Circus Galacticus Read online

  "Good. I've heard enough about that stupid show already. Just tell me if I can eat the eggs."

  "Are you sure? It's quite the shocker! Oooh, the plot twists!"

  "Just. Yes. Or. No."

  "Yes." My know-it-all goes silent. If it had a body, I bet it would be crossing its arms and looking pointedly away. I flop a spoonful of the eggs onto my empty plate. My stomach grumbles. I hope they taste as good as they smell.

  I pause, fork raised partway to my lips. Sirra is giving me an awfully strange look. I wonder if she's planning to wig me out by telling me these are bug eggs or something. But I've already seen half the other kids eating them. And my know-it-all said they were safe. I take a bite.

  My mouth bursts into flames. Seriously, it feels like someone is rubbing hot coals along my tongue. I sputter, forcing myself to gulp down the bite rather than risk spewing it on everyone else. Not that Sirra doesn't deserve it.

  "Little spicy?" Sirra asks, taking a bite of her own, hoity-toity as a lady eating tea sandwiches.

  I try to say something rude, but it hurts too much. I grab a glass of green juice and suck it down so fast I don't even taste it. Maybe the pepper-eggs already burned away my taste buds.

  "Mmmphhhagh! Stupid overgrown encyclopedia!" I slap my earpiece. "What was that, Britannica? You said they were safe!"

  "They are," chirps the know-it-all, rather smugly. "You're alive."

  "Why didn't you warn me it was going to burn my mouth out?"

  "Yes or no. I believe those were your exact words."

  I fume incoherently. It doesn't help that half the table is giggling. No way. Not here. Not again. I will not be the loser everyone else laughs at.

  "Come on," says Sirra, rising. "Time for those of us who belong here to get to work. Miss Three is waiting for us."

  The rest of the table filters away, leaving me rubbing my streaming eyes. As I'm fumbling for more juice, someone pushes something crusty and crumbly into my hand.

  "Eat that," says Etander. "It should cut the heat. According to my know-it-all, that is."

  I blink at the thing in my hand. It looks like a piece of toast. I figure things can't really get much worse, so I take a bite. It doesn't make everything magically all better, but he's right: It does dull the pain. I look up to thank Etander, but he's gone already, disappearing out the door with his sister.

  "Listen up, you demonic thing," I inform my know-it-all. "You are going to take me to Nola. You are not leaving out any more important details. You are not letting me make a fool of myself."

  "I'm a know-it-all, dear, not a miracle worker."

  "I mean it. Or I'm cutting your feed from Love Among the Stars"

  "You wouldn't dare!"

  "Try me."

  "Hmmph. Very well. Stand up from the table. Turn left. Walk twenty paces. Go through the door. Turn right—"

  "You're pushing it, Britannica."

  "They are important details."

  I groan. "After this, being tested for superpowers'll be a picnic." I stand up, turn left, and walk twenty paces out the door.

  CHAPTER 7

  Placement

  SO WHO'S MISS THREE?" I ask as I do yet another lap around the common room, too nervous to sit. I feel like a pinball, rattling around waiting to be bounced in or out of the game. "I thought she was training the Principals right now."

  "She is," says Nola. She sits cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with a bundle of blinking wires and mechanical guts that hang from the wall. "She's an artificial intelligence, but she's got three different simulacra. Did that translate? You know what I'm talking about, right?"

  I stop pacing. "In the movies on Earth, the Als are usually the bad guys."

  "Well..." Nola twiddles with one of the wires, zapping it with her wrench.

  "I don't like the sound of that."

  "She is a bad guy. Was, I mean. She was created by the Mandate, years and years ago."

  "And you invited her onto your Tinker ship? I thought the Mandate were the Big Bad?"

  "The Ringmaster reprogrammed Miss Three himself. He wanted to learn about the Mandate, and Miss Three can teach us."

  "So you can fight them?"

  "You cannot fight the Mandate," says a voice that bites my skin like a static shock. I whirl around to see a ghostly figure in a dark suit that definitely was not there a moment ago. The hologram holds a clipboard and stylus as insubstantial as herself. With her slicked-back hair and perfect bone structure, she reminds me a lot of a department store mannequin.

  Nola stops fiddling with her wires and scrambles to her feet. "Miss Three, this is—"

  "Our beloved Ringmaster's newest recruit. Beatrix Ling. Lately of Sol-3, commonly called Earth by the distressing melange of individuals that live there," says Miss Three. "Currently unclassified."

  I straighten my shoulders. "I'm ready for your tests."

  "Convinced you're something special, are you? No doubt he's already filled your head with dreams of being a star."

  I stare right back. No way some microchip is getting me riled up.

  She gives a little shrug, then runs a stylus across her clipboard. "Let's get started, then. We'll begin with the medical examination."

  An hour later, I've been poked and pricked and prodded enough for a hundred checkups. I lift weights, run on a treadmill, jump, tumble, balance, and throw darts at a screen. All the while Miss Three watches, like it's all some faintly amusing practical joke.

  Nola hustles around silently, fetching this or that instrument when Miss Three requests it, occasionally shooting me reassuring looks.

  I'm trying harder than I've tried for anything in my whole life. I know I nail the physical tests. But I don't warp gravity. I don't shoot lightning out of my fingertips. Aside from my pink hair, I'm depressingly normal.

  "That's enough, Nola," says Miss Three. "Clearly Miss Ling has only an average degree of visual recall."

  Nola gulps and flicks a switch. The shapes vanish from the wallscreen.

  "Wait! Let me try again! I do have a good memory. I've got practically every constellation memorized."

  "All well and good, Miss Ling, but I'm afraid our audiences are unlikely to be entertained by a recitation of crude astronomical nomenclature pertaining to a sky they will never see."

  "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 me
tal. 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.