Circus Galacticus (24 page)

"What's wrong?"

"I'm afraid Miss Ogala is scheduled to be transferred to a treatment chamber in approximately thirty-three minutes."

"What kind of treatment?" asks Sirra.

"Full-scale genetic cleansing."

"Even in a best-case scenario, our planned route will take forty," says Jom. He pulls off his cap and twists it so roughly I hear a rip. "And the backup plan isn't much better."

"Then we'd better find a backup for the backup." I glare into the sea of thin green lines that stand between me and Nola. I point to the schematics. "Look here, there's a passage that runs almost straight from where we are to the detention block. It's the only way."

"That's the passage with the Vuolu scent hounds," says Jom, continuing to mangle his hat.

"You said you had a way to get past them."

"I said I had an idea. That's not the same thing. And I can't do anything about the variable gravimetric fields."

"Good thing we've got Gravity Girl with us, then." I point to a spot near the blinking light that marks Nola's cell. "And look, Sirra, you're in luck: There's a full netlink station right here."

Sirra doesn't move. For a moment I think I might have to come up with an inspiring speech. Then she shakes herself, gives a tight nod, and heads for the wall panel that leads to our backup backup route.

The first part is tense and boring, not a good combination. All we find are seemingly endless tubelike passages that make me feel like a gerbil. We scuttle along the Habitrail, hunched and ready for attack, for sirens and wailing alarms. It's a dangerous feeling when you start hoping for something to happen to relieve the numb fear slowly paralyzing your thoughts.

I notice the tube widening, feel an odd heaviness in one foot. Britannica starts to say something, but it's too late. Suddenly my entire body has turned to lead. I slam down onto the floor. A hum of power buzzes in my bones.

"Graphimephric ... m-field," says Jom, the translator barely un-garbling the words. With great effort I twist my head a fraction of an inch so I can see him splattered flat as a pancake against the floor.

"Sirra," I gasp out. "Your ... cue."

The field shifts sickeningly. Is this how the ocean feels in a storm? Whipped by waves that shift it and slop it around until up is down and inside is out? I grit my teeth, my entire focus boiling down to one thought: Don't hurl.

When it stops, I'm on the ceiling. My lead bones have become clouds. Jom careens into me and grunts. "Sirra! Do something!"

I twist so the momentum of the jolt from Jom spins me around to face Sirra. She's floating, arms outstretched, her dark hair coiling in a halo around her frightened—yes, frightened—face. "Sirra, can't you stop it?"

"No ... I mean, I don't know. It's too much. Changing too fast."

On cue, I slam back down to the floor. Jom bellows in pain.

"If I get it wrong, it might backlash. It could tear us all into pieces."

"If it's a choice between that and getting beaten to a bloody pulp, I'll take the chance," calls Jom.

"I don't think I can do it."

"Come on, Sirra, you're the star of the Circus Galacticus. You perform for bazillions of people. You're the definition of overachiever. Everything you do is perfect. Believe me; I noticed. So do this! Get another gold star for your collection."

Nothing. I think I hear her breathing, fast and desperate.

"I'm afraid Lady Centaurus won't be able to be of further assistance," pipes my know-it-all. "I don't suppose you can reach that control panel on the far end of the chamber?"

I'd laugh, but there's no air in my chest. I can barely move an inch, let alone cross the ten feet to the panel. But I try. Not much else to do. "I guess I finally found one thing I can do better, though," I say. "At least I'm not giving up without a fight."

Sirra's voice is faint. "You're trying to make me angry."

"Well, yeah," I admit.

"It's working." The words are sharper, stronger.

I can't see what's happening, but suddenly my body feels cloudlike again. Jom groans. "Hold on," says Sirra. "Don't move."

The clouds turn to marshmallows, then to solid flesh. My heels sink onto the floor. I catch myself against the wall. Don't hurl, don't hurl, chants my brain. Sirra flies past and taps something into the control panel. The humming stops.

"Good work," I say, once I find my lips. "Remind me to give you that gold star."

Sirra smiles. "If we get out of here, it's gold stars all around."

"Ah, isn't it wonderful how a little adversity can make bosom friends out of former enemies?" says my know-it-all in a dreamy voice.

I snort. "Bosom friends?"

"Hardly," says Sirra, dropping her smile like a hot coal. "Let's call it allies for now."

"Sounds good to me." I move to join Jom over at the hatch that will take us out into the detention wing.

"I'll go first," he says. "If there are Vuolu hounds, I'll distract them. You two get Nola out. Okay?"

"As long as distracting them doesn't mean letting them chew on you."

"No." Jom cracks the hatch, peering out. "But it does involve a bit of acrobatics and making myself smell like a fresh Denebian sausage. Nothing a Clown can't handle. All right, it's clear." He ducks out of the hatch.

Sirra and I follow, emerging into a gray corridor lined with narrow doors that remind me uncomfortably of tombstones. It takes me a moment to get oriented. "It should be this way," I say, pointing to the right.

"Shhh!" Jom raises a warning hand. In the silence that follows, the
click-click-click
of claws echoes from somewhere around the corner to the left. "Go! Find her!"

Then he's gone, slipping off down the left-hand hall, trailing a faint whiff of smoked meat. I hesitate. It feels wrong, but we're running out of time.

"You heard him," Sirra says.

We move on. I'm listening so hard for growling and screaming in the distance, I miss the cell. Sirra catches my elbow and points to the number glowing from the keypad beside the nearest door. "This is it."

"And there's the netlink." I point up the hall. "Go do your thing." Leaning closer to the door, I call out, "Nola?"

A long moment ticks by, and I swear I lose about a year of my life before I catch the faint "Trix? Is that really you?"

"Pink hair and all. I've got Jom and Sirra here, too. Don't ask; I can't explain it, either. We're here to rescue you, but we're going to need help. Can you get this door open? You know, with your Tech mojo?"

"I can try. But everything keeps spinning. Whooa, one step in front of the other." There's a muffled thump from inside the cell. "Hello, there, Mr. Door. How do you feel about opening? Good? Oh, do you really have to? Well, okay, then..."

The next moment the door slides open, Nola falls out, and sirens start blaring.

Sirra rejoins me, her face sharp with fear. "They're coming!" The thud of running footsteps pounds toward us.

Jom rounds the corner, running like he's got a pack of Vuolu hounds on his trail. Relief breaks over his face like a sunrise when he sees us. "You found her! Is she okay?"

"She's fine. Pretty loopy, though. I think they drugged her. She's not going to make it out on her own."

Jom doesn't hesitate. He scoops Nola up and keeps running. Sirra and I follow. We hurtle around the corner and skid to a stop. Three gray-uniformed soldiers block the hall, brandishing familiar stubby black weapons. Sirra sweeps her arms up, and suddenly all three are floating into the air. We duck under their flailing legs and race onward and into our hatch.

Gravimetric chamber, Habitrail, it all whips past now as we flee, driven by the shrieks of the alarms. I roll out the last panel into the landing bay and spring upright, fists clenched, ready to fight. But all I see is the striped Supulu shuttle. Jom goes right for the ship, still carrying Nola. A moment later the thrum of the engine starts up. Britannica helps me spin the landing deck, positioning the shuttle for takeoff. I can't believe it. We're going to do this crazy thing. We're going to make it out of here!

But one look toward the hangar bay doors, and everything falls apart. The slice of stars is narrowing. They're trying to trap us here. "Jom!" I call over my comlink.

"I see it! I can't stop it. Signal isn't getting through!"

"I believe you'll find a manual override on the far wall," offers my know-it-all. "Yellow panel, red switch."

"Don't worry, Jom; I'll handle it. Start the pre-burn."

"Are you sure you'll have time—"

"You worry about Nola. Got it? Nola." Then I have Britannica kill the link so I don't have to lie.

I dash across the room and slam the red switch. The slice of stars begins to widen again. Sirra's raising the ramp. I'm about to make my last wild sprint for the shuttle when a flicker of movement catches the corner of my eye.

A dozen gray-uniformed guards boil out from the corridor into the landing bay. At their center stalks a single figure in a long charcoal coat with a glinting face.

"Sirra, go!" I shout. Sirra opens her lips; she's saying something, but I can't hear it over the pre-flight burn. I turn away. No time. Nyl is pointing at the shuttle, his hand wreathed in blue fire.

My body moves before my mind, sharp and sure as an arrow. I launch myself at Nyl, catching his hand as it explodes with blue fire, driving it down, away from the shuttle. Pain rips through me, tangling my nerves into knots of agony that leave me huddled and breathless at Nyl's feet.

When I look up, though, all I see is that ridiculous striped shuttle, shooting out into the stars.
Go, Jom,
screams my mind.
Get her out!

Then a silver monster fills my vision, and his terrible words fill my ears, and I retreat into the blackness, where he can't find me.

BLANK WHITE WALLS and a piercing headache greet me when I wake. I batter my fists against the cell, searching for any weakness and finding only my own. I black out again.

I wake up sprawled on the floor. Time slides past, featureless as the walls of my prison. Food appears on a tray through a narrow slot in the wall. Britannica remains silent, muffled or dead.

For a while I live on flavorless pudding, dry biscuits, and the memory of happier times. I summon up starry desert nights and bedtime stories. I try to tease hidden meaning from the past. What were my parents planning? Why did they leave me the Tinkers' Treasure? What did they expect me to do with it?

I begin to realize that the worst part isn't the things I miss: friends, freedom, decent food. It's what I've got locked in here with me: my mistakes, the things I've said, the people I've hurt or disappointed.

"I tried," I whisper into my hands. I know Nyl's watching me. Tiny red eyes wink at me from the corners of the room. It's those eyes that keep me going. I may be dying inside, but Nyl is not getting a piece of that.

At last he comes, like I knew he would. The door whispers shut. He's alone.

"That was quite the martyr act," he says. "And all for one little girl? Or perhaps there is a part of you that knows your place is here, with us."

"Like hell it is." I stand to face him. "My mother didn't think so, and neither do I."

"So he finally told you? If you know the truth, that only makes the situation clearer. You have no other options. Suppose I opened this door and set you free, right now? Where would you go? Back to the Circus? Back to him?"

I curse my own silence as he chuckles. "Perhaps you'd like to return to that pit of a world where I found you, to that shabby little room and that shabby little life?"

He crosses his arms, tilting his masked face consideringly. "There is still a place for you with us, Beatrix. You have family here, you know."

A noise crawls from my throat before I can stop it, a sort of whimper.

"True family," he says. "They are waiting for you to return and take your mother's place. Don't you want that?"

Damn me, but I do. "No," I say, to myself as much as to Nyl. "She left for a reason."

"She left because she wasn't strong enough. She wasn't a fighter, like you. But time is running out, Beatrix. Not all my associates are as patient as I. If you don't join us now, I won't be able to protect you much longer."

I raise my chin. "My blood may be Mandate, but I am
not
one of you."

He cocks his head. "Ah. Despite everything, you still think you're one of
them,
do you? Well, then. Here. Let's test that hypothesis." He tosses something at me.

My hands rise instinctively, catching it. I blink at the familiar black lump cradled in my palms.

"That's what started this all," he says. "The so-called Tinkers' Treasure. Your sacred charge." He laughs. "It's nothing but a joke, Beatrix. You are no Tinker. It isn't meant for you. Go on, try. You can't even open it. If you truly belonged with him, don't you think you would have unlocked its secrets long ago?"

My fingers tighten. "You're wrong. My parents gave it to me for a reason. Just because I don't know what it is doesn't mean there isn't one." I grip the rock in both hands now, ignoring the slippery echoes of doubt twisting in my thoughts. What's wrong with me? I cracked it once just by bashing it in his face and dropping it on the freaking ground.

"This is the folly of such dreams," says Nyl. "In his world, there are always going to be those who shine more brightly than the rest. We can take that all away. Think of it, Beatrix. A world without jealousy or war. All peoples working together to create a bright future for all. You can help us make that happen. Aren't you tired of wishing to be better? Of jealousy clamping you in its sharp fangs and filling you with its poison?"

"Yes." The word slips out before I can stop it. I stare down into the glossy blackness of the rock. Then I look up again, into his mirrored glasses. I can't see his eyes, but I know I'm staring straight into them, holding him with the power of my resolve. "But I'll take painful dreams over empty comfort any day."

Nyl shakes his head. "A pity." He clenches his hand. A few flickers of blue flame flare angrily.