Circus Galacticus (15 page)

There's nothing. No ship, no dark-winged Mandate agent. Not even any leeches.

"He's gone!"

"Are you sure he was here?" Theon soars up away from the hull to survey nearby space.

"I didn't—
hic
—imagine it! He was here! He was trying—" I cut myself off. My body feels like I just put it through a round in the Arena at level bazillion. And that's nothing compared to the crazy thoughts battering my brain. I won't believe it. I can't.

"Trying what?" asks Nola.

"It was lies," I say, my voice cracking. "Only—
hic
—lies."

THEY DON'T HATE YOU," says Nola. We're heading for the common room, several days after the de-leeching incident. "It all worked out okay. It didn't slow us down—very much—and everyone stopped hic-cuping yesterday."

A rumble like a distant rockslide echoes along the corridor. "Everyone except Gravalon Pree," amends Nola. "But at least they're not calling you Supernova anymore."

"Right. And Leechbomb is
so
much better," I say. "You're the only one who isn't acting like I'm insane." Toothy hustles past, glaring at me with sleepy, dark-circled eyes. I can't really blame him. He's Gravalon Pree's roommate. "Or giving me the evil eye."

"If you say you saw a Mandate ship, I believe you. There's a lot of strange stuff going on around here lately."

"Coming through!"

We plaster ourselves against the wall as Jom and Frex come barreling along the hallway, whooping and juggling a pair of fluffy lavender slippers between them as they go.

One of the Principals thunders after them, bellowing, "Give them back, you idiots!" He makes a lunge for Frex, who leaps clear at the last moment: onto the ceiling. He races onward, upside down, and doesn't even skip a beat juggling. The slippers continue sailing back and forth between him and Jom.

A crowd follows after them, shouting encouragement to both sides and uniformly ridiculing the slippers. Catching Nola's eye, I can't help but laugh. "Only lately?"

As the mob rampages away down the hall, Nola lifts a hand to adjust her know-it-all. "The recycling system? Are you sure?" She shudders. "I hope this isn't going to involve a visit to Rjool's lair. No, it's fine, I'll check it out." She straightens her shoulders and sighs.

"Trouble?"

"A Tech's work is never done. You'd better go on without me. This shouldn't take long, but the marathon starts in ten minutes, and you don't want to miss the recap show or you'll be completely lost. I'll catch up with you in the common room." With a hasty wave, Nola sets off back down the hallway, leaving me alone. Or nearly alone.

"Don't you worry about getting lost, dear," chimes my know-it-all. "I've got all fifteen seasons indexed by character name, key plot points, and location. I've also cross-referenced every costume item to the appropriate mercantile dynasty and catalogue, customized to your size and coloring. I think you'd look lovely in this blue number Dalana wears in season eleven, episode five."

I blink as the viewscreen scrolls open in front of my eye, displaying a hideous monstrosity of skintight skirts and hugely puffed sleeves. "Isn't that gorgeous?" burbles my know-it-all. "It's from the scene where Dalana confronts Zendalos at the Governance Ball and discovers the true identity of—"

"Over my dead body." I continue along the corridor.

"Really? I do think it's more suited to a ball than a funeral, but of course it's your choice. I'll update your registered last will and testament as soon as I can contact Core Legal Records Bureau."

"I have a will?"

"Oh, yes. Birth certification, school records, everything. Of course it's all forgery; part of the Ringmaster's false identity protocol, since you're actually a heathen from the Excluded Territories. No, dear, not
that
way!"

"Isn't the common room this way?"

"Heavens, no. You should have gone left at the last intersection. This is a restricted area."

I study the hallway before me. It looks like all the rest: curving, gray-brown, lit by recessed orange lights. The flattened remains of a box labeled
FRAGILE
lean against one wall, the apparent victim of a compaction. "Why is it restricted? Is it dangerous?"

"That information is restricted."

"Says who?"

"That information is restricted."

"And you call yourself a know-it-all."

"I do know it all," says the device. "I just don't tell it all."

I'm about to return to the unrestricted corridor when Nyl's words whisper from my memory.
How much of his precious ship has he even allowed you to see?

That's it. I click off the know-it-all and march onward.

***

You'd think something called a restricted area would be at least a little bit exciting. You know, maybe some captive alien monsters, or top-secret science experiments, or maybe even the Ringmaster's personal quarters. So far I've found a room full of feathered fans, another chock-full of rusty old gears and springs, and lots and lots of long, monotonous corridors. The only danger here is that I might die of boredom. I'm starting to think I'd be better off watching the six-hour
Love Among the Stars
marathon. One more corridor; that's as far as I'm going. If it's more of the same, I'm done here.

I turn the corner and stop, staring at a hallway that is
definitely
not more of the same. It's more like a tunnel than a corridor. The curved walls glow pink. I can't find the light source. It's like the whole place is ... alive. Ridges ripple along the walls, reminding me in a nasty way of the pictures of brains from my bio book. Or those things in your lungs that get all crusty and gross in smokers.

Well, I
was
looking for something interesting. Better check it out while I have the chance.

I go about five steps before I realize my pocket is giving off heat. I pull out the rock. It's definitely warm to the touch. Hmm.

I take a step back. Like magic, the rock cools down. A step forward, and it's warm again. I hold the infuriating thing up in front of my nose. "So you want to play hot and cold again? Fine. I'm game."

The cerebral tunnel takes me past two arched doorways. By the time I reach the third, the rock is so hot I need to bundle it in a corner of my jacket. As I move on, the heat dies away.

I spin around, facing the third doorway. There's some kind of panel above it. I can't read the funky alien script. I try tapping at the door. All that happens is that the squiggles above it reconfigure into numbers: 1349. Great. That's a lot of help.

There's no lever or knob or anything. "Come on," I tell the door. "I followed the bread crumbs and everything. Let me in!"

The door ignores me. I'm about ready to give it a good kick when I hear voices echoing from back down the corridor behind me. There's only one person on the ship with an electronic buzz to her voice: Miss Three. And I am
not
getting lectured again. I've got no choice but to keep going and hope there's a way out farther down the tunnel.

It sounds like a good plan, except that when I skitter around the next curve, there is no more tunnel. The brainlike walls widen out to encircle a dimly lit open space. It's a dead end.

"It's too great a risk, Ringmaster," says Miss Three behind me. My heart thumps even faster. Bad enough to be caught sneaking around a restricted section by Miss Three. But how can I explain this to the Ringmaster? I've got to hide. But where?

I check out the corrugated walls. The ridges are deeper here, twisting in patterns that almost make sense if you tilt your head and squint. It's my only choice.

Jamming my fingers into one of the grooves, I pull myself up and scramble into the deepest crevice I can find. Ewww. Spaceship walls are not supposed to be damp. Or warm. Or
spongy.
Gah.

I hold my breath as two figures walk into the room below.

"She hasn't caused any serious trouble so far," the Ringmaster is saying.

"The jump systems were offline for nearly eight hours. If we'd been attacked—"

"But we weren't. And if there was a Mandate agent in the area, she can hardly be blamed for panicking."

Hmmph. I did
not
panic. I used the resources I had on hand. That's being clever, not panicking.

"The Big Top sensors reported no such presence," says Miss Three.

"Sensors can be deceived."

"Then I suppose you'll say it was a coincidence I discovered her sneaking around the very same night the Big Top made that unprecedented jump? And how do you propose to explain the strange communications we've been tracking? Someone on this ship is sending illicit messages. Miss Ling is a threat to everything you've built here. The ship itself has not recognized her. I've seen the
Programme.
She's no Principal, whatever you may have hoped. You can't allow her to stay. You know what she
really
is. Why won't you tell her the truth?"

"Only Beatrix knows what she really is, and what she's capable of. I intend to give her the chance to discover that. And whatever the case, she deserves a place on the Big Top as much as I do," says the Ringmaster, a harsher note entering his voice. "Though perhaps that's not the best of arguments." The echoes of his laugh grate against my skin.

"This is hardly the time for laughter."

"Indeed it is! Danger and destruction are everywhere; enemies confront us at every turn; all that we've worked for might come to nothing. It's exactly the right time for a bit of humor. Keeps one sane, you see."

"With such a model of sanity before me, how could I not?"

This time the Ringmaster's laugh holds no sharp edges. "A joke! Very good, Miss Three! You see, you're learning something from me."

"And you would do well to learn from me, Ringmaster. It's why I am here, is it not? That girl is a danger you cannot ignore. She could jeopardize everything."

"Believe me, Miss Three, I'm aware of the danger. But also of the potential. If the former outweighs the latter, I'll know how to act."

"And you are prepared to take extreme measures?"

"Yes."

What? What does that mean?

"Good. Shall we proceed, then?"

"By all means. Let's have some action."

With a sweeping gesture, the Ringmaster brandishes his baton. The gem catches the light, winking. He dips smoothly, as if bowing, and thumps the baton against the floor. Two panels scroll open, revealing a spiral stairway that leads down into darkness. "Aha! I thought that would do it. Now, let's see if this answers some of our questions. After you, Miss Three."

As soon as the floor closes over them, I jump down from my hiding spot and book it out of there. But as fast as I run, I can't escape my fears. It's like someone took all those little doubts that have been cutting at me and turned them into a single horrible spear. I swear I can almost feel it, struck right through my heart.

I don't want to think about any of this, not about secret rooms or extreme measures or whether or not I belong in the new life I was promised. All I want is to find Nola and eat blue popcorn and watch some stupid mindless space opera. I can come back later to find out what's behind door number three.

TURNS OUT "LATER" is an understatement. The midnight detour and the leech-bomb incident threw our schedule to bits, but now that we're getting back into settled space again, we've got a full roster of performances coming up. And that means practices and more practices, as well as costume design and fitting, prop and set prep, and a host of other details. Not to mention our normal share of schoolwork, courtesy of Miss Three and Core educational regulations. To be honest, I'm kind of relieved. It helps keep me distracted from the ache of all the questions and doubts I'm lugging around. Like what Miss Three meant when she said I didn't belong here. And whether Nyl might have been right.

Even if I weren't up to my ears in rehearsals and physics labs, it would be hard to unravel the mystery of the Restricted Area, because I can't find it. Five times I've gone out, retracing my steps. Once I ended up in the common room, and another time in the biohabitat. Once it was a room full of broken teapots. I tried to get my know-it-all to show me where it was, but the stupid thing refused, even when I threatened to melt it down and turn it into a potato peeler.

The Ringmaster is making himself pretty scarce lately, too. Sure, he'll wander into our classrooms and practice sessions now and then. Occasionally he'll take over, spinning the entire class off on a wild tangent about the taboo on eating fruit in public on Voxima-3. Or he'll have the Clown corps run through a scene in slow motion to "perfect the emotional tone." Some days I only realize he's watching by the weight of his stare. When I look up, he's already slipping out the door.

Then there was the time I was running down the hall late for Astrophysics and nearly bowled him over like I did the day we met. He twinkled that smile at me and said something silly about rabbits. I
wanted
to ask about the conversation I'd overheard. To trust the promise he made me. To find out the truth. But like a dork I stammered something about gamma radiation and ran away.

The truth is that I'm terrified. The truth is, I'm in love. With the Big Top, and with this life: the madcap antics of the other Clowns, Nola and her jokes and her kindness, the weird and wonderful meals Jom conjures from the culinary system, the stars swooping by over my bed at night. I can't bear the thought that someone might take that away. I love all of it too much.

Okay, not
all
of it. I don't think anyone could love the ridiculous costumes we Clowns have to wear for the Tree of Life act.

"It only makes sense. We're part of the Tree," says Theon. "It doesn't look
that
bad."

"Easy for you to say. You get to be a leaf. I look like I belong on Carmen Miranda's head." I prod one of dozens of puffy pear-shaped fruit decorating my green body suit.

"What? The translator didn't get that."