Circus Galacticus (4 page)

"Wait; back up. So you're saying you're aliens? I don't ... I can't..."

"Of course you can," says the Ringmaster. "Is it so hard to believe there might be something more out there?"

"No. I mean, my parents always said there was. But..." I flap my hands, unable to express just how different this all is from the sleek rocket ships and wise visitors from the stars that figured in my bedtime stories. "A
circus?
"

"You would have preferred an invasion fleet? Flying saucers and death rays?" He gives me a cheeky grin. "Come to the show. You won't regret it."

I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a very deep chasm, and I'm not sure yet if I'm wearing a parachute. I stuff one hand into my pocket, feeling for the reassuring heft of the meteorite. "All right. I'll watch the show."

"Brilliant!" The Ringmaster seizes my hand. The next moment we're careening along the hallway in a madcap dash. I feel giddy, like I've got soda fizzing through my veins. We come to a halt in front of a wide doorway. It opens to reveal a vast darkness sprinkled with blazing lights.

"Welcome to the Big Top," says the Ringmaster, leading me out. We're in a kind of alleyway between two banks of bleachers. Craning my neck, I catch glimpses of sneakers and jeans above. Drifts of blue popcorn and discarded candy wrappers litter the sheet-metal floor on either side. Ahead, a ring of red and blue lights marks the open center of the tent. It's empty. The Ringmaster points his baton upward. "There."

Two silver figures spin through the air, swooping and falling. Spotlights arc across the darkness, tracking the aerial dance. Sirra flips off her trapeze, spinning through the air, once, twice, and she's still going. I count each somersault, amazed. What, does gravity not apply to this girl?

I exhale as she catches hold of her partner's arms, and the crowd erupts with cheers. "Seven midair somersaults? That's impossible. She's ... she's not flying, is she?"

"Not exactly. Sirra does have a special relationship with gravity, though. It's a remarkable gift, but not everyone in the universe would see it that way. That's why she's here. That's why we're all here, in the Circus Galacticus. Have you ever heard what the best place is to hide something?"

"In plain sight?"

He grins. "Precisely. Out on the street a man with scaly green skin is a monster, a danger, something to be locked up and studied. But stick him under a tent and call him the Spectacular Dragon Boy, and everyone is perfectly willing to believe it's only special effects and makeup. That it isn't real."

I tear my gaze from the aerial display. "Okay, let's say I believe you're aliens and all that. Aren't there planets full of dragon people?"

"Not many," says the Ringmaster. "Not since the Mandate."

"The who?"

"An ancient and terrible power. They held the entire universe in their grasp, once upon a time. They shaped it for eons, molding conformity, establishing law, dictating order on even the most basic genetic levels. It's thanks to them that you and Sirra look like you could be schoolmates, even though you were born in different galaxies."

"Except I've got pink hair now."

He nods. "The Mandate were not the only power at work. There were others who saw diversity as a strength, not a weakness. Where the Mandate created order and conformity, the Tinkers spread color, vitality, and variation. The seeds of their genetic manipulation have been passed down through generations. And when those seeds bloom, you get someone like Sirra. Or someone like you, Beatrix."

"You think my pink hair is some kind of mutation? Are you sure it's not because of something else?" Like, say, a mysterious black meteorite?

He hesitates, but only for a moment. "The Tinkers' Mirror is keyed to specific genetic patterns. There's no way you could have come through it if you weren't touched by the Tinkers."

"But my hair only changed color last night!"

"Right on time, then. Most of the troupe had their gifts flare up in their teens."

Okay, so maybe I'm not a big fake with a space-rock makeover. Maybe I really do belong here. The sharpness of how badly I want that scares me enough that I figure I better change the topic. "So, I'm guessing the Mandate and the Tinkers weren't best friends."

"No. Not at all." The Ringmaster looks down, buffing the brass buttons of his blue tailcoat. "There was a war. A terrible war. And when it was over, they were both gone. All that remained were their children, those carrying the genetic inheritance of the ancients. And the younger races, who banded together, set themselves up a government, and confiscated anything touched by the Tinkers or the Mandate. If they knew what we were, they might lock us away. Or worse, use us, control us, make us their tools."

"So you're outlaws. Mutant outlaws. And now I'm one, too?"

"Exciting, isn't it? Admittedly, it's unlikely the Core Governance will be waltzing in to arrest you anytime soon. Earth is in the Excluded Territories, outside their domain. You could go on with your life, dye your hair so no one notices. Live so no one notices."

"Or...?" I desperately want there to be an "or."

"Or you could come with us. Travel the stars! Spread wonder and amazement across the universe!"

Something deep inside me unfolds, like a crinkly butterfly testing its wings. I still have questions, though. "Hold on. If you really are an intergalactic circus, where's your spaceship?"

"Here." The Ringmaster spins to take in the bleachers, the ring, the tent. "The Big Top can be a slow old girl, but she's reliable and spry when she needs to be." He pats the wall. "She's our home. And she could be yours, too."

A wild burst of applause drowns out anything I might say to that. Sirra and her partner slither down from the heights on ropes of light.

"Time for the grand finale," says the Ringmaster. "Think about it, Beatrix. The choice is yours."

He bounds off toward the ring. The spotlights leap onto him, catching in the large gem at the top of his baton. He twirls it from right hand to left and back again.

I can feel that entire tent watching him. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people. He's like an eclipse: You don't want to look away, even if it dazzles you forever.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" His voice booms out to fill the tent. He turns to take in all the crowd, blue coattails flaring. "It has been our honor to entertain you. If you have learned one thing this night, let it be that anyone can reach the stars. Choose your own destiny, and the universe is yours."

He stops, the tip of his baton pointing directly at me. He gives the slightest nod. "But for now, good night, and may your skies be always bright with stars."

The pulsing music reaches into my chest and grabs my heart, sweeping it away. Figures spill into the ring, colorful and chaotic as a kid's finger painting, cartwheeling and backflipping and dancing. Girls toss rings, leaping through them. Everywhere I turn there's motion and light and life.

Trying to take it all in is like watching a dozen TV screens at once. My feet are stuck fast to the ground, but my heart swoops up into the sky. I could be one of them. If I dare. What have I got to lose?

I spot the redheaded clown who was selling the popcorn. He springs up into the air to land at the top of a pyramid of performers. A gasp reverberates through the stands as every one of their costumes turns silver. It's a rocket. They're forming a human—alien—spaceship. Sparks blossom along the base. A lump clogs my throat.

I close my eyes. I can't watch. My mind is in that Florida field, my eyes seeing that fire again and again and—I can't breathe. I want to run. Lights flare so bright I can see them through my eyelids.

The thunder of applause fills the tent. Then some jolly please-leave-in-an-orderly-fashion music comes on. I open my eyes in time to see the Ringmaster returning from the now-dark ring. I turn away quickly, before he can see my brimming tears.

"Beatrix?"

He actually sounds worried. I allow myself one shuddering, breathless sob. My parents might not have reached the stars, but I can. And I will. I brush my cheeks, put on my smile, and turn back around.

"I'm coming with you. I'm running away to join the circus."

THE DOORS SKIM SHUT, cutting off the boppy music and the chatter of the departing crowds. "So what happens next?" I ask. "Don't tell me I need to wear one of those skintight glitter suits."

The Ringmaster laughs, twirling his baton. "A tour first, I think. You'll want to get to know your new home and meet the rest of the troupe."

Running footsteps approach along the corridor. There's a girl pelting toward us. She doesn't look any more like an alien than the rest of them. Wavy brown hair, medium brown skin. No tentacles.

"Am I late? Is this her? Did you hear Sirra's intro, Ringmaster?" The girl makes a disgusted face. "I tried to loop it, but the join was all scratchy. It'll be better next time. I know exactly how to fix it..." She spews a breathless stream of what sounds like alien gibberish except for a few recognizable words like
wavelength
and
harmonic.

The Ringmaster lets her babble on, nodding and smiling in a way that makes me think he doesn't understand her any better than I do.

"So that sounds like it ought to work, doesn't it?" she finishes brightly.

"We are fortunate to have your technical genius on board, Nola. I shudder to think what we would do without you."

"Me, too," says Nola cheekily. "We all know you're hopeless without the autosalon. I saw your hair last time the system went haywire. Do you even know how to use a comb?"

The Ringmaster stifles a choking sound. "Right, then. Nola, this is Beatrix, the newest member of the Circus Galacticus."

The girl beams. "Hi! Nola Ogala. I'm a Tech." She points out a gold patch on the shoulder of her black jacket, which looks like a wrench giving off a shower of sparks. "So are
you
the one who bopped Sirra on the nose?"

"Um, yeah." My stomach drops. Don't tell me everyone here is on Team Sirra and I'm just trading one personality cult for another.

She grins. "Hah! I wish I could have seen it. So, do you have a roommate yet? Because I've got a double right now, and it's only me."

Okay, this is
so
much better than Bleeker already. This is where I belong. I can't believe I even listened to that garbage Nyl was trying to—

Nyl. Who couldn't get through the secret superhero door. Who is probably one of the bad guys. Who is
right outside this ship.

"The Mandate," I say. "I think they're here."

Nola's eyes go big as spotlights, matching her open mouth.

"The Mandate?" repeats the Ringmaster in a tight voice. "Are you sure?"

"Well, it wasn't like he was wearing the T-shirt, but based on the things he said, yeah."

"What sort of things?" asks the Ringmaster.

"For starters, he really doesn't like you. He said you were dangerous."

A hint of a smile pulls at the Ringmaster's mouth. "Hmm. Well, I won't argue with that. Anything else?"

"He"—I almost mention the rock, but chicken out—"he said that my pink hair was a taint he needed to cleanse. Not that he's the picture of normal with that gas mask thing. Plus, he was pretty much the walking definition of creepy. He showed up in my dorm room in the middle of the night! And then he turned up here again, right before the show. My own personal crazy masked stalker."

All the humor washes out of the Ringmaster's face. "Masked? Did he tell you his name?"

"Nyl. Does that mean something to you?"

"It means the Mandate
are
here. And it's time we were leaving." The Ringmaster taps his baton. The jewel on top springs open. There's a panel underneath that looks kind of like a TV remote. As he punches buttons, the lights along the ceiling turn orange and a siren begins wailing somewhere. When he speaks, his voice echoes on all sides.

"Galacticus Crew, this is the Ringmaster speaking. I'm afraid we've run into a small wrinkle. Please prepare for immediate departure and possible evasive maneuvering." He takes off down the corridor.

"Come on," says Nola. "We'd better go, too. He'll need help."

The Ringmaster doesn't slow down, not even when we round a bend and hit what looks like a dead end. The doors peel back, revealing a large space full of light. The Ringmaster darts inside, waving his baton as if directing an invisible orchestra. Lighted panels wink and blink in nonsensical patterns.

"Where are we?" I ask.

"The bridge." Nola pulls me to one side. "Better buckle up. Quick getaways aren't usually the smoothest." She runs a hand across the wall. An instant later, the surface folds open, revealing two seats. Nola prods me into one of them.

The moment I sit, a belt snakes out across my waist, followed by two more crisscrossing my chest. "Hey!"

"Stay there, where it's safe!" Nola races off to one of the panels and begins tapping at it. "I've got the drives coming up, Ringmaster. We'll be ready in ten."

The Ringmaster is talking into his baton again, sounding as relaxed and cheerful as ever, all while jumping around like a madman at the consoles. "Ladies and gentlemen, in thanks for your splendid patronage, the Circus Galacticus is pleased to offer you free refreshments outside! So hurry up and exit the main tent to claim your popcorn, cotton candy, and slushies. Thank you, and we hope you enjoyed the show!"

"That did it," Nola says after a minute. "Everyone's out. Closing the main doors now."

I tug against the straps holding me in the chair.
Safe
is apparently the alien word for
stuck.
And I can't shake the feeling that somehow this is all my fault. "Can't I do anything? I feel stupid just sitting here."

"First day and she's already raring to go," says the Ringmaster. "I like it." He waves the baton in my direction. "Mind your head." A screen drops down, barely missing my nose. "There. If you could locate our Mandate visitor, I would be most obliged."

It looks a lot like a video game console, complete with joystick, but the screen is dark and the buttons are covered in more alien script. Gingerly, I tap the edge of the display. The gibberish blurs, then reforms. One button now reads
POWER
. I push it, and the screen crackles to life. I'm looking out at the street, at a line of buses.