Circus Galacticus

by Deva Fagan

  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."

  "Many things, in point of fact," says the Ringmaster. "Infuriating, isn't it? But if I sent you to the corner market to buy bread, you'd go straight to the bakery section, pick up your loaf, and be off. There might be perfectly ripe tomatoes and cans of curried sardines, and you'd walk right on by without even taking notice."

  "If I saw curried sardines, I'd definitely keep walking," I say. "And what if you really needed bread?"

  "The point is, most people become blind if they're told what to do."

  "Are you going to explain about the twelve editions or not?"

  "Twelve editions," echoes a clear, sharp voice from across the room. It's the blonde. "Twelve characters."

  "Oh, now, that's cheating," protests the Ringmaster, but I'm already opening the book to the front and peering at the cast list.

  "She's right. There are twelve of them." I tap my finger under the last entry. "The Lightbearer is Dalmatian. And she was the last one to join, before me. So the Big Top creates a new Programme whenever a new person comes on board? No, that can't be right, because there's more than twelve of us. What? Why are you smiling like that?"

  "You said 'us.'"

  "Maybe I shouldn't have. I'm not in The Programme. "

  "Not every new member of the troupe produces a new edition of The Programme."

  "But you thought I might." Now I understand that look he'd had, earlier, staring at the book. My insides sink, dragging me deeper into the chair.

  "Chin up, Beatrix. You'll make a brilliant Clown, for the time being."

  "For the time being?"

  "Until something changes. No, don't ask. Remember the sardines."

  "I don't understand, though, why you bother calling people Clowns and Principals and Freaks. They're all in here in The Programme, one way or another."

  He pauses, like he's not sure which answer to give me. Finally he says, "Those labels—they're meant to help you work together, not to divide you."

  "Hmph. Tell that to Sirra."

  He raises an eyebrow. "None of us is perfect, Beatrix. Everyone here deserves to be given a chance, including Sirra. You're not the only one I invited onto this ship."

  What? He's taking Sirra's side? Has he not been paying attention?

  "So you're okay with it all? You like having everyone sitting at their own special table?"

  "Of course I don't like it," says the Ringmaster sharply.

  "Then do something about it! Can't you make them—"

  "No!" The bullet-crack violence of the word sends me cringing back in my seat. "It doesn't work that way. That's what they do. It's not why I'm here." The Ringmaster is on his feet, hands clenched to white knuckles on his baton, all trace of the lighthearted jester snuffed out.

  My mouth is dry, but I force a question out, to re-lease the painful tension that fills the air. "Then why are you here?"

  Something seems to break in his eyes, and he sinks back into his chair, the baton now loose in his hands, resting across his sharp knees. He laughs, but there's a bitterness to it. "That, Beatrix, is an exceptionally good question. And I'll give you one in return. How do you free someone when he doesn't even realize he's in a cage? Sometimes we like our prisons. They can be very comfortable. What would you do?"

  "I'd bust them all. Every one."

  "Somehow I believe you could do it," he says, smiling for real. He springs lightly to his feet and pulls me to join him. "Enough philosophizing. It's time for the Clowns' afternoon training session. Let's go and show them how foudroyant you can be."

  CHAPTER 8

  Firedance

  APPARENTLY even on a spaceship the size of the Big Top there aren't a lot of open areas, so we head to the main performance ring for the practice session. It's a little different than I remember it. The "tent" walls still swoop up into dark heights, but most of the bleachers are collapsed into heaps of metal along the sides.

  There are other differences: Bottles of water and shoes lie in scattered heaps outside the Ring. The lights are steady and bright, and the soundtrack is the drumming of feet and the counts and calls of the performers. The fantastic costumes and makeup are gone.

  And it is still damn impressive. I hang back by the doors. Am I crazy? Can I really do this?

  The Ringmaster turns to me. "Nervous?"

  "No! I mean, yeah, a little. It's just ... I don't know the routines." And they might all hate me.

  "Never fear. You'll shine."

  "Yeah, I can see it now. A big, shiny fall on my ass."

  He laughs, which somehow makes it better. "We all fall sometimes. I once tripped clear out of the Ring right in the middle of the grand finale. Ended up in the lap of the ambassador from the Thenx Syndicate. Nothing can be as bad as that, believe me."

  "Why? Was the ambassador upset?"

  "No. She wouldn't let me go! Kept shoving universal credit chits down my shirt front."

  "That doesn't sound so—"

  "With her tentacles."

  "Okay, okay, you win." I take a breath and raise one hand to the Clown insignia newly clipped onto my jacket. "Let's do this."

  Now it's the Ringmaster's turn to hesitate, like an actor about to step onstage. He closes his eyes, just for a moment. It's funny, he's so effortlessly dazzling—so foudroyant—but how much wattage does it take to keep that charm blazing? What happens when the batteries need recharging?

  I'm about to ask if he's okay, but by the time I open my mouth, he's plunging ahead into the room. The moment he steps into the Ring, every eye is on him. Seriously, I even check up top for a spotlight, but there's nothing. It's all him. The Clowns break off their practice and surge toward us in a mob.

  "Hello, hello, my jongleurs and jollies," he calls out as the tide of performers crashes into him, then breaks apart to surround us in an excited and slightly sweaty pool. "Practice goes smashingly as ever, I see. Theon, that last leap was excellent. You'll have the crowd on its feet."

  At this, the green-haired girl who was juggling muff
ins at breakfast grins. Another girl gives her a high-five. Her smile fades quickly, though. "They'll be on their feet walking out if we don't fix the rest of the act," she says, crossing her arms. "It's crap, Ringmaster. It doesn't work without the Trickster. And now the King's broken down again. Half the time the light and smoke don't even work. You need to do something."

  "Ah, well, there are always a few hiccups, aren't there? But first, let me introduce the newest recruit to the Clown Corps. This is Beatrix Ling."

  Most of them actually smile, or at least look curious. The only one who doesn't is the goth chick, but I'm guessing it would take an event bigger than me to crack a reaction out of that amount of sullen.

  The green-haired girl gives me a calculating once-over, then holds out a hand. I grit my teeth and match her viselike grip. "Good, we can use some new blood. I'm Theon. I make things frictionless." Suddenly her fingers are like oil in my hand, slipping free and leaving me clutching air. "So," she says, "what can you do, Beatrix?"

  "Um..."

  "She can hold her own in the Arena, for one thing," says the boy with the brilliant red hair. "I'm Jom," he adds, giving me a wave. "Welcome to the Clown Corps, Beatrix."

  "Just Trix is fine," I say. "I've got pink hair. And ... um ... spunk." Did I really say that? I am the definition of lameness. "But, um, I'm totally up for learning the routines. You guys look amazing out there."

  "We work hard," says Theon, but she smiles, which makes her look a little less like a drill sergeant. "And don't worry; you'll catch on. You're quick. I can tell."

  "Very good," says the Ringmaster. "And now..." He pauses, his eyes distant.

  Theon groans. "Not again."

  The Ringmaster comes out of the momentary daze, but he still looks distracted, like he's doing calculus in the back of his brain. "I'll be off now."

  "But, Ringmaster," Theon protests, "you promised you'd actually stay for this practice! We wanted to show you the new bit Asha and Leri worked out. And what about the Trickster? And the King?"

  "I have every confidence you can work things out, Theon. I promise I'll run through the video feeds later. But you know how these things are. We're coming up on a stellar dust field. There may be leeches. The Big Top needs me."

  "So do we," mutters Theon. But he's already heading for the door. "All right, I guess we're on our own. Let's take it from the top, people. Jom, have Trix shadow you until she's got the basics."

  "Don't let Theon get to you," says Jom as he leads me to the far side of the Ring. "She's got kind of an obsession with people's powers. Maybe because the best thing about hers is that she never has a bad hair day. Not that I should talk. I mean, all I do is make smells."

  "Smells?"

  "Yeah." He rubs a hand back across his scarlet crest of hair. "It was pretty miserable for a while. Couldn't control it. Made everything smell like rotten pepper-eggs. I think if the Ringmaster hadn't shown up, my parents were going to disown me."

  "The Ringmaster helped you control your stink?"

  "Yep. And now..."

  A rich scent like the most absolutely amazingly wonderful brownie floods my nose. Seriously, I nearly fall over; it's that good. "Whoa! That's amazing. And cruel."

  "Food is my forte. And don't worry; I'm doing something special for dessert tonight!" Jom winks. "Here's our starting mark," he adds, pointing out a glowing symbol on the floor.

  I give a little test bounce. The entire Ring is a kind of giant trampoline. No wonder the Clowns could manage those phenomenal leaps. A little ripple of excitement fizzes through me. I can do this. It might even be fun. A bunch of other marks illuminate the floor, like a crazy-complicated set of dance steps. Jom gives me a rundown, but even so, I finally cave and flick on Britannica to help me keep track. Fortunately she seems to consider it a matter of personal honor that I nail my moves, so there's a minimum of space-opera small talk.

  We run through the sequence a half-dozen times. The third time Jom has me take over his part so he can see what I make of it. After that we alternate. The translator doesn't catch everything Jom says, but it must be positive, since he's smiling. Even Theon gives me a "Nice one!" after I finally land the tricky third midair tumble without a falter. It's almost enough to bust me out of my doubts, to make me start believing the Ringmaster that this is where I belong.

  As I watch the Clowns running through the Firedance for the sixth time, two things stick out. One is: These guys have some absolutely mad energy and talent. No way are they second string, even if they aren't Principals. Two is: Theon was right about the routine. It's not working.

  The Programme has us Clowns divvied up, half as Dreamers, half as Minions of the Iron King. From what I remember, this act involves us trying to dunk the magic beans into the King's fire. It ends when the Trickster finally succeeds, then vanishes in a puff of smoke.

  I watch the glowing dance-step symbols rippling across the stage and realize why things are so weird. There are two sets of symbols that nobody's following. When Theon calls for a rest break, Jom and I head over for a chat.

  "We don't have a Trickster anymore," says Theon, popping the cap from her water bottle so hard it shoots off across the room. "And we never had any King other than old Rustbucket there." She jerks a thumb over her shoulder at the mechanical "King" at the center of the ring. I can see what she means. He's cool-looking and all, with the black spiky crown and clawlike hands. But one of his red glowing eyes is on the fritz, which makes him look like he's winking at us. And most of the time his grand gestures get stuck on repeat until someone manages to give him a thump on the back. Plus, he's supposed to be moving around, according to the choreography. I think this old guy would collapse if he tried to move an inch.

  "So where are they? They're in The Programme."

  "The way we figure it, there's never been a flesh-and-blood King," says Theon. "At least, we've been using the rustbucket since anybody can remember. But we did have a Trickster, once. He left."

  "That's crazy. I mean, look at this place. Why would anybody leave?"

  "I don't know the whole story," says Jom, "but the way I heard it, he ran away and joined the Outcasts."

  "The what?"

  "There are a lot more Tinker-touched in the universe than us," says Theon. She swigs her water, a dent deepening between her brows. "Some of them try to hide, some of them get taken by the Core or the Mandate, and some of them fight back."

  "So aside from the Core Governance that wants to use us and the Mandate agents, who probably want to do something equally nasty to us, there's some sort of League of Evil Mutants out there?"

  Theon nods. "I was pretty new when it all went down, but I guess Reaper thought we should be doing more, fighting the Mandate and even the Core Governance. There was a big blowup between him and the Ringmaster, and the next day he was gone. The Ringmaster never talks about it, but people say Reaper joined up with the Outcasts and—what are they doing here?"

  I turn to see Sirra and Etander crossing the floor toward the Ring. Sirra steams ahead; I can almost see her flags flying for battle. Etander lags behind like an anchor trying to slow her down.

  We gather into a united Clown front. Even Ghost lurks near the back of the pack. Theon is gritting her teeth, and I catch a whiff of smoke and hot metal as I take a position between her and Jom.

  "We need to use the Tent," says Sirra.

  "We've got another hour of practice scheduled," says Theon. "After that, it's all yours."

  "We need it now."

  Jom's checking something on his know-it-all. "You guys are scheduled in the small practice hall."

  "The lifters broke down. Again."

  "So call a Tech," says Asha, narrowing green eyes slitted like a cat's. Her twin sister nods in agreement.

  "I did. But it's going to take an hour, and we need to practice."

  "So do we," I say.

  "That's for sure," Sirra says. "But Etander and I are Principals." I feel her eyes latching onto the Clown insignia on my collar. "Peopl
e actually care about our act. The Firedance is nothing but filler now. Everyone knows it."

  "Oh, really?" I cross my arms. "Want to make a bet? Our new and improved Firedance is going to blow your Skydance out of the ... sky," I stumble over my metaphor, but I think she gets my drift.

  "New Firedance?" Jom's scarlet brows arch in surprise. The hot-metal smell turns abruptly to a light peppery scent that makes my nose itch. I give him a sharp look. "Oh, right," he says. "Our new Firedance. That we've been practicing. Just now."

  "I'm calling the Ringmaster," says Theon, shaking her head. "He can sort this out."

  Sirra shakes her head. "There's nothing to sort out. We need the practice space."

  "Sirra," says Etander, "we can wait. There's no need to—"

  "Yes, there is! You know we need to work on it. You nearly missed your catch last show. We can't afford that kind of mistake!"

  By this time, the rest of the Clowns are in on the action, calling out and shouting. Theon's trying to leave some kind of message for the Ringmaster. Jom is waving his hands and telling everyone to stay calm, but the cool spring rain scent he's putting out isn't settling anybody down. Even Etander's hands are shaking, though to give him credit, he still looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.

  I ball my hands into fists. "You don't want this fight, Sirra. We were here first."

  "You?" She laughs. "You haven't been here a week. You don't know anything about how things work around here. You're a Clown. I'm a Principal. And that's—"

  "Sirra!"

  Etander's choked call spins his sister around. I blink, not sure I'm seeing clearly. Something's wrong with his hands. Sharp spines pierce the skin. In a ripple of shimmering charcoal, they become something monstrous. He grimaces, lips twisting, teeth clenched. I only meet his eyes for a moment. He closes them before I have to look away from the agony and shame.

  "What's wrong with him?" I ask. "Do we need to get—"