But deep down he knew he’d never be able to turn Phoebe over to the authorities. He admired too much what she’d done for the Blarmlings. Right now that made him guilty of aiding and abetting a criminal, an offense that could send him back to the Theiler planets, this time as a real criminal. But they hadn’t reached a planet that had a security station yet, so there was still time to change his mind.
There was still time to stay on the right side of the law.
It was the way he’d lived his life, up till now. But Phoebe and the Blarmlings had changed all that. It was time to admit it . . . at least to himself.
Rigel sighed. When Phoebe cocked her head in question he smiled at her. “I think we should name the ship The Blarmlings’ Hope.”
Phoebe’s smile filled the dingy ship with starshine, and the Blarmlings trilled and clicked.
We believe in you. Their message rang through, loud and clear.
“Well, if we’re going to get you guys home, we need to get this ship fixed.” Rigel plopped himself in front of the ship’s computer and linked into the local system to scan for employment opportunities. He sure hoped there was something available on the platform. Jobs weren’t easy to come by for a spacer.
“Rotund?”
After hours of searching, fifty-four applications, and fifty-four rejections, Rigel wasn’t sure he was seeing clearly. No one trusted a spacer. In most cases with good cause. But Rotund, if he was really here, would give Rigel the chance he needed.
Phoebe leaned over his shoulder and squinted at the monitor. “Rotund’s Galactic Extravaganza? A traveling show?”
Rigel nodded. “A circus.” The archaic form of entertainment had died out at the midpoint of the twenty-first century only to be revived one hundred years later as a nostalgia show piece by the one and only R. T. ‘Rotund’ Barnum. The man claimed ancestry to, and styled himself as, the heir of a legendary showman. Only Rigel and a few select others knew R. T. Barnum was a complete fake—yet another spacer trying to hide from his past.
Rigel’s first meeting with the larger-than-life showman had been a life changing experience.
“I need someone fearless,” Rotund had told him. “Someone like you.”
At fifteen, Rigel believed he was fearless. Now, ten years later, he knew he’d just been stupid—used by the showman for two years. He’d put his life on the line each night just to thrill an audience. But it had been work and credits, as a young spacer, he couldn’t have gotten anywhere else, and it’d fed his youthful ego.
Living on the edge, he’d celebrated surviving each night with an excess of Gorian brewed thistle schnapps, and lovely ladies from across the galaxy. He’d traveled and performed, living each night like it was his last, as well it might have been. Luck, or some divine presence, had seen him through that time, right up to that last night, when it all came tumbling down.
“You’re no good to me until you heal,” Rotund told him, dismissing Rigel from the only real job he’d ever had.
His right leg still ached, though he constantly forced himself to walk without limping. It was the main reason he spent as much time as possible in zero-G. He didn’t need to use his gimpy leg, while floating in space.
Rigel shook his head to clear his vision and shake himself out of the past, back to the present. He’d read the display accurately. Rotund and the show were here, on Alpha Cygnus.
He turned to face Phoebe and the Blarmlings, and stood, ignoring the twinge in his right thigh. “Stay here. Keep working on the ship. Any repair you can do gets the Blarmlings home sooner.” He headed toward the hatch.
“Where are you going?” Phoebe’s concern was echoed by the Blarmlings.
Rigel smiled—a vain attempt to comfort their fears. “I’m running away to join the circus . . . again.”
Chapter 10
At age fifteen, youths born on the prison planets were granted amnesty if they desired. One hundred galactic credits and a ride to any planet in the system wasn’t much to start a life on, and most decided to stay in the system they knew. But Rigel’s mother had encouraged him to leave and make his own way in the galaxy.
“It’s my fault you’re here, but it will be your fault if you stay,” she’d said. “Take this opportunity and make something of your life.”
To her credit, she’d done her best to make him ready for the culture shock freedom brought. Still, one hundred credits didn’t last him long. His funds were exhausted, and his stomach grumbling, the day Rotund’s Galactic Extravaganza had rumbled into town and offered him a unique opportunity.
Just as he’d done ten years earlier, Rigel watched the circus parade pass by. The wagons were more worn, the paint more flecked, and the calliope even further out of tune.
Still, he followed the wagons to their destination. This time he went, knowing full well what he would be asked to do. But once again, he was in no position to turn down the offer. Mechanophants pulled on the titanium cables, lifting the green and yellow striped tenting up the meter-thick central posts. Wrinkled, gray synthetic skin mimicked the look of an extinct behemoth of an earlier age. Long, serpentine snouts trumpeted, as large flat ears flapped. Had these creatures actually existed? Would a visitor from Earth’s past even suspect there were only mechanicals underneath the wrinkled hide?
Rotund, the circus owner and ringmaster, had been convinced a circus needed elephants, even though rhinoplats, phlang beasts, and morganoids were easily obtained from their home worlds, and much cheaper to maintain, requiring only feed and occasional clean up. The circus had its share of live fauna. Beasts from across the galaxy were on display throughout the grounds in stout cages, or roaming with their handlers. Still, Rigel had to admit, nothing compared to the Mechanophants. The real animal they mimicked must have been a magnificent creature to watch.
Sweet and savory aromas wafted over a base odor of animal dung and human sweat. Rigel breathed it all in. It felt familiar. Even after so many years, it smelled like home. As the big top rose above the field of synthetic grass, he wove his way through the trailers and wagons that had just finished their parade through the center of the platform’s business district.
Rotund’s wagon hadn’t changed. Opulent, garish, and over the top, much like the man himself. The cagy ringmaster weighed upwards of twenty kilos, yet appeared to move effortlessly. Like everything else about him, it was all illusion. He supported his great girth with the help of an antigrav belt, carefully hidden under his bright gold and red waistcoat. Meticulously pressed black pants, hid leg supports within bold golden stripes down each side. Boots, polished to a mirror shine, disguised mechanics that had replaced gangrenous feet, long ago amputated.
The only thing authentic about R. T. Barnum was the battered top hat, long ago recovered from the remains of the Circus World Museum on old Earth. It was the place Louis Piccard, small time con man, had died, and R. T. ‘Rotund’ Barnum, the Galaxy’s Greatest Showman, had been born.
“And so the Great Rigeletto returns to the big top.” Rigel heard the rattle in the old man’s voice and recognized the purple splotching on his neck. Years of living badly were catching up with the old ringmaster. It was about time.
Rigel shrugged. “I could use a job. You got anything open?”
The ringmaster chuckled, his voice rattling into a cough, but he gained control quickly. “As it turns out, your old job is available if you want it. If you can do it.”
Not surprised, Rigel forced himself to continue. “You couldn’t find anyone to replace me?”
“Not for more than a few months. Last one only made it a week.” Rotund’s eyes were bright, his mind obviously still sharp. “You were the best, boy. Not easily replaced.”
“One thousand credits per night.”
Rotund raised an eyebrow. “Can you still do it? How’s the leg?”
Rigel ignored
the twinge that shot through his right thigh. “I’m fine.”
The ringmaster shook his head. “Times are tough. Five hundred.”
“You and I both know your numbers will go up if I’m in the air. Your wagers with the local oddsmen alone will cover the difference.” Rigel crossed his arms and leveled his gaze at the man. “Eight hundred.”
Scowling, Rotund pointed one thick finger at Rigel. “I don’t even know if you can do it anymore. Six hundred.”
“Try me. As soon as the big top’s up. I’ll need a run through anyway. If I pass the test . . . seven hundred.”
“Are we talking with, or without the belt?” The old man’s eyes held a hint of mischief.
“Don’t be foolish, Louis,” Rigel knew using his real name would put Rotund on edge, but the man needed to know he was serious. “I’m not the naïve boy I was ten years ago. Of course I mean with the belt.”
“I tell you what.” Rotund paused as if in thought, but Rigel knew exactly what was coming next. “Six hundred with the belt . . . double that without.”
It was the same offer he’d made ten years ago—a deal with the devil to tempt fate. A trickle of cold sweat ran between Rigel’s shoulder blades. A chill crept up his spine as his leg throbbed with remembered pain. Rotund held out his hand and cocked his head. “Deal?”
Rigel knew he’d been maneuvered, again, but he was older and wiser now. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes. He only needed to make enough to repair The Blarmlings’ Hope then he’d be gone.
God, he was already thinking of the P-86 by its new name. How had he come to this?
Then he thought about Phoebe and the Blarmlings. They needed him. She needed him. This was nothing like ten years ago.
“Deal,” he said, grasping Rotund’s hand. “Let’s see if I still know how to juggle.”
“I’ll be damned.”
The unmistakable voice caught Rigel by surprise. An alcove, hidden amongst the packing boxes used to create his dressing room, concealed a diminutive form. But it was a familiar face that peered out at Rigel from the shadows.
“Hello, Markus. Avoiding work? Or trying to catch some unfortunate young woman in a state of undress?” Rigel was trying to squeeze into the skin-tight leotard provided by the circus’s costumer.
“Why, both, of course.” Markus laughed as he emerged from the darkness. No doubt he’d had something to do with the arrangement of the temporary dressing room. “Imagine my surprise when I find you instead. Put that thing on before I go blind.”
At less than a meter high, Markus was easily overlooked. The midget clown tottered into view and leaned against a crate.
His smiling, painted face sobered. “What the hell are you doing back here, Rigel? Damn it man, you got out.”
“I need the credits,” Rigel admitted. He hadn’t seen his old friend since he’d left the show.
Markus hopped off the crate he’d been standing on and trundled over to Rigel, his hand outstretched. “You’re not planning to stay?”
Rigel took the offered hand and shook his head. This was his old way of life, not something he’d even consider taking up again were he not desperate. “I just need enough to fix my ship, then I’m gone.”
“Good!” Markus wrinkled his brows. “He’ll kill you if you stay too long. You know that. He maims or kills everyone eventually.”
Rigel was under no delusions that Rotund cared anything for his people beyond how many credits they could bring in. Risk was a part of many acts in the circus, and the more risk, the bigger the reward. It was risk that brought in the crowds.
“Yet, you’re still here.” Rigel raised an eyebrow at his friend.
He’d lasted two years with the show before his accident, an eternity for one of Rotund’s aerialists, but it had only taken one mistake to end his career. The clowns had it easier, though there was always attrition in their numbers. Lower risk meant lower pay.
He’d offered to take Markus with him when he’d left eight years ago, but the diminutive man refused, saying, “Clowning’s the only thing I know how to do.”
Rigel wondered how things would have turned out with Markus as his right hand man. Certainly the hours in space wouldn’t have been as lonely. “The offer to join me is still open.”
A look crossed the clown’s eyes. Somehow Rigel had struck a nerve. Markus was actually thinking about it. What kind of danger could Rotund be putting clowns in?
“What?” Rigel prodded.
“Clowns are dropping almost as fast as aerialists lately,” he admitted. “Rotund got his hands on a teleporter.”
“What?” Rigel couldn’t believe his ears. The technology was new—just being rolled out to transport goods between planets. It had certainly not been approved for people. Hell, they’d barely tested it on rats. “You’re not getting in that thing?”
“Me? No!” Markus shook his head. “Rotund still needs me to drive his new clown car. But the others . . .”
Markus was clenching his teeth and shaking his head.
Rigel finished struggling into the leotard. It was a bit snug, but he had a feeling that old Magda, Rotund’s costumer, had done that on purpose. He grabbed the four juggling clubs from the shelf and launched them, one at a time, into the air. Did he still have what it took?
“Tell me about your act,” he asked Markus, hoping he could still juggle while being distracted. Convinced he’d never need his skills again, he hadn’t practiced in years.
Markus cleared his throat. Something had him edgy. “Because of the machinery, the new car only has enough room inside for one regular sized person to fit and I’m the only one small enough to actually drive it. After I park and roll out, the others are teleported in one at a time. They tumble out and we run into each other acting all addlebrained.”
The clown car routine was timeless, and the teleporter would add a new dimension to it. Unlimited clowns coming out of an extremely small space. While the execution bordered on the criminal, the concept was brilliant.
“It sounds hilarious.”
“It is,” Markus admitted, then his eyes darkened. “Problem is . . . most of them aren’t acting. The teleporter messes with their brains. Sometimes it takes hours for their heads to clear, which is not a big drawback for a clown. Sometimes, though, they never come out of it. When that happens Rotund just lets them go, finding another clown to replace them. And in this economy there’s always someone available.”
It had been no different years ago when Rigel had taken his fall and become worthless to the old ringmaster. Rotund used people, oftentimes using them up, then tossing them aside like waste.
Rigel continued to throw and catch the juggling clubs, wondering if he should try and add a fifth one to the mix. The juggling was the easy part, though. Four clubs would probably be all he cared to handle at first, once he got up on the high wire.
“Tannen went that way.” Markus’s closed eyes, suddenly leaked tears.
Rigel remembered the old clown. Tannen had been a classic performer in a galaxy that didn’t appreciate the age-old art of clowning.
Graying, Tannen was in his late fifties when Rigel left the circus. The old clown and Markus had been inseparable friends, Tannen having taught Markus much of his craft.
“I found a place for him on Arvold-3. It’s nice, he’s comfortable. I visit when I can.” More tears fell, streaking Markus’s grease-painted cheeks. “He doesn’t know who I am. He doesn’t remember anything.”
The obvious pain jolted Rigel’s heart and he dropped a juggling club. So much for dividing his concentration. Keeping the remaining three in the air with one hand he stooped down to retrieve the forth and added it back into the mix.
“You can’t do that when you’re up there, you know,” Markus jibed. Adept at hiding emotion behind greasepaint and antics
, Markus was once again the carefree, fun loving imp he preferred to show the world. “You are using the grav belt, aren’t you?”
“Rotund offered me double if I didn’t.” He needed to at least consider the offer. The Blarmlings’ Hope needed a lot of repair.
“He would, the bastard,” Markus sneered. “You damn well better not be considering it.”
Rigel shrugged. “It’s tempting. I’m in a bit of a rush.”
“Damn it,” Markus spat. “Damn him!” The clown gestured in the direction of Rotund’s wagon, then stormed away sputtering. “I’m not losing another friend to that bastard’s machinations.”
Rigel shook his head and caught the clubs as they descended one last time. Holding them all in one hand, he grabbed the grav belt from the shelf with the other, then turned to enter the big top. It was time to test his bad leg and rusty skills on the high wire.
Chapter 11
The portside thruster sputtered and died. A stream of bipinal spouted from the ruptured fuel line. Phoebe’s heart sank as she closed the valve.
“Phat photons!”
She’d had a feeling the old fuel line wouldn’t hold pressure. There weren’t enough spare parts left to scavenge on this old ship.
Sweaty and grease spattered, she wiped her hands with a cloth so dirty it was hard to tell if it helped at all. “Ugh!” She dropped the cloth and headed toward Rigel’s bedchamber, hopping on one foot to pull her boots off one at a time, then peeling out of her jumpsuit and underwear on the way. She stuffed the garments in the sanitizer, wishing for the umpteenth time she had more clothing to change into.
The Blarmling Dilemma (Hearts in Orbit Book 1) Page 7