Circus Galacticus

by Deva Fagan

  "Stay back," Sirra snaps. "He's fine!" Heedless of the spines, she takes his hands in hers. "Etander, listen to me. It's all right." She makes a gentle shushing noise, all while gripping his monstrous claws. Scarlet drips from her tight fingers to splash on the floor between them.

  A growling bellow rips from Etander's twisted lips. Spines are starting to bristle along his cheeks. I flinch. Sirra doesn't. "Come back, Etander. Please." The last word is a bare whisper of desperation.

  Silence holds the rest of us so tight we barely breathe as Sirra fights to pull her brother from whatever this is. The change halts, then reverses. The spines diminish. And finally Etander stands trembling and hunched, himself once more. Sirra gives a ghost of a cry and hugs him tightly, speaking too low and quick for the translator to follow.

  Then, without a word or even a look, Sirra pulls Etander away, toward the exit. No one speaks until the door closes behind them.

  "Okay," I say. "What was that?"

  Theon clears her throat. "Etander's Tinker-touch. Gives him a pretty rough time when it starts up. But he'll be okay."

  I'm not sure what definition of okay includes turning into a monster. Poor guy. Poor Sirra. I never thought I'd be sorry for her, but I can still hear the fear in her voice. Come back, Etander. Please. She thought she was losing him. "Does it happen a lot? What do you do if he spikes out like that onstage?"

  Jom waves a dismissive hand. "Onstage no one blinks an eye. They think it's part of the act. No more real than the Mizzebar Moon Monster."

  "Hey!" says Asha. "I'll have you know our uncle has a real, live video of Mizzy. You can see her wings and everything."

  Jom rolls his eyes. "Anyway, it doesn't even happen that much anymore."

  "Only when he gets upset," says Theon. She scuffs a foot against the floor, looking down for a moment. When she lifts her chin, she's all business. "So what was that about a new Firedance, Trix?"

  Everyone seems glad for a change of topic. Next thing I know, I've got all eyes on me. I hope I'm not about to make a huge fool of myself.

  "Um ... well, it's like you said. The routine is crap as is. Not because of you guys," I add quickly. "You're brilliant. But the missing parts are ruining it. So ... we need to fill them in."

  "You mean have one of us play the King?" Jom asks. There's a note of excitement in his voice that tells me my crazy brainstorm might work.

  "And the Trickster. We'll need to alter the choreography a little, though, since none of us can whip up shadows. So then we can do it like this." I start sketching the moves in the air with my hands, only to be met with a wall of blank looks.

  "Just a moment, dear," says my know-it-all. "You look like you're swatting flies. If you'll allow me to consult with the Big Top ... there, that's better."

  More glowing symbols appear under our feet. It's the entire act, straight from The Programme. "Perfect! I owe you one, Britannica."

  "Good," purrs the infernal device. "Then from now on we'll have no more of that particular color eye shadow. Green and pink have no business getting that near each other except on a watermelon."

  I ignore the lecture and focus on my plan. "These bits will have to change," I say, pointing. Then I have my know-it-all display my alterations.

  Theon shakes her head. "I don't know. The Programme says—"

  "The Programme can change. Do you want us to look cool or not? Let's show them you don't need to be a Principal to get applause. Who's with me?"

  Jom already has his hand raised. Then one of the cat-eyed twins, Leri, gives a shrug and raises hers. Then Frex, the boy who can stick to walls, and then the goth-girl Ghost.

  Theon is the last. "Okay. Let's do it." She punches the air and grins. "Let's show them what the Clowns can do!"

  The first thing I do is call Nola. No way we're sticking with the clunky old Iron King. Nola works her magic, rejiggering the King's arms into a set of bracers that throw off fake flames. I turn these over to Jom.

  "Excellent!" He backflips across the Ring and lets off a great gust of flames. "Nola, these are amazing!"

  Nola beams, then tosses him the crown, which she's enhanced so that it gives off little flickers of light from the hedge of spikes that encircles it.

  "Okay, so we've got a King," says Theon. "And we're set with the other changes. But what about the Trickster? Some of this stuff is pretty complicated." She taps the glowing choreography markings with her foot. "Even I would have trouble with that bit at the end. The moves are tough enough without having to worry about throwing the seeds into the flames and catching it at the end. But it's got to be spot-on, or we'll look ridiculous."

  "Here, let's try it. I'll show you what I was thinking."

  My snazzed-up routine isn't perfect. Theon has to tweak part of it so Asha and Leri don't slam into each other, and it takes Jom a couple of runs to get comfortable with the crown. And, yeah, I fall on my ass. Three times. The Trickster part is tough, no question. Even by the end I don't have it down, but I can feel us getting sharper. I know we can make this work.

  So do the rest of the Clowns. I thought they had some crazy energy before, but that was nothing compared to this. It's like there's a current running through each of us, electrifying our lives, linking us. We are going to be freaking amazing. With enough practice.

  We go late, jazzed on the joy of it all. Finally Theon calls a halt. "That's enough, guys. Good work, everyone. I think we've really got something here."

  Jom claps his hands together. "All right, folks, dinner's in an hour. And in honor of our newest Clown and her brilliant new Firedance, there'll be Chocolate Supernovas all around!"

  A cheer rises from the crowd. I'm buffeted by good-natured cuffs to the shoulder and slaps on the back. I promise Nola, Jom, and Theon that I'll see them in the cafeteria. "I want to run through that last move once more," I tell them.

  "Don't burn out on your first day," says Theon. "Seriously, Trix. We need you to stick around. You did good today."

  The glow of Theon's words takes me through another three runs. I'm too worn out for it to really help, but I can't stop. I need to do this, to make myself believe this is all real. I'm here. My crazy suggestion worked. People might even be starting to like me. I might, finally, belong somewhere.

  By the time I'm done stretching, everyone else is gone. I'm sure my know-it-all would be happy to direct me back to the dorms, but I am so not ready for another dissection of Dalana's wardrobe. And anyway, I should be able to figure it out myself, with a little trial and error. If this really is my home now, I'd better start getting to know it. Despite one wrong turn that lands me in some kind of giant greenhouse, I get back to my room with just enough time to wash the stink off before heading to the cafeteria.

  CHAPTER 9

  Supernova

  DINNER IS GOING MUCH BETTER than breakfast so far. The dumplings are delicious, and Nola is sitting with us at the Clown table. "What a day!" she says. "You guys are going to be amazing! When are you going to tell the Ringmaster about the changes?"

  "Next time he sticks around for more than three minutes," says Theon, impaling one of her own dumplings on a chopstick, then dipping it in a bowl of dark purple sauce.

  "He spent more than three minutes with Trix," says Nola, giving me a wicked smile. "I still can't believe the Ringmaster actually invited you to have brunch with him. Alone!"

  "He did leave for part of the time. And we weren't alone. That girl, the one with the glasses, she was there, too." I jerk a thumb in the direction of the Freak table.

  "Good as alone, then," says Theon, "if you mean Syzygy."

  "That's her name?" I wonder if the translator is working.

  "A lot of us call her the Oracle," says Jom. "That's her part in the show."

  "Can she really tell the future?"

  "Yes," says Jom.

  "No," says Theon.

  "Sort of," says Nola, adding, "It's complicated. She's like a super-fast, super-powerful computer. She absorbs information and doesn't forget it,
ever."

  "You mean she has a photographic memory?"

  "More than that. She can process it, find connections and patterns. Calculate probabilities. So it's sort of like predicting the future. In a way."

  "In a freaking weird way." Theon shivers. "She once told me I'd be the last Gendari to see the Moons over Mizzebar. And she said I was going to—well, it was stupid. And impossible."

  "Syzygy isn't bad," says Nola. "She's different, like the rest of us. Anyway, I'd rather hear more about Trix and the Ringmaster's private brunch."

  "There's nothing more to say." I squirm under the many eyes. "I mean, there were nachos and pineapple upside-down cake, and he showed me the Programme. He told me I could be a Clown. It wasn't a big deal."

  From the way they're looking at me, I can see they have a different opinion. "What's his deal, anyway?" I ask. "I mean, where's he from? What's his Tinker-touch? How did he end up as Ringmaster of a mutant intergalactic circus?"

  The response is a whole lot of shrugs and some off-the-wall story Asha swears is true about how the Ringmaster is secretly the long-lost son of the actress who plays Dalana on Love Among the Stars.

  "It's just weird, don't you think?" I say. "He looks like he's twenty, tops, and acts like it, too, some of the time. And then other times..." I trail off, not even sure what question I'm trying to ask, or why.

  Jom saves me by suddenly jumping to his feet, raising a hand to his know-it-all. "They're done! Okay folks, you know the drill: get your spoons ready!" He bounds over to the dumbwaiter.

  A stir of excitement runs around the table, rippling out to the rest of the cafeteria. The Techs take off their wraparound goggles, and even the alligator boy swishes his tail and clicks his long, curved talons against the tabletop.

  "Ready for what?" I grab my spoon, eyeing it dubiously.

  "Jom makes the Chocolate Supernovas with paccadi nuts," says Nola. "They do fine in the oven, but when they start to cool, they get unstable. If you don't find the nut in your dish and get it out in time, it'll explode."

  "Thus Chocolate Supernova," finishes Theon, twirling her spoon and grinning. "Bet I find mine first. After Ghost, of course."

  I follow her look to the end of the table, where Goth Girl is in her normal spot, her chin cupped in one hand and the viewscreen of her know-it-all covering her right eye. I wonder if she's watching Love Among the Stars.

  Jom comes back a moment later balancing five large trays—two on each arm and one on top of his head—and starts dishing out the contents. "Work quick, people!" He skids the bowls down the table into the dozens of eager hands.

  "There you go," Jom says, setting the last dish in front of Nola. I can't help but notice that Nola's Supernova is about twice as big as anyone else's. The smile Jom gives her is twice as wide, too. Good for Nola. Jom seems like a nice guy. And he can cook.

  Nola doesn't notice. She's busy telling me what to do. "Go on, Trix! You have to sort of bash the coating and then dig for the nut."

  On my other side, Theon is already scooping out spoonfuls of molten chocolate with a look of intense concentration. At the end of the table, Ghost reaches right into the chocolate, coming out holding a perfectly clean, acorn-shaped nut. She tosses it into the garbage chute at the center of the table and begins to eat her Supernova.

  A pong, ping, pong of paccadi nuts rattling into the trash processor is the only noise as we all focus on defusing our desserts. The first bang makes everybody jump, but it's from down in the bowels of the trash system. More bangs follow, and I'll admit I'm starting to get nervous.

  A sudden trill from the center of the cafeteria sets off a stir that has nothing to do with dessert. A screen slips down from the ceiling, filled with a Venn-like image of four interlocking rings against a gold background. "What is it?" I ask.

  "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 ble
w 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?"