by Deva Fagan
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.
CHAPTER 14
The Hasoo-Pashtung Bazaar
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."
"Never mind." I sigh. "At least I get a cool costume for the Firedance."
Maybe I'm a little prejudiced, but the Firedance is going to be freaking amazing. We've been spending every day practicing for it, and I've put in a buttload of extra early-morning sessions. It's tougher than anything I've done before. The fact that I made up the choreography isn't much of a consolation, especially since I still haven't nailed the most important bit, that last throw-leap-catch, where I trick the King into kindling the seeds of the Tree of Life.
"How many people are going to be watching?" I ask, trying to ignore the knots that have taken up permanent residence in my stomach.
"Oh, it's only a mid-size show. Five thousand."
"For real? I'm going to be up there in front of five thousand people? Parading around with purple pears on my—"
"They're patching it into the local entertainment net, too," says Asha, from the cosmetics station, where she's testing out new makeup designs with her sister. "So there could be up to a hundred thousand watching the feed. Isn't that great?"
I open my mouth. No words come out. I can't breathe. Did my bodysuit suddenly get tighter?
"It's okay, Trix," Theon says. "You'll do fine. You've really been working hard."
"Not hard enough. The end of the Firedance—"
"Will be perfect. You've still got practice tomorrow morning."
I groan. "I need more. Maybe I could skip this bazaar thing and run through it a few more times this afternoon."
A chorus of protests slaps me down.
"You can't miss the Hasoo-Pashtung Bazaar," insists Asha, waving her airbrush.
Leri, one half of her face bright green, leans away from the mirror to tell me, "It's amazing! There's stuff there you can't get anywhere else in the universe! I found a set of antique Haitren dynasty beads last time."
"And a life-size hologram of Kel Starstrike," Asha adds. "With personalized audio." She pitches her voice low and dramatic. "The universe is an empty void without you, my darling Leri. But you, my love, are the brightest star in—mmmph!" She ducks as Leri directs one of the airbrushes at her, but not quickly enough to avoid a streak of orange across her cheek. Asha yowls and raises her own airbrush in retaliation.
"Hasoo-Pashtung really is something," says Theon, watching the antics of the sisters with a frown. "Hey, don't waste all the paint!" She returns her attention to me. "No one misses it. Everyone goes to the bazaar."
"What about the Ringmaster?"
Theon rolls her eyes. "Oh, no, he never leaves the Big Top. You'd think he was chained to it. But Miss Three has a mobile projection, to keep an eye on us."
"You mean to stop us from having any fun," says Asha. "First Tinker forbid we have a good time." The battle seems to have ended in a draw; both sisters are streaked in a clashing array of paints.
"To make sure we don't jeopardize the Circus," says Theon. "If the Core Governance starts sniffing around, they might find out what we really are. And if that happens, none of us is going to be having much fun ever again."
***
Nola and I meet up with Theon, Asha, and Leri inside the Big Top's main entrance for our escapade. The ship is parked in an assigned lot on the edge of the bazaar, the better to draw in crowds. With the doorways thrown open, a thousand scents and sounds flow into the Big Top. It's downright intoxicating, and I'm already glad I decided to take the break. This is my first chance to be on an actual alien world! We're weaving our way through the velvet ropes and pylons toward the door when someone speaks.
"Have a lovely time, ladies. Make the most of your freedom."
The Ringmaster leans against the ticket booth inside the doorway. With his features cast into shadow by the brim of his top hat, he seems oddly morose, even somber. Then he tilts his head, flashing white teeth. "And go ahead, get into a little trouble if you like. I won't tell Miss Three."
The other girls laugh and continue on. I pause a moment.
"Don't you want to see the bazaar?"
He drums thin fingers against his baton, silent. I get the impression he's trying out several answers in his head. "Oh, you know how it is," he says finally. "There's always something that needs looking after around here. And I've seen bazaars before. I'll survive. Thank you," he adds, then waves to the door. "Better hurry on. Marvels to see, delights to sample. Be sure to try a sundae from Supulu's Stellar Scoops. Your mouth will be thanking you for the next year at least."
"Aliens have ice cream?"
"Everyone has ice cream. One of the very few things the Mandate got right."
"Okay, thanks for the tip." I start for the doors again, then stop. "Well, if you can't go, do you want anything? I mean, from the bazaar. Curried sardines?"
The Ringmaster chuckles. "Since you ask, I could use a good teapot. Never have found one that works quite properly. Always too big or too small, or worse yet, they dribble when you try to pour and you end up with stains all down your trousers." He gives a wan smile. How can the same person look so kindly one moment, and the next be "prepared to take extreme measures"?
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"You're just ... confusing," I admit, startled into honesty.
"Well, I confuse myself sometimes, so that's no surprise. But Beatrix, is there something you want to ask?" He leans forward.
"I—" Questions hover on my lips. Then I catch sight of a shadow behind him. Miss Three. "Um ... what's your favorite color? For the teapot."
"Today I'd have to say my favorite color is pink." He winks. "Go on. Have fun."
I go, hurling myself into the chaos and wonder of the Hasoo-Pashtung Bazaar.
***
Two hours later, Nola and I duck under the lavender and green striped awning at Supulu's Stellar Scoops, bone-tired but over the moon with the wonder of it all. When I close my eyes, I can still see the dazzle of the light fountains. Scents of wood smoke and spun sugar and ozone cling to my skin. I've got a new pair of iridescent black boots, a freebie fiber-optic hair ornament some huckster shoved into my hands, telling me I was a "pretty pink lady," and a fuchsia teapot I haggled over for fifteen minutes. Silver ribbons stream down from my jacket, announcing my high scores at the gigantic Hasoo-Pashtung Arcade.
"It's just as well we're not old enough for the club," I say as I slide into a booth. I stretch my legs out. "My feet need a break, and my stomach needs ice cream."
"I guess," Nola says. She stands looking out across the street at Retrograde Station, bouncing slightly on her heels to the beat that we can feel even over here. "It's not fair. My birthday's next month! And I love dancing!" She spins around, gyrating to the distant music.
"Whoa. You've got moves." She does. I'm not just being nice. "Can't you, y'know, do your mojo to the ID station so it thinks you're older? Or someone else?"
"Oh, no! I mean, yes, I could try. But I wouldn't dare, not here. There's a Governance Guard on every corner, practically. And if I got caught..." Nola shivers.
"Next year, then. We'll get totally glammed." I dig in my bag for the hair extension and toss it across the table. "Then they'll see what they've been missing."
Nola clips on the glittering swatch of purple and models it with a snooty fashion-mag hauteur. Then we both dissolve into giggles.
"What should we get?" she asks, after we've re-covered.
I study the tabletop, where a list of flavors scrolls by in a swirl of alien script my portable translator can barely keep up with. Every so often there's an advertisement showing a chubby redheaded toddler trying to stuff a giant ice
cream cone into his mouth. "I can't tell what half this stuff is. How about we split one of these Asteroid Belt Blaster thingies? It's got a scoop of every flavor."
While Nola places our order, I check out the people hustling by on the street. It's freaky how human they look. The Mandate really did a number on the universe. Everywhere I look I see two eyes, ten fingers, two legs. But they've got differences, too, just like on Earth. They have skin, eyes, and hair of every color. Some folks have buck teeth or beaky noses, freckles or dimples. Others are rigged out in outlandish costumes, feathered headdresses, and colorful tattoos.
A tall boy with a lumpy but genial face waves at me. I do a double take when I realize it's Gravalon Pree, his rocky features hidden by a holographic projection. Miss Three tried to get me to cloak my pink hair, but I refused. They've got hair dye in space, after all. It's funny, but I'm kind of attached to my bubblegum mop now. It's still my only proof that I'm anything out of the ordinary.
A whir of hydraulics pulls my attention back to the table as the robotic dessert cart trundles up with our order. Wielding a lobster-claw serving arm, the waitbot sets down a ginormous dish. A mountain of ice cream only slightly less impressive than Mount Everest rises up, its mottled colorful heights swathed in drifts of whipped cream and sprinkled with candied nuts.
I have to shift sideways to peer at Nola around the delicious monstrosity. "How many different flavors are there?"
Nola blinks wide eyes. "Forty-seven."
"I'm going to need a bigger stomach."
"I'm not even sure where to start," says Nola, her spoon hovering over the mountain.
"Tachyon Toffee Swirl, definitely. It's amazing." Jom slides into the booth beside Nola. He's wearing a wide, sombrero-like hat that I assume is intended to hide his bright red hair. His wraparound sunglasses, on the other hand, make him kind of dorky. "Hey, Nola," he says, smiling. "Looking good. Purple's my favorite color."
