by Deva Fagan
"Have a care—that's fine Denebian silk you're treading on." Even without the loudspeaker, his voice fills the hallway with liquid sound.
I stare. I can't help it. That poster was nothing compared to the real thing. Della and her girls got one thing right: He could totally be a movie star. He'd melt a million hearts with that smile. It's not only good looks; it's something more, a spark so raw and powerful it shakes my core. I feel like my universe suddenly got a whole new dimension.
"And who do we have here?" he asks, quirking a brow at me. Pounding feet announce Sparkles.
"Ringmaster!"
He looks away from me, finally, and I try to shake off the feeling that I've been standing there for hours rather than seconds. "Yes, Sirra? Is there a problem?"
"This Earth girl was snooping around the back corridor!"
"Snooping isn't necessarily a bad thing. I encourage a good snooping now and again. Keeps us on our toes." He doffs his electric-blue top hat, bowing low. "Welcome to the Big Top. I'm the Ringmaster. And you are...?"
"Beatrix Ling," I manage to get out.
"She's a spy," insists Sparkles—or Sirra, if that's her name. Her nose is red and starting to swell, and she's got blue-green feathers stuck in her hair. She looks like an angry parrot. "And she's a liar. She said she came through the mirror."
"Did she? That is interesting."
"It's impossible. She's not one of us!"
"The Tinkers' Mirror never lies. And it's time we had a new recruit to liven things up around here."
"No," protests Sirra. "You're going to bring her with us? We're in enough trouble already without taking home souvenirs."
"Hey!" I interrupt. "Nobody's bringing me any where! First you make me think I'm crazy with your secret messages, and now you're going to kidnap me? We have answers, hah! For all I know, you're the ones who gave me this bubblegum dye job, not my—" I stop myself before I mention the meteorite in my pocket. I've got enough trouble without these bozos coming after it, too.
The Ringmaster cocks his head. "You mean to say your hair isn't normally pink?"
"Of course not! No one has pink hair naturally!"
"I grant you it is rare, yes. The Mandate were so dreary in their color choices." He tugs out a lock of his own dark brown hair and studies it mournfully.
My anger is starting to wear off, which isn't a good thing, because that'll leave me with just the fear. My legs tremble. "Please, let me go. I won't cause any trouble."
"I find that hard to believe," says the Ringmaster, casting aside his lighthearted humor with such absolute suddenness it catches the breath in my chest. "You've been causing trouble all your life, haven't you? Asking questions that weren't in the textbooks. Saying things other people were afraid to say. There was always something off about you, something different, something that made other people stare and whisper and maybe even laugh ... Isn't that right?" His eyes pull on mine, demanding an answer.
I swallow against the boulder that seems to have lodged in my throat. "How ... how do you know?"
"I know because it's the story of every person who walks through that mirror. It's the story of the Tinker-touched. That's what we are. That's what you are. It's why your hair is that remarkable and quite fetching color, and why you were able to find your way into the Big Top."
I shake my head. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm ... nobody. A weirdo. A freak."
"Just like the rest of us."
Sirra snorts. The Ringmaster ignores her, his eyes fixed on mine. Then he grins, twirling his jeweled baton from hand to hand. "But I've gone about this all wrong. You should see the show first. Speaking of which—you'd better get back to the stage, Sirra, before Nola has a fit looping that intro."
I realize that the music has started to repeat, going from a trembling hush to a triumphant burst of synthesized trumpeting over and over again, with a grating fuzz of static in between. Sirra hurries away down the corridor, shooting me a backward glance that says pretty clearly she'd rather be bashing my face in.
"Well? Do you want to see the show?" The Ringmaster waves for me to follow.
I cross my arms. "Who are you guys, really? You said you had answers. I want answers before I go anywhere."
"We're exactly what it says out front. The Circus Galacticus, bringing acts to delight and amaze across the universe."
"Across the universe. Seriously?"
"Of course not!" He gives a huff of disdain. "Do I look like the serious sort? Across the universe stupendously. Across the universe insouciantly. Wonderful word, insouciant, isn't it? I love Earth. All the brilliant, maddening words. Did you know there are more than six thousand languages on this planet? Drives the translator to distraction."
"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, vitalit
y, 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."
CHAPTER 4
Up. Up. and Away
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 Rin
gmaster'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."
