Circus Galacticus (8 page)

"But Miss Three, there are still other—" begins Nola.

"No. It's clear to me you have no extraordinary abilities. There is no need to resort to extreme measures. Now you see how empty the Ringmaster's promises are." She gives me a plastic smile. "Not everyone can be a star. I regret that he has raised such false hopes, but it is better to learn the truth now, while you can still return to some sort of reasonable life."

I am
not
settling for some secondhand clunker of a life when I can get the newest, snazziest model. "Hang on a minute. Why isn't the Ringmaster here? Maybe he ought to judge for himself what I can do. He's the one who asked me to stay."

"The Ringmaster is a busy man and does not have time for trivialities."

"This is my future we're talking about. It's not trivial to
me.
" I flick my know-it-all. "Hey, Britannica, get the Ringmaster on the line, will you? Tell him Beatrix is getting fed up with these stupid tests."

"So sorry, dear, the Ringmaster is unavailable right now. Would you like to hear his away message? It's
so
amusing. Though not as amusing as what Dalana says when the space pirate Zendalos surprises her in—"

I grit my teeth and switch it off. Miss Three raises her brow in an arch so perfect it looks like it was drawn with a protractor.

I turn to Nola. "You said there are more tests."

"Yes, but Trix, they're dangerous! Maybe we should wait—"

"I want to get this over with. Got that?" I say to Miss Three.

"If you are willing to risk so much in this foolish quest, then by all means, proceed."

"Do it."

Nola nods and lays her silver hand against the wall. In the middle of the room, the Arena springs to life with a wheeze of grinding metal. The dial on the panel is gone, replaced by a single flashing purple word:
OVERRIDE.

"What do I have to do?"

"Step inside," says Miss Three. "And survive."

I strip off my jacket, feeling the heavy lump of the meteorite in one pocket. What if Nyl was telling the truth? Maybe I'm not really Tinker-touched, just a normal Earth girl jazzed up by a space rock. Miss Three seems to think I'm nothing special.

With my back to the others, I close my eyes for a moment. No. My parents promised. And I got through that door. That must count for something. Come on, Tinkers. You must have given me more than pink hair. I'll take anything. Gravity, fire. Okay, maybe not a snail shell. But let me stay here. Let me be something more.

I step into the Arena. The ground disappears. I fall, twisting aside in time to avoid being skewered by spikes lining the pit.

If I thought last night was bad, this is a million times worse. I dive and jump, my legs and arms already weak from all the other tests. I'm too slow. I'm not going to make it. Miss Three is right. I'm an idiot.

Faint bluish light haloes the mallets and spikes and every other instrument of death racing to take me out. I'm shaking; it's not only fear and complete exhaustion. Energy jolts my bones. The whole Arena hums with power. My hair's in my eyes. I try to brush it back, but it sticks to my fingers, crackling with static. A jolt of pure agony spills me onto the floor. I scream. My hands feel like I've dunked them in acid. Nola's voice echoes dimly through a fog of pain.

"Miss Three, we've got to stop it!"

"You heard Miss Ling, Nola. She asked for this."

I open my lips to scream, but nothing comes out. All I have is pain.

It stops. For a brief and glorious moment I think it's me, that I've found some Tinker-power to switch off the light show. Then I open my eyes and see him.

"Ringmaster. I didn't ... I was trying..." The words choke me. I don't want it to be real. I've failed. One day, and I've already trashed the biggest dream of my entire life. I don't belong here.

"I understand," he says, holding out a hand to help me up off the floor. "But I think that's quite enough for now."

"Ringmaster," says Miss Three, "you should know that this was all at her own request. She understood the consequences and insisted that we proceed. It is unfortunate that such extreme measures were necessary to convince her of her lack of—"

"Thank you, Miss Three, Nola. I'd like to have a word with Beatrix now."

Miss Three's simulacrum winks out, her taunting smile lingering in a ghost of photons. Nola starts packing up her tools, moving about as slow as molasses. She gives me an encouraging nod, but there's a worried crinkle between her eyes. I try to smile back. Then finally she snaps the toolbox closed. The door shuts behind her, and I'm alone with the Ringmaster.

I stand miserably, trembling all over from the aftereffects of the test and the fear of what he's about to say.

"So, would you prefer nachos or cake?"

"What?"

"Ah, you're quite right. Why choose? We'll have both. Excellent!"

I stare at him, wondering if one of the aftereffects of my thrashing is hallucinations.

"For brunch," he says. "Another fabulous word:
brunch.
Not quite one thing or the other, but sometimes it's exactly what you need. Come along." He sets off briskly toward the door. "There's something I'd like you to see, so you can begin to understand."

"Understand what?"

The Ringmaster spins around, arms flung wide. "All of this. The Big Top, the rest of the troupe, the show itself."

"But I don't have any superpowers. Aren't you going to kick me out?" My voice cracks.

"I didn't travel three hundred parsecs to Earth just for the avocados."

"You really mean it?" I'm going to cry at any moment, but I've got to say it. "You're not sending me away? I mean, it's crazy, I know, but..." I squeeze my eyes shut on the tears and whisper, "I'd die if I had to go back."

Cool fingers touch my cheek, making me jump. "Beatrix, I swear to you on ... on the honor of my name, I will never, ever ask you to leave the Big Top. This is your home now. Please believe that."

My shudder of relief nearly topples me. The Ringmaster's hand slips lower, catching me around the shoulders. "I'm not sure which of us is a bigger fool. You, for nearly killing yourself trying to prove you belong. Or me, for not expecting you'd do that." He gives me an inscrutable look.

"I'm sorry I can't do anything," I say when I find my voice again. "All I have is this stupid pink hair."

"Pink is an underrated color," he says. "Some of the best things in the universe are pink. Sunrises. Erasers. Flamingos. And ... well, there are those shellfish you can get potted with brown butter."

"Thanks. I feel so much better knowing I remind you of a prawn."

He grins. "That sense of humor will serve you better than any Tinker power. Now, can you walk? Good. Follow me."

We travel along several corridors, then down something like a firefighter's pole that puffs out a cushion of air at the bottom. I walk out into a room that definitely does not belong on a spaceship.

Gilt-framed paintings and old-fashioned green lamps fill the few bits of wall that aren't crammed floor to ceiling with bookshelves. A bunch of study carrels fills the far end. I see the blonde from breakfast in one of them. She doesn't even look up when we come in. Her carrel is filled with a dozen video screens, each of them playing something different. There's no one else in the room.

"The library," the Ringmaster announces.

"We're eating in the library?"

"Don't tell Miss Three. She'd like to have a rule against eating anywhere outside the cafeteria. But I defy anyone to read the picnic scene in
Moons over Mizzebar
without a snack. It's impossible."

"You brought me here to read about a picnic?"

"It's a brilliant book, picnics aside," he says. "But we're here for something else." He leads the way to a low table bearing matched silver-domed platters. As I sink into one of the pudgy armchairs, he pulls the covers away with a flourish.

Two heaping servings of nachos lie drenched in cheese and salsa and beans, sprinkled with black olives, and decorated with giant dollops of guacamole. The cake stands proudly alongside, topped with candied pineapple and ruby-red cherries, oozing caramel.

"Help yourself. I've got to find something."

He doesn't need to tell me twice. Now that the terrible knots are starting to unwind, I'm starving. As I chow down, the Ringmaster flits along the shelves, muttering and occasionally resting a hand on a volume, only to pull away.

"Aha!
A Treatise on the Social Conventions, Taboos, and Millinery of Deneb-5.
Perfect!"

"You want me to read about hats?" I ask around a mouthful of cheese and beans.

"What? No, the book's rubbish," he says as he returns to the table. "Miss Three insisted I read it before our last—and consequently only—performance on Deneb-5. But it's perfect raw material for the replicator."

I watch in alarm and fascination as he piles a mountain of avocado and beans onto a chip, all while balancing the book atop his baton, defying both gravity and common sense. Maybe that's his superpower. That and the ability to wear a bazillion sequins without looking like an ass.

After piloting the loaded chip into his mouth, the Ringmaster heads for the nearest painting. The stern lady in the portrait disappears, to be replaced by a slot like a library book drop and a glowing screen. The Ringmaster pops his book into the slot, then taps the screen. A loud whirring and clacking echoes from beyond the wall. With a triumphant trill of beeps, a dark oblong pops out. The Ringmaster stares at the cover for a long moment.

"Didn't it come out right?"

He sighs, so faintly I almost think I'm imagining it. "No, it's fine." He hands me the book, then plops down and begins polishing off the rest of his nachos.

I can barely make out the title.
The Programme of the Circus Galacticus, Twelfth Edition.
Someone used up an entire lifetime supply of gold curlicues decorating this thing. I flip to a random page and read aloud. "'Act Nine: Firedance. Having gained the Seeds of the Tree of Life, the Dreamers seek to Kindle the Seeds in the Fires of the King. As the Trickster confuses and beguiles the King, the Dreamers carry out a series of foudroyant escapades...'" I look up. "Is
foudroyant
a real word or is the translator being goofy?"

"It's most certainly a real word, and an excellent one at that. It means
dazzling.
"

"And you didn't think it might be easier just to say
dazzling?
"

"You can never have too many words that mean
dazzling.
Besides, I didn't write it. The Big Top did."

"The spaceship takes notes on your performances?"

"The Big Top is more than a spaceship. And it's not notes; it's a script. A performance by the Circus Galacticus is more than death-defying feats and amusements. It's a story."

"Like a musical, but with clowns and acrobatics?"

He taps his nose. "Exactly."

"Do you mean the Big Top writes the plot? Is it always the same?"

"Yes and no," replies the Ringmaster vaguely as he carves off a chunk of cake and wraps it in a napkin. I crunch down on my last handful of chips, waiting for more answers.

"But you should read
The Programme
before we continue this conversation," he says, standing. "You do that, and I'll be back before you miss me." He winks, toasting me with his slice of cake, then disappears out the door before I can do more than sputter through my mouthful of corn chips.

The blonde is watching me. "You don't fit," she says. "You have to find it."

"Um. Okay." I slouch down, open
The Programme
to page one, and begin reading.

It starts with a cast list of a dozen characters. First up is "The Ringmaster: Madcap and Mysterious, he awakens Dream and Color in the grim world of the sleepers held fast within the hold of the Iron King."

I read through the rest of them, my brain struggling under the onslaught of melodramatic word choices and capital letters. Some of the entries don't make a lot of sense. There's one for a character called the Trickster: "Veiled in Shadow, he may be Friend or Foe." I've got no clue who that is.

Others are clear enough. "The Stardancer: A Graceful Voyager who cavorts among the Stars, her Beauty and Power inspire the Dreamers to hold fast to their Hope." Sirra's got beauty and power all right, but what she inspires in me isn't hope. More like loathing.

The last entry is for "The Lightbearer: Dappled in Light and Dark, she Illuminates the Treachery of the King." That must be Dalmatian, with her spotted skin and light-bending powers.

It goes on into descriptions of each act. I skim the entire book pretty quickly. By the time the Ringmaster comes back, I'm rereading the last few acts.

He's changed his coat to a blindingly lime-green version, and there's something that resembles a singed bullet hole in the crown of his top hat. But he slides gracefully into his chair with the air of someone who's just taken a refreshing stroll in the park.

"So?" he asks. "What do you think?"

"It's sort of like a fairy tale or something. But it's—sorry—a little weird."

The Ringmaster nods and mm-hmms in a way that doesn't tell me anything useful, so I continue. "These Dreamer people want to reach the stars, so they try a bunch of different things. But the King and his Minions stop them every time, and then finally the Oracle tells them to go to the Tree of Life. So they go and—is there
really
an act that involves dancing fruit?"

"It's quite a crowd pleaser, actually," says the Ringmaster.

"If you say so. Anyway, they get the magic beans. But for some reason, they need to dunk them in the King's fires to make them grow, so the Trickster helps them do that. And then he disappears, and so does the King, and everyone lives happily ever after, which makes no sense."

He leans forward, drumming his fingers against the jeweled top of his baton. "Why?"

"There's something missing."

"Ah." He leans back again, looking remarkably pleased with himself. "I knew you were clever. Please, elucidate."

"Well, for one, the Iron King fellow causes all this trouble and then what? He just goes away and lets them fly up into the stars at the end? There ought to be a big fight or something. And the description of the Lightbearer talks about her revealing treachery, but that never happens." I thump the book down on the table. "Why are there twelve editions? There's something you're not explaining."