Circus Galacticus (18 page)

"But you can't go out there," protests Theon. "The Core guards might recognize you, like the Ringmaster said."

"Not if I look like someone else."

"How?"

I gesture around us. "This is the Circus Galacticus. We've got wigs, makeup, even freaking mobile image projectors. There's got to be a way."

"There is."

I turn to see Nola, standing with arms crossed, over by the makeup station. She doesn't look at me. "Jom, you guys better get that rustbucket off the staging lift and reset the floors for the new Firedance. I'll take care of Trix."

The rest of the Clowns dash off, buzzing with excitement. I
knew
they wanted this as much as I did. Only Theon is still frowning. Well, her and Nola.

Nola takes something out of her pocket, tapping at it with one silvery finger. It looks like the gizmo Gravalon Pree was using to go incognito in the bazaar. I can't believe she's actually helping me, after what I said.

I stop trying to remember my pretty speech. A jumble of words spills out. "I'm sorry for what I said, Nola. I'm an idiot. I was upset, but I shouldn't have said that. I know you do an amazing amount of work for the show. Stuff I couldn't do if you sat me down for a year to teach me."

She sort of nods, her eyes fixed on the gadget.

"I'll make it up to you," I babble on. "I'll bribe Jom to make you Chocolate Supernovas every day. I'll do your chore section for the next month. I'll tattoo
Techs Rule!
on my forehead. But please, Nola, don't be mad. You're my best friend."

At that, she finally turns around to face me. She's biting her lip. "Okay," she says. "I'll forgive you. But only if you get the tattoo." Then she laughs, and everything is a million times better.

"I really will make it up to you," I say. "I promise."

"Well ... I
am
scheduled to clear the auxiliary recycling system filters for my chore section this month. Nothing says 'I'm sorry' like slopping out trash for a friend."

"You got it." I try not to think too hard about what sort of disgusting things a spaceship full of teenagers can find to toss down the garbage chute.

"Here." She clips the image projector onto my belt, beside the bulge where I have the rock stuffed under my outfit. "I gave you brown hair, and—sorry—kind of a big nose. But no one should be able to tell it's you."

A series of thrilling chords booms out into the vastness of the tent. "That's your cue," Nola says. "I need to get back to the lighting booth. Good luck!"

As Nola heads off, I catch a glimpse of sequins. The Ringmaster. I duck around one of the screens, hiding out in the changing area until the coast is clear. I'm about to head over to my starting mark when Sirra comes around the corner, jostling into me.

"Watch where you're going," she snaps. "Some of us have to get ready to perf—" Sirra stops and stares at me. I realize she doesn't recognize me.

"Don't rush," I say, flicking off the image projector before she can start screaming about spies again. "Those folks are about to get blown away."

Her eyes widen. "I thought you were supposed to be backstage pushing buttons."

"Change of plans."

"Oh, really? Does the Ringmaster know about it?"

"He will in a moment." I consider a more violent response, but I've got more important things to do. Plus, Syzygy is standing over by the rack of spare costumes, repositioning one of the orange unitards between the reds and the yellows and carefully not watching us out of the side of her enormous glasses.

Sirra rolls her eyes. "Whatever. I have to get ready. The crowd will need some actual entertainment after they're done laughing you out of the Ring."

"Right," I say sarcastically. "Good luck."

Sirra continues on. I turn on the image projector again and check my reflection in the mirror. Man. That is one big schnoz.

"Break a leg," says Syzygy as I head on out to the Ring.

"What?"

She rearranges two shirts that both look blue-green to me and says, "It means good luck. In the idiom of your language. Is that not correct?"

"Yeah, I guess so," I say. "Good luck to you, too."

***

The Firedance is
amazing.
I'm talking write-it-in-the-sky, shout-it-from-the-mountaintops, utterly freaking amazing. We are on
fire.
Not literally, I mean, except for Jom as the King. But we smoke the house. They love us. They clap. They cheer. It's the sweetest thing I've ever heard.

It's
so
awesome, I'm pretty much in a daze by the time I dance offstage, the applause singing in my ears.

Something slams into me. An arm clamps across my chest; another grips my waist. Grinding breaths brush against my cheek. It's Nyl. The image projector crunches under his grip, and suddenly I'm back to my pink-haired self.

"Quite a performance, Beatrix," he says. "Maybe you do belong here. But I can't allow you to jeopardize everything we've worked for."

I kick out, but my feet only catch the hem of his long coat. His cold hand slides along my waist. Something rips. Air whispers against my skin. He pulls away, holding something.

I brush my fingers over my side, feeling for the injury, but there's nothing, not even a cut. It's a more terrible wound than that. He's got the rock.

Grabbing hold of one of the costume racks, I drive it across the floor toward Nyl. It catches him in the chest, slamming him back into the special-effects station. Metal crunches. Something sizzles. I smell burnt plastic.

Nyl pulls himself up, tearing free a half-dozen hoses from the FX station. They hiss puffs of artificial smoke into the air between us. He runs.

I hurl myself upright and take off after him. He's heading for the emergency exit. I shout, the words garbled by rage and desperation. I put all my energy into one last lunge.

Nyl swivels toward me as I leap. My hands lock into fists. He flicks something into the air between us. I catch one last glimpse of that mask before blue fire webs lace across my vision, dragging me down to the ground. I scream. The physical agony is nothing compared to what I've lost. How could I let this happen?

Lorlyn's soaring voice fills the Big Top, mocking my loss with a song of triumph and victory. As I stare wildly up, I see two silver figures flying among the clouds.

Not clouds. Smoke. Billows of it jet upward from the busted mess of the special-effects station. Sirra flips out into the void, just as a great gust of smoke hits. Then she's lost in it. All I can see is Etander, hanging from his own trapeze, arms out to catch her.

The music is too loud. I can't hear his shout, but I see it: his lips pulling back, his sudden jerkiness as he reaches for something that isn't there.

A single silver arrow plummets from the clouds like a fallen angel, already limp as a rag doll. Did she hit something? Get knocked out by the smoke? My fingernails dig into my palms as I scream for her to wake up and save herself.

The vibration of the impact ripples through the flooring, sending an answering tremor through my body. The music stutters out, punctuated by cries from the stands. Somewhere above I hear Etander shouting his sister's name, but the huddle of silver in the center of the Ring doesn't move.

AT BREAKFAST the next morning, I slump into one of the seats at the fifth table. Life moves on around me. The Clowns chatter and joke, the Techs visit their virtual world, the Principals lounge and preen. The Freaks are playing some sort of board game with armies of little toy soldiers. I'm still stuck in yesterday, my mistakes on infinite repeat in my head. I haven't slept, and my mouth fills with sawdust at the thought of food.

"You should go back to the Tech table," I tell Nola. "
You
didn't send Sirra to the infirmary with a broken leg and a concussion, saddle the Ringmaster with a ginormous fine, and lose the one thing your dead parents told you to keep safe. I deserve to be exiled so I can wallow in my guilt. You don't."

"Oh, go right ahead and wallow," Nola says with a sly look. "I'm here because I need room to clean out my toolbox."

I can believe it. By the time she's dumped everything out, there's at least three dozen gizmos, gadgets, and doodads laid out on the table between the bowl of fruit and the platter of pancakes. I shake my head at the now-empty toolbox in Nola's lap, which is about as big as a textbook. "I don't see how it all fits. Unless that thing is bigger on the inside than the outside."

"Give me a few years and maybe I'll figure out dimensional transcendence. For now it's all about organization. Everything has a place." She slides a small wrench into one corner of the lid.

"Yeah," I say. "Right."

Nola looks up sharply. "Trix. You have a place. You're still a Clown."

"They all hate me. You should have seen the look I got from Theon. Urrgh." I slice one of the muffins in half, then in halves again.

Nola spins the screwdriver she's been cleaning between her fingers. "Did they
tell
you not to sit with them?"

"No," I admit. "But I don't deserve to sit there. It's all my fault this happened."

There's enough of a pause that I know I'm right. Nola clears her throat. "When the Ringmaster is done smoothing things over with the Hasoo-Pashtung authorities, I'm sure he'll figure out a way to—"

"It's not his problem to fix," I say. "Enough with the wallowing." I shove my diced muffin down the recycler. Across the room, Etander is sitting quietly at the Principals' table. Maybe I shouldn't bother him. I might rile him up into Hedgehog Boy, talking about the accident.

It's a nice excuse, all thoughtful on the surface. And all cowardice underneath. No, I've got to do this. I leave Nola to finish organizing her toolbox. She looks up with worried eyes. "Are you sure you don't want me there for moral support?"

"Thanks, but groveling goes better without moral support." I draw in a breath and head for the Principals' table.

They all look at me, except Etander. He stares into his empty plate like it's a crystal ball. "Hey, Etander," I begin. Man, my voice sounds creaky. I cough. "I wanted to apologize for screwing up the smoke machine thing."

He looks at me then, and I kind of wish he hadn't. It's not an accusing or angry look, but it still makes me feel about an inch tall. I'm a pathetic worm. He gives a small nod but says nothing.

"I swear it was an accident."

"I believe you," he says finally. "But I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."

Ouch. All right, I deserved that. I mumble something and start to walk away, then stop. "Sirra's still in the infirmary, right?"

Etander nods. "Miss Three said it would be another day before the bone had regenerated enough for her to risk moving around, even using her powers."

"Okay. Thanks."

I practically run from the cafeteria. Nola catches up with me in the hall outside. "Trix, where are you going?"

"To do more groveling."

She falls in step with me. "Don't worry; I'm not here for moral support. I figure someone better be there in case she goes for your head. Plus, you'll get lost otherwise, since you still refuse to be sensible and use your know-it-all."

"I remember the way. Mostly," I add as Nola grabs my elbow to redirect me at the next junction.

A few minutes later we're standing outside a door marked with the linked-hands symbol that's apparently the intergalactic version of the Red Cross. Nola is about to touch the entry pad when I motion for her to stop. "I hear voices. She's talking to someone."

"So?"

"I don't want to grovel in front of Miss Three. Or the Ringmaster."

"And I thought you were supposed to be brave," Nola says teasingly. "Don't worry; it's not either of them. Can't you hear the static? That's some sort of audio feed. Probably her parents checking in on her. It was all over the news about the accident."

Sirra's voice suddenly rises in volume, so that every word rings clearly even through the door: "—you hateful, manipulative bastards! I did what you asked! Leave us alone!"

Nola winces. "Maybe she doesn't get along with her folks?"

"Or maybe it's not her parents."

The conversation seems to be over. Someone's moving around inside. I lean toward the door to listen, only to have it slide open under my palms, sending me tumbling into the room.

I guess if I'm going to grovel to a girl who hated me even before I broke her leg, falling flat on my face is a good way to start. Nola gives me a cheery wave as the door skims shut, leaving me alone with Sirra.

She looks less like an invalid and more like somebody caught in the act of doing something she shouldn't. The hem of her black nightgown drifts around her knees, revealing one normal leg and one that's covered in a layer of something resembling marshmallow fluff. Her hands are tucked behind her, and she's pressed herself back against the wall. Neither of us says anything, but I hear a distant rattle and a click. Did she throw something down the recycler chute?

By the time I've got myself vertical again, Sirra's back in her bed, the viewscreen of her know-it-all covering one eye. Huh. She's ignoring me completely. I'd have thought she'd be enjoying this.

I clear my throat. "I'm sorry I messed up your act," I say, shoving the words out. "And that you got hurt."

She gives a little shrug, like I'm a fly buzzing in her ear. "Sure. Whatever."

Something's definitely wrong. I was sure she'd have me licking her boots by this time. "Okay, then." I head for the door.

"Trix."

I stop. Here it comes. "Yeah?"

"Is Nola out there?"

"Um. Yeah. Why?" Maybe she wants to ream me out in front of an audience? Okay, if that's what it takes.

Sirra opens her mouth, then snaps it shut. "Never mind. Go on. Try not to break any of
her
bones."

Honestly, I'm kind of relieved when she says that. For a minute there I was afraid the fall busted more than her leg. But this is the Sirra I know and don't love.

Once I'm out in the hall, I fill Nola in. "Weird, huh? I'm still not even sure she noticed me apologizing."

"She has been acting pretty strange lately, making all those mystery calls off-ship. I wonder..."