Circus Galacticus (17 page)

"You mean who." I jerk my chin at the scene. A second figure slouches out of the shadows beyond Sirra. I can't make out his face under the dark cowl of his hood, but I think they're talking.

"I can't hear anything," I whisper, leaning closer, as if a few inches might reveal their conversation.

"She's handing him something. Looks like a bag. Wow. She does not look happy, though."

Sirra's hands flash like knives, cutting the air with angry gestures. Mr. Hoodie isn't impressed. He holds up a finger—no, two—then shakes his head.

Spinning on her heel, Sirra stalks away, continuing down the alley. Mr. Hoodie watches until she reaches the far street. Then he heads up the stairs and into the club. The burst of music from the opened door dies away as it swings shut with a heavy thump, leaving Nola and me alone in the alley.

"Did you see his face?" I take the steps two at a time up to the door. I tap the panel but nothing happens. "Open up! Nola, we need to follow him."

"Trix, be careful!" Nola joins me on the landing, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else. "We can't break into Retrograde Station! Remember what I said? If we get caught, if we get noticed..."

"We won't get noticed. Come on, you can do it. You're a supergenius."

Nola gives a watered-down smile. "I don't know..."

"Please, Nola. Sirra's up to something. You know that. This is our chance to find out the truth!"

"Okay, I'll try." Nola closes her eyes for a moment, then raises her silver-palmed hand to the panel. She frowns, her lips twitching. "It's hard. I don't know if I can disable the protocols fast enough."

"You can!" I bounce on my heels, calculating how far the guy could have gotten by this time. "We've still got a shot at—"

The alarm shrieks across my words. Nola jerks back from the door, bashing into me. "Oh, no, no, no," she whispers. "I knew this was a mistake. We've got to get out of here. We can't get arrested. Hurry!"

We flee down the steps and start back along the alley. Too late. A pair of gray-capped Core soldiers pelt toward us. Both of them have stubby black rods pointed at us. "Halt and identify yourselves!"

Everything's falling apart, and all I can think is that it's my fault that Nola's here. I grab her hand, pulling her back the other way.

Nola stumbles. Her hand pulls free from mine. I look back in time to see her crumple, pressed to the ground like there's an invisible giant holding her there. She shrieks, pinned and helpless.

"Nola!" I beat at her invisible prison, but my fists bounce back. "Can you get yourself out?"

"I don't know. Oh, Trix, run! Get out of here. Please!"

"Not without you. There must be a way to break it. Maybe I can—"

"You're not going to do anything," snaps one of the guards, bringing her weapon up to point at me. The other guard still has his weapon trained on Nola.

I tighten my fists, my nails biting into my palms. After all the warnings about the Core, here I am about to get nabbed, and I've got Nola mixed up in it, too. I'm the worst roommate in the universe. The worst
friend
in the universe.

Maybe if I can take out the guy, bust that gizmo he's using, it'll free Nola. I'll take the fall, no question. Just please let Nola get away. I sink into a crouch, prepared to launch myself at him.

But someone else gets there first. It happens so easily, so quickly, that I don't have time even to blink before the two guards are on the ground.

Nola gasps, pushing herself to her knees. I scramble to her side, helping her up. Our rescuer drifts down from above like a slice of shadow.

"M-miss Three?" Nola stammers. "I—"

"'Thank you' would be the appropriate response." The simulacrum's voice sounds tinny, more distant out here in the street. "Perhaps followed by an apology for necessitating such extreme measures."

I look to the still bodies of the guards. "You didn't—"

"No, Miss Ling, they are not dead. Sadly that is not within my ... mandate ... to effect under the current situational parameters."

"So what now?" I ask.

"They will awaken shortly with headaches and a temporary blurriness of vision. I have already wiped all mobile data receptors and jammed local transmissions from this alley. Sadly they
will
retain their memories, so I suggest you remove yourselves and return to the Big Top. You've done enough to endanger the rest of the troupe already. I can only hope we will be able to prevent this from turning into a disaster."

BACK ON THE BIG TOP, Nola and I spend the rest of the day waiting for the storm to hit, but nothing happens. And what with the million and one things we still need to do to get ready for the show, we don't have much time to obsess over it. Honestly, I'm a lot more worried about falling on my ass during the Firedance than about Miss Three's congenital pessimism.

By the next day the butterflies in my stomach have turned into a freaking plague of locusts, despite the fact that I finally nailed that tricky Firedance move during my morning practice. I sink down onto the red velvet carpet for the full-cast meeting and bend forward to stretch the stiffness from my hamstrings. I wish it were as easy to relax my nerves.

From the far side of the tent, Lorlyn, who does the music for the show, sends warm-up trills and odd high-pitched laughter across the empty stands. The lights high above twinkle as Toothy runs through a last set of tests. It's nearly showtime.

Nola plops down beside me, purple sparks glinting in her hair. I told her to keep the hair swatch. It looks cute on her. And it's not like I need more color. "Hey, Trix," she says. "Have you seen the Ringmaster? Did he say anything about yesterday?"

"No. Haven't seen him." I pull the sack beside me into my lap and double-check the contents. The teapot lies in pink splendor, remarkably uncracked despite yesterday's adventures. "Do you think he'll be mad?"

"He doesn't
look
mad." Nola nods to the doorway.

The Ringmaster strides to the center of the Ring, moving with a frenetic, almost manic energy. But Nola's right; he doesn't look angry. Distracted, maybe. The knot in my gut starts to relax, replaced by a fizzy feeling of excitement. I see it on the faces around me, too. We're like a soda given a good shaking, and we know the Ringmaster's about to open the bottle.

The chatter dies to silence as he searches the crowd, his gaze catching each one of us in the net of his attention. "Ladies and gentlemen of the Circus Galacticus, this is it! There's a world out there waiting for you to wake up their hearts and dazzle their souls. You have worked hard, and I want you to know how deeply I appreciate that. You are all stars."

I don't usually go in for big speeches, but I have to admit it: Chills race up my spine. I'm not even that nervous anymore. I might be shaped like a girl, but I feel like a piece of lightning.

"Now, I have a few last-minute notes," he says, and begins reeling off a list of technical jargon. My attention drifts as he launches into a highly detailed discussion of the "emotional resonance" of Lorlyn's set piece, and how to work in some new thematic elements throughout the score for the show. I run through the Firedance choreography in my head, trying to remember the feel of landing the moves earlier that morning.

"And that leaves one last alteration," the Ringmaster is saying, "to the Firedance."

I jerk my attention back. Something about his voice sets me on edge. I realize I've got the teapot in a stranglehold.

"Due to some ... technical difficulties, I've decided to return to the original Firedance choreography for this show. Beatrix, we can use your assistance backstage with the special effects. I trust Nola will be able to fill you in on that." He claps his hands, turning away. "All right, then! Time for the good luck circle. Gather round, everyone!"

"What?!"

It's not just me. A chorus of protests cuts across the room. Theon stands; Jom is waving his hands. But I'm the one the Ringmaster looks at when he finally faces us.

"You can't," I say. "Not after all the work I—we—put in. Do you think we're not good enough?"

"No, quite the opposite," he says, but his thin smile fades the next moment. "It's not that. It's what happened yesterday. We can't risk drawing the attention of the Core Governance."

"You want me to hide because I had a spat with some guards in an alley?"

"It was considerably more than a spat. If they recognized you and started asking questions, it would jeopardize the entire Circus. The Big Top is never more vulnerable than during a performance. Anyone can buy a ticket. Anyone can come in and see the show." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, but Miss Three is right about this. In fact, it would be best if you remained behind the scenes completely. Especially with the additional danger of the Mandate attempting to—"

"Miss Three? This is
her
idea? So now you're letting her tell us what to do? I thought you didn't do that. I thought you wanted us to break out of our cages!"

The pain in his eyes kills me, but I'm too angry to stop now. If I hadn't gone into that damn alley in the first place, none of this would have happened.

"Beatrix, you have to understand—"

"Fine," I cut him off. "I get it." I spin around and head for the doors.

"Trix, wait!" Nola pelts after me.

I keep walking. "You heard him, Nola."

"But it's not like he's saying you're not good enough."

"Whatever. I've got to get out of here." I tear my eyes away from the circle gathering at the center of the tent.

"Trix, wait. It's tradition. We do the circle before every show, for luck."

"I don't need luck if I'm stuck doing some mindless behind-the-scenes garbage."

Nola looks at me with a stunned expression, like I disemboweled her favorite teddy bear.

"What?" I ask.

"That's what you think we Techs do? Mindless garbage?"

The catch in her voice stings me. I groan. "That's not what I mean, Nola. I think it's great that you're a Tech."

"Don't patronize me, Trix. I get enough of that already." Nola's voice breaks, recovers, breaks again. She turns around stiffly and heads for the crowd around the Ringmaster.

God, I'm screwing up
everything
I touch. I want to run after her, to explain, to make things right. But I can feel the tears burning in my eyes, and there's no way I'm letting anyone see them. I run out the door. Out in the hall I ditch the pink teapot in the nearest recycler. I never want to see that thing again.

***

I throw myself into the last-minute preparations. It's the best way to stop people from trying to talk to me. Don't get me wrong; I know they're trying to help. But I need work, not comfort. When the Ringmaster breezes through, I make myself scarce. There's no way I can speak to him without yelling, and that'll only make things worse.

What I do need is to apologize to Nola for putting my foot in my mouth so spectacularly. I have a pretty speech all worked out and everything. But there's no sign of her. Maybe she's doing some avoidance of her own. I wouldn't blame her.

The worst part isn't even that she might never want to see me again. I've been on my own, and it sucks, quite frankly. But I'd take that any day over hurting Nola, over making her doubt herself. My gut twists at the thought. Please let me have a chance to make this better.

Finally it's showtime. I lurk backstage, helping Toothy with the special effects, trying not to look at the other Clowns out in the Ring. There's a special kind of pain in watching other people get something you want. It's not that I want them to fail, except maybe down in some deep nasty part of my self, a part I try to keep locked away.

I just ... want it for me, too. And that feeling is like a hot razor slashing at my chest. I want the sweetness of the applause and the lights dazzling down and to know that I'm something bigger than my skin. I even want to be one of the stupid dancing fruit.

I thunk my forehead into the wall, running one hand back through my hair miserably. How pathetic am I?

"If you're going to sit here blubbering, I'd appreciate it if you'd shut me off again. Pity parties are
so
boring."

What the—? I feel for the know-it-all earpiece and realize I must have flicked it on accidentally. I'm about to shut it off, but a spark of outrage holds my hand back.

"Maybe I've got a good reason to be upset. Missing out on being a dancing fruit is one thing, but the Firedance was my big chance to..." I gulp.

"Show off ?"

"No! To show what I'm capable of. To prove myself!"

"All you're proving right now is that you can pitch a fit, dear. You'd never catch Dalana wallowing like this, letting her friends down because she suffered a disappointment."

"How exactly am I letting anyone down? The Ringmaster made it pretty clear they don't really need me."

"You're lucky I haven't got a corporeal form or you might have gotten your nose tweaked for that. How an otherwise clever girl could draw such a ridiculous conclusion is beyond me. Did you even try to understand the situation? No, of course not. Easier to be angry and upset than to do something productive."

"Are you calling me a coward?"

"What is that delightful phrase from your planet? If the shoe fits—"

I hit the "off" button. I so do not need this right now. But Britannica has one thing right. It's time to do something. The Tree of Life scene is just ending now. I still have a shot.

I find Jom and Theon and a couple of the other Clowns over by the costume racks. "You guys looked great out there," I say. "But you know what would really blow them away? Our Firedance. The new one."

Jom lifts his head. "Really?" I catch sparks of attention from some of the others, too.

"But we can't," says Asha.

"Yes, we can!" I say. "We've busted our asses getting ready for it, and a few Core nimrods aren't going to stop us. Don't you guys want this? Don't you want to show them what Clowns can do?"

There's a handful of cheers. And Jom, my hero, is already pulling out his fiery gauntlets and crown from a box behind a pile of stuffed fruit.