say so." I lift up the covers and crawl into bed. On the other side of the room, Nola does likewise after hanging her know-it-all carefully from a hook beside her bed. I toss mine onto the floor.

The lights flick out, leaving the room in a starlit darkness.

I stare into the spangled blackness, fidgeting as I try to get comfortable with the lump of the meteorite under my head. I don't dare leave it out. I already almost lost it when Nola got carried away showing me how to use the laundry system. She probably thought I was insane, throwing myself down the chute to grab my chocolate-covered jacket. Maybe I should show it to her. She's nice, and smart, and I don't want to keep secrets from her. But...

You have to keep it secret. Can you promise to do that, Beatrix?

I need more information. I wonder if there are any books on it in the library.
The Dummy's Guide to Mysterious Family Heirlooms.
But am I really keeping it secret because of my promise? Or am I scared I might find out I don't really belong here, that my pink hair is all some weird side effect?

"What is it?" Nola asks.

"Huh?"

"You groaned. You aren't still worrying about the Supernova thing, are you?"

"No, I—" But I can't say it, not yet. I curl my fingers around the meteorite, clutching it to my chest. "I was thinking about that news report. Do you really think it was a Tinker-touched person who blew up that space station?"

"Some of us have some pretty, well, terrifying powers. I mean, look at what Sirra can do. If she wanted to, she could cause some serious damage."

"You think someone
wanted
to blow up the station?"

"It could be. Not everyone joins the circus. And not everyone stays."

"Right. Theon told me about the Outcasts. You think they blew up the space station?"

"Maybe," says Nola. "Or it might have been someone who didn't even know they were Tinker-touched, and woke up one day like you did, except instead of pink hair, they..."

"Blew up a space station," I finish. "Sounds like it might've been better all around if you guys had found them instead of me."

"No, don't say that, Trix. We don't know. Even Syzygy doesn't know. You're the one we got, and I'm glad you're here. Besides, who knows? You might manifest an even worse power."

"Gee, thanks. No need to sound so cheerful about it. Aren't you worried I might blow you up in the middle of the night?"

"Of course not," says Nola in a falsely serious voice. "I patched an auto-ejector into your bed to spit you out into space if you start going supernova on me."

I giggle, and my grip on the meteorite relaxes. I still can't get over the fact that I've got a friend. I've seen other Bleeker girls laughing like this, teasing and joking with one another, the way you can only pull off when you know you're friends underneath it all. "Hey, Nola. Thanks. For everything."

"S'okay. Good night, Trix."

"Good night."

***

The next week is pretty much the best week ever. The new Firedance smokes the old one. Sure, it's going to take twice as much work to get it down, but we're all jazzed about it. I have a table to sit at. I have friends. People still call me Supernova, but I don't care. I love it all. The only downside is the pile of schoolwork Miss Three saddles us with.

I slump down in my chair in the library, letting my head thump back against the smooth metal. About a bazillion pages of tiny print scroll by on the screen in front of me. I flick on my know-it-all and get Britannica to patch me through to Nola. "Remind me again why I'm busting my ass to write an essay on Core Governance Mining Regulations?"

"For your second career as a prospector?" says Nola.

I wince as a shriek of grinding metal bursts out of the earpiece. "Are you tearing the autosalon apart with your bare hands? Weren't you only giving it a tune-up?"

There's another distant crash. "Yes," she replies, but I'm not sure which question she was actually answering.

"Seriously, though. Give me one good reason I need to know this stuff."

"Because if you don't, Miss Three won't give you your stipend and then you won't be able to come out with me and have fun at the Hasoo-Pashtung Bazaar?"

I sigh. "I can't believe the Ringmaster puts up with this."

"I don't think he puts up with it so much as he runs screaming in terror from the prospect of being responsible for anything so mundane." The clatter in the background sounds like a freight train dancing the tango. "Listen, Trix, I have to go. But I'll help you with the essay tonight if you want."

"Thanks, Nola."

She clicks off. I spend about a half-hour trying to make sense of a single subclause about the use of sonic liquifiers before I start to feel like someone used a sonic liquifier on my brain. Leaving the study carrel, I decide to check the shelves again for anything that might give me a clue about my meteorite.

Last time it took me an hour to get through a single shelf. Nothing is in any sort of order. I guess I could check out the catalogue window thing, but honestly, it's kind of fun looking through this stuff. Some of it I recognize: the collected works of Shakespeare, a bunch of shonen manga, and the Time-Life "Supernatural" series. Most of it, though, is stuff like
Pipelines: Miracle or Menace?
and
101 Recipes for Paccadi Nuts
and
A Brief History of the Centaurus Corporation
(which is, I kid you not, a foot thick).

A muffled thump turns me toward the door, wondering if I've got company. I don't see anyone. The next moment I yelp as Miss Three materializes right in front of me. She smirks at the book in my hands.
Love Among the Stars: The True Story.

"Hard at work on your essay, I see." Her eyes track the room like laser beams, then return to my face. "Where is he?"

"Who?"

"The Ringmaster. He knows how important it is that we review the accounting records in a timely fashion, and yet he insists on running off, when we're already five performances behind, and—what is it, Miss Ling?"

I could swear I saw a flash of sequins around the edge of the doorway, but I latch my gaze back onto Miss Three.

"Nothing. There's no one else here. Just me, doing my essay."

She frowns. A spider web of static crosses her ghostly face as she spins, slowly, toward the door.

"Hey, have you checked the autosalon? Nola's working on it. Maybe he's over there. Supervising."

It's a lame excuse, but she halts, studying me.

"You should check over there," I say.

I almost smell the ozone crackling off her response. "I know his ways, Miss Ling. He can't hide forever." Then she winks out.

"You can come out now," I say. "She's gone."

The Ringmaster steps out from the entryway gingerly, his eyes darting around the room. Then he pulls the top hat from his head, brushes back his mane of dark hair, and heaves an enormous sigh. "Thank you, Beatrix, for saving me from a fate that requires only the barest smidge of hyperbole to merit the term 'worse than death.'"

"No problem," I say. "Not that I'm a fan of crunching the numbers, either, but how long do you think you can play hide-and-seek?"

"Oh, I suppose I'll have to deal with it eventually," he says, leaning against the wall. He quirks one brow at me. "Rather like your essay, I imagine."

"Don't remind me."

He twiddles his hat in his hand for a moment, giving me a speculative look. "Would you care for a break? A little excitement and mystery and quite probably danger?"

I toss my book aside. "As long as it doesn't involve the twelve subclauses on the Shovel Hygiene Ordinance, I'm good to go."

WHOA." MY BREATH FOGS the viewport glass as I press myself against it, staring at the needle of gold hanging in the black void beyond. "What did you say it's called?"

"The Lighthouse," says the Ringmaster. He's more jittery than I am, spinning his baton from hand to hand like it might burn him if he holds it too long.

"And why did the Tinkers build it?"

"This particular lighthouse once helped to guide ships through the Anvaran dust clouds. But all the lighthouses served as strongholds for the Tinkers. They were places of learning and teaching: way stations from which to reach out across the universe."

"Then there's more of them?" I squint. The Lighthouse is a lot closer now. It's hard to judge size, but it looks big. Like, city-skyscraper big.

"So the legends say. This is the only one I've found." The Ringmaster stares fixedly out the viewport, as if the whole entire ginormous Lighthouse might vanish if he looked away for even a millisecond.

"I don't get it, though. If it's a Tinker clubhouse, why is it so dangerous?" Outside, the boarding tube snakes out from the Big Top to link us to the Lighthouse.

"If the light itself were to activate while we were on board, it would be rather like sunbathing on Venus."

I cross my arms. "So will it hurt the Big Top if it lights up?"

"No, the Big Top has solar shielding. Out there we'll be unprotected. But it's probably completely inactive now." He gives an airy wave.

"Probably? So, what, we have only a five percent chance of getting burned to a crisp?"

"It wouldn't be fun without a little danger, now, would it?" The Ringmaster's smile is like the noonday sun, so bright you're sure nothing terrible could ever happen as long as it's blazing down on you. "Besides, you can hardly expect to find anything interesting somewhere safe."

A shiver runs through the floor as the far end of the boarding tube clamps onto the golden needle. The doorway to the tube hisses open, waiting for us. The Ringmaster holds out a hand. I take it, and together we race along the passage to the airlock that will take us onto the Lighthouse.

The Ringmaster hands me a breathing mask. "Just in case," he says lightly. He's got another stuffed into one of his sequined coat pockets. "Think of it, Beatrix. We're about to walk in the footsteps of the ancients. Are you ready?" He rests a hand lightly on the sealed tunnel before us. He's grinning like a madman. And maybe he is mad, and I guess I am, too, because I can feel the enormous goofy smile plastered on my own face. But come on, we're about to explore an ancient alien space station. I think a little madness is understandable.

As the door hisses open, the Ringmaster pulls out what looks like an old-fashioned gold pocket watch. He flips it open briefly, then slides it back into his coat. He glances back, toward the Big Top, and for a moment he looks almost ... guilty.

"I really don't think an hour is going to make a difference," I say.

"What?"

"Miss Three. You know, the number crunching. You looked worried. But this is more important, right?" I frown. "Is the translator not getting this?"

"Miss Three, of course. Yes," he says, talking rapidly, as if trying to escape the conversation. "Right, let's go."

Man. The Ringmaster isn't the easiest book to read, but today I feel like he's written upside down, backwards, and in Swahili. I shrug it off and follow him into the Lighthouse.

We move slowly at first, as the Ringmaster lingers over every niche, every scrap of metal, even the light fixtures. "Hah, still on standby! And the artificial gravity is working," he says, fiddling with a panel in the wall. A murky amber glow fills the corridor. "Good old Tinker technology. And they say we're not reliable." The light begins to sputter. The Ringmaster gives the panel a thump, and the flickering stops.