Circus Galacticus

by Deva Fagan

  "It's only been thirty-point-four-five minutes," says my know-it-all. "Have some patience. Why don't you go sit with your friends?"

  "Haven't you been paying attention? I lost my only friend. And anyway, I don't belong here."

  Britannica tsks me. "My, my, it sounds to me like someone's feeling guilty. You belong here as much now as you ever did. Open your eyes, dear."

  "Whatever. We're wasting time," I grumble, sticking my hands in my pockets and leaning against the railing. Something cool and metallic meets my hand, and for a moment I think it's the rock. I pull out the datastore with the hunter app, the one Nola made for Sirra before getting taken.

  I look for Sirra, expecting to find her sitting pretty with her court of Principals in attendance. When I finally spot her, she's up on top of one of the bleachers, sitting with Etander and talking quietly and intently.

  On the way up the stairs, I catch bits of their conversation.

  "—should have told me," Etander is saying. He's not Hedgehog Boy, but he's on his way, flushed and tight-lipped.

  "I'm taking care of it," Sirra retorts. "It's got nothing to do with you."

  "It's my fault! We went to those doctors because I couldn't control—" He sees me and breaks off.

  I clear my throat. "Hey. Sirra, can I talk to you?"

  She's breathing fast, her fingers driving into the spongy stuff covering her leg, leaving deep dents. "I doubt it's anything I want to hear."

  "Okay, don't listen. But take this." I hold out the datastore.

  "What is it?" She narrows her eyes at me.

  "Nola made it. To help with your ... problem." I flick a look to Etander. "She said it needs to get uploaded on an unsecured netlink port. Dunno where you can find something like that, but I figure with your connections, you've got a better shot than me. Anyway, she wanted to help. So here. Take it."

  I turn and retreat down the stairs as a distant clang shivers through the air. The whispers start the next moment. They're here. The Outcasts.

  Returning to my skulking spot between the bleachers, I survey the crowd. Some look excited. Others look worried or afraid. Even the Ringmaster looks nervous. The door opens.

  I take a step back. Talk about stage presence!

  There's a vibe you get when someone is performing and you can feel that they're trying to reach out. You know they're performing to you, that everything is connected. It's why I still can't help but seek out the Ringmaster's gaze, even as angry and ashamed as I am right now.

  The Outcasts aren't like that. They don't care what we think. At all. They want us to take a step back, to look away. They want us to disconnect.

  There are three of them. The one in front is in his late teens maybe, with a topknot of white-blond hair that sweeps down over his black patch-elbowed duster. On his right hulks something I can't even identify, except that it's big and ugly. It moves with a wheezy groan of hydraulics, swiveling its metallic faceplate to take in the gathered crowd. A lump clogs my throat as I spot a patch of skin near the shoulder, oddly shiny and red. It's not a robot. It's a man, burned and buried under layers of metal.

  The third Outcast is a girl. Her pigtailed hair bristles with metal skewers that I'm guessing are more than just decorative. And she's blue. All over. Trust me; her outfit doesn't leave much room for doubt on that point.

  All three of them are painted and tattooed with sharp swirls of black and white and dripping with heavy metal chains and studs. It's a little over-the-top, but they pull it off without looking like rejects from a bad post-apocalyptic movie. Mostly.

  The Ringmaster dips his top hat to the trio. "Welcome home, Reaper."

  "This isn't my home," says the blond one, "not anymore. Looks like you've found plenty of new blood, though." He surveys the bleachers. Someone gives a half-wave. Reaper doesn't react. "I'm glad to see the old girl's still in one piece." He looks around the stage like a kid checking out his nursery, fond and disdainful.

  "Barely," mutters Pigtails, around a gob of chewing gum. Tell me the blue girl did not just diss the Big Top in front of the Ringmaster.

  "Ringmaster, this is Amp," says Reaper.

  The blue girl gives the Ringmaster a look that makes me flush. "Mmm, the ship may be nothing to look at, but the captain's not bad. I could get used to sequins."

  I'm indulging a colorful fantasy involving Amp and a few dozen space leeches when she snaps her gum. The crack is as loud as a bolt of thunder. I guess her superpower is more than blue skin and the ability to wear minimal clothing. She seizes the Ringmaster's hand in hers, sidling closer. "I make things loud."

  "Charmed, I'm sure." The Ringmaster slips free from her grasp and gives Amp a carefully measured smile. I'm not-so-secretly pleased to see her pouting. Guess that bad-girl schtick isn't working the way she hoped.

  Meanwhile, the Ringmaster has moved on to the third Outcast. Metal squeals against metal as the giant raises one bulky hand to flip up his faceplate.

  I'm not the only one who hisses in surprise and—I'll admit it—disgust. The face beneath is a mass of scars and raw, flaking skin. The scarred man bows, stiff as a soldier. "Ringmaster, I have long aspired to the privilege of meeting you. We may have chosen differing paths, but there is none who can say you have not sacrificed all for our people. My name is Schadenfreude."

  What the blazes? This translator must have a screw loose. I sure hope my name doesn't translate into something weird like that.

  "That is a refreshing sentiment, Mr. Schadenfreude," says the Ringmaster. "And I'm grateful to all of you for agreeing to this meeting. I wouldn't have risked contacting you had the need not been very great."

  "I haven't forgotten my debt," says Reaper. "But there's not much to go on in the details you sent. What makes you think we know where she is?" Reaper flicks a cool look at Miss Three, who's been hovering silently in the Ringmaster's shadow. "You've got an expert on the Mandate here. Good chance for her to finally earn her keep."

  "I've already stated my opinion," says Miss Three. "The girl is beyond our reach. In all likelihood she's already dead, or converted."

  "No!"

  My shout is still echoing from the heights as I bound up into the Ring to confront them. "We're getting Nola back."

  The Ringmaster, courteously smooth as usual, presents me with a wave of his baton. "Reaper, Miss Amp, Mr. Schadenfreude, this is our newest troupe member, Beatrix Ling, of Earth. She is also Miss Ogala's roommate and was in the vicinity when the abduction took place."

  Amp snorts. "You couldn't stop them from taking her, and you think you're going to be able to get her back from inside a maximum-security Core station? Good luck with that."

  "I'll get her back from a black hole if I have to," I snap, taking a step toward the blue girl. "Watch me."

  Amp draws one of the steel needles from her hair. The Ringmaster tugs me back by one elbow. At a look from Reaper, Amp starts cleaning her nails with the thin spike.

  "A Core Governance facility?" asks the Ringmaster. "But she was taken by an agent of the Mandate."

  Reaper grimaces. "You see what happens when you spend your time pandering to a universe full of mindless drones? You're never going to do it, Ringmaster. They don't want to be saved. You've wasted too much effort on them already, when you could have been helping our own kind. If you had, maybe the girl would still be free."

  The Ringmaster grips his baton, white-knuckled. "Let's put aside the philosophical debate for a time of greater leisure, shall we? Please, tell us what you know."

  It's Schadenfreude who speaks then. "According to our sources, agents of the Mandate have infiltrated some of the highest levels of the Core Governance. They do not control it, though that may be their ultimate goal. But there are certain facilities under their total or near-total control."

  "Circula Fardawn Station?" asks the Ringmaster.

  "So you have been paying attention," says Reaper with a feral grin. "Yes, that was a blow the Mandate won't soon forget."

  "Nor will the fa
milies of those who died there," says the Ringmaster. "Or are you going to tell me all 567 sentients on that station were agents of the Mandate?"

  "Collateral damage is part of war."

  "That wasn't war. That was terrorism."

  Reaper's lips curl. Amp starts tapping her skewer against one of her wide metal bracelets with a ting, ting, TING that's loud enough to rattle my bones.

  "Enough," snaps Reaper. "I'm here to repay a debt. We have word that a prisoner was delivered to the station at Vargalo-5, and that the incoming flight originated from Hasoo-Pashtung. If that's not your girl, I don't know where she is. But Ringmaster, for once I agree with Miss Three. This isn't a fight you're going to win. Even the Outcasts aren't ready to take on Vargalo-5. It may look like a Core station and play by the Core rules, but it's Mandate through and through."

  "We are fairly certain it's their main research facility," adds Schadenfreude. "We've ... lost some of our own to that place."

  My lips are stiff as cardboard, but I force the question out. "Lost, as in dead?"

  "Not always. More often changed. Conformed. Broken." Schadenfreude shakes his head. His eyes are two pools of sorrow in a desert of twisted flesh and jagged metal.

  "Then I guess we'd better get moving. Right?" I turn to the Ringmaster.

  "Yes, of course. I've already plotted a route to the Jorlax Nexus. If I can gain an audience with the right people, I'm sure we can arrange sufficient political pressure to—"

  "Political pressure? They might be melting Nola's brain right now, and you want to chitchat? We need to go get her out!"

  "I like this one," says Reaper. "Maybe she belongs with us."

  "Yeah? And what are you going to do about Nola?" I ask.

  His superior smile wavers. "We have plans to deal with Vargalo-5, eventually."

  "Great. Another contender for the Who Can Be Most Useless title."

  Reaper laughs. "You'd better watch her, Ringmaster. She'll give you almost as much trouble as I did."

  "Oh, a good deal more, I suspect. She isn't a coward."

  "Careful." Reaper's voice is low and dangerous. "I'm not your painted puppet anymore. I'm more powerful than you remember."

  I stare at the Outcast. Was his long coat always that dark? Were there always drifts of shadow swirling around his feet? No, I'm not imagining it. They're moving, slithering along the floor toward the Ringmaster and me. With a suddenness that makes me gasp, my feet go numb. There are dim cries of alarm, but my world has turned dull and gray. I try to move, but everything is ice and stone.

  "More powerful, yes," says the Ringmaster, "but no wiser."

  Light bursts, brighter and brighter, burning into my eyes and bringing color to the world again. I blink, tears stinging from the brilliance, to see the Ringmaster brandishing his baton like a sword. Every light in the entire tent is blazing.

  Reaper retreats, raising one hand to shield his eyes. When I blink again, there are no strange shadows darkening the floor. "We're done here," growls Reaper. Spinning on his heel, he heads for the door. Amp snaps her gum one more time, then follows.

  The rest of the troupe are on their feet, chattering and calling out and stumbling woozily down from the bleachers. Whatever Reaper did, it affected everyone, though it looks like Theon made it halfway to center stage before getting knocked loopy. Jom's helping her up. I spot Gravalon Pree and Ghost, of all people, blocking the doors.

  "Step aside, Gravalon, Ghost," calls the Ringmaster. "Let them go. The show's over."

  Reaper and Amp leave and don't look back. Good riddance.

  Schadenfreude still hasn't moved. "My apologies for the conduct of my associates," he says, dipping his head with a rasp of protesting metal. "I'm afraid you bring out the worst in him, Ringmaster. Even as you bring out the best in others." It takes me a minute to identify the grotesque spasm that crosses his face as a smile.

  He turns to me. "I hope you can recover your friend unharmed. Perhaps this will help." He holds out a battered datastore. "This is all the information we've gathered on the station itself."

  I take it, trying not to flinch as my fingers brush the cracked flesh and warped metal mosaic that is his palm. Schadenfreude flips down his faceplate, salutes the Ringmaster, then follows after the other Outcasts. The door closes behind them.

  The Ringmaster sighs. "Relieved?" I ask.

  "No. Regretful." He shakes himself. "But we've places to go and people to see. Move smartly, you lot. We'll be jumping to the Jorlax Nexus as soon as I'm back to the bridge."

  What? Still?

  Nods and calls of Yeah! and Got it! percolate through the rest of the troupe. "What about Vargalo-5?" I say loudly as the Ringmaster heads backstage.

  He halts, shoulders slumping slightly. "Beatrix, I want to rescue Nola as much as you do, but there are better ways to go about this."

  "I thought the whole point of this circus was to fight back. Isn't it?"

  "Yes! I mean, no, not that way. It's more complicated than that. This isn't a battleship. It's a school, a home, a hope for the future."

  "Then we leave the Big Top somewhere safe. We go there and get her out!"

  "I ... can't do that, Beatrix. My first duty is to keep this troupe safe."

  "That worked real well for Nola." It's a cheap shot. I regret it as soon as the words are past my lips.

  He whirls around with a terrifying suddenness. "I wasn't the one who led her into danger!" The fury in his voice tears into me.

  I stagger back, gulping down air, digging fingernails into my palms. Stay focused. And damn it, do not cry. The acid of my guilt and anger churns through my veins, chewing at my insides. With visible effort, the Ringmaster relaxes, although the knuckles gripping his baton remain white and hard as diamonds.

  "You're right," I croak, finding half my voice. I cough, but the lump in my throat won't go away. "I'm sorry. I know I messed up with the Firedance, but this isn't about showing off. This is about getting Nola back before they destroy her."

  The Ringmaster lifts his head. There's something fragile in his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is a whisper. "I know. And if I could..."

  I remember our trip to the Lighthouse, how he checked that pocket watch, and the guilt on his face when he looked back at the Big Top. Then later, coughing like he was ... like he was at death's door. He would get Nola back, if he could. But he can't. The realization staggers me.

  "You can't leave the Big Top," I say, speaking low so only he can hear it. "When we went to the Lighthouse, it wasn't the atmosphere making you sick. It was being away from the Big Top. That's what you meant about choices and sacrifice. Being the Ringmaster means you can't leave her."

  He lowers his gaze so I don't need to see what's breaking inside of him. "Not for long. Not for long enough to save Nola. I'm sorry."

  I reach out and grip his hand, just for a moment. "That's all right," I say, loud enough so everyone can hear. "I'll save her. And I just might get the Tinkers' Treasure back, too."

  My attempt at bravado misses the mark. He reaches for my arm. "Beatrix, no. That isn't what I meant. It's too dangerous. I can't let you to risk yourself that way."

  "Don't worry." I'm all business now. Time to get this over with. "This is for the best. Your job is to keep the Tinker-touched safe. Not half-Mandate screwups who do more harm than good."

  Startled exclamations batter my ears: Theon telling me not to joke, Jom insisting it's not true. Even Sirra looks surprised. Only Miss Three seems happy.

  I take one long look around, fixing the stage in my memory, only the good parts. The sweetness of the cheers for my one-and-only performance. The Ringmaster blazing that heart-stopping smile, just for me, the first night I stepped onto this ship. Nola, being a better friend than I can ever deserve.

  I have to remember it all. I don't expect to be back.

  ***

  I spend the next twelve hours going through the information on the datastore from Schadenfreude. It's going to be tough; that's for sure. The Vargalo-5
station has security I've never even heard of. Gravimetric field inducers. Multiphase laser grids. Vuolu scent hounds. If I had a month to plan and a crack team of ninjas, I might stand a chance. Instead I've got a few hours, a soap-opera-addicted know-it-all, and me, the pink-haired wonder.

  I've got to give Britannica credit, though. I don't know if it's all the Love Among the Stars or what, but she's got one devious mind hidden in those microchips. Between the two of us, we cook up a pretty decent plan. There's only one problem with it.

  "Aaaaugh!" I throw my viewer onto the bed. "There must be some way onto the station. Maybe I can get close enough to use spacewings. Or find a transport to sneak onto. You guys have pizza delivery, don't you?"

  "Let's stay focused on rational options, dear. Now, have you considered disguising yourself as a snappy, up-and-coming junior officer of the Core Governance? Dalana does that in season twelve, episode thirty-two, in order to liberate the scientist wrongly convicted of espionage."

  "I'm so glad we're sticking to rational options." I groan and flop onto the bed. Maybe I ought to sleep. But we'll be docking at the Jorlax Nexus in less than an hour. That's my one shot. I've got to have a plan ready for action. Maybe I should ask the Ringmaster for help. Then again, he might just try to stop me. We haven't spoken since the Outcasts left. I wish—

  The door chime pulls me back from these thoughts. Finally! I spring up, race to the door, and slap my palm on the pad. My pulse thrums loud in my ears. "Ringmaster, I—Jom? What are you doing here?"

  I search the hall, but there's no one else. Jom runs a hand back over his crest of red hair, looking sheepish. "I'm here to help. You're going after Nola, right?"

  "Um, yeah, but—"

  "Then I'm going with you." He pulls his shoulders back. A whiff of some sharp, minty scent hits my nose. "I'm not letting them change her. I don't care how dangerous it is."

  "Are you sure? That was the truth, what I said in the Ring. About who I am."

  "You're her friend. You're not abandoning her. That's what really matters. Besides, the way the Ringmaster explained it to us, you're a Tinker, too. The Big Top let you in, and that's good enough for me. And..." He crinkles a smile at me. "I've got the perfect way to get onto Vargalo-5. So what do you say?"