Free Circus Galacticus by Deva Fagan

were necessary to convince her of her lack of—"
    "Thank you, Miss Three, Nola. I'd like to have a word with Beatrix now."
    Miss Three's simulacrum winks out, her taunting smile lingering in a ghost of photons. Nola starts packing up her tools, moving about as slow as molasses. She gives me an encouraging nod, but there's a worried crinkle between her eyes. I try to smile back. Then finally she snaps the toolbox closed. The door shuts behind her, and I'm alone with the Ringmaster.
    I stand miserably, trembling all over from the aftereffects of the test and the fear of what he's about to say.
    "So, would you prefer nachos or cake?"
    "What?"
    "Ah, you're quite right. Why choose? We'll have both. Excellent!"
    I stare at him, wondering if one of the aftereffects of my thrashing is hallucinations.
    "For brunch," he says. "Another fabulous word:
brunch.
Not quite one thing or the other, but sometimes it's exactly what you need. Come along." He sets off briskly toward the door. "There's something I'd like you to see, so you can begin to understand."
    "Understand what?"
    The Ringmaster spins around, arms flung wide. "All of this. The Big Top, the rest of the troupe, the show itself."
    "But I don't have any superpowers. Aren't you going to kick me out?" My voice cracks.
    "I didn't travel three hundred parsecs to Earth just for the avocados."
    "You really mean it?" I'm going to cry at any moment, but I've got to say it. "You're not sending me away? I mean, it's crazy, I know, but..." I squeeze my eyes shut on the tears and whisper, "I'd die if I had to go back."
    Cool fingers touch my cheek, making me jump. "Beatrix, I swear to you on ... on the honor of my name, I will never, ever ask you to leave the Big Top. This is your home now. Please believe that."
    My shudder of relief nearly topples me. The Ringmaster's hand slips lower, catching me around the shoulders. "I'm not sure which of us is a bigger fool. You, for nearly killing yourself trying to prove you belong. Or me, for not expecting you'd do that." He gives me an inscrutable look.
    "I'm sorry I can't do anything," I say when I find my voice again. "All I have is this stupid pink hair."
    "Pink is an underrated color," he says. "Some of the best things in the universe are pink. Sunrises. Erasers. Flamingos. And ... well, there are those shellfish you can get potted with brown butter."
    "Thanks. I feel so much better knowing I remind you of a prawn."
    He grins. "That sense of humor will serve you better than any Tinker power. Now, can you walk? Good. Follow me."
    We travel along several corridors, then down something like a firefighter's pole that puffs out a cushion of air at the bottom. I walk out into a room that definitely does not belong on a spaceship.
    Gilt-framed paintings and old-fashioned green lamps fill the few bits of wall that aren't crammed floor to ceiling with bookshelves. A bunch of study carrels fills the far end. I see the blonde from breakfast in one of them. She doesn't even look up when we come in. Her carrel is filled with a dozen video screens, each of them playing something different. There's no one else in the room.
    "The library," the Ringmaster announces.
    "We're eating in the library?"
    "Don't tell Miss Three. She'd like to have a rule against eating anywhere outside the cafeteria. But I defy anyone to read the picnic scene in
Moons over Mizzebar
without a snack. It's impossible."
    "You brought me here to read about a picnic?"
    "It's a brilliant book, picnics aside," he says. "But we're here for something else." He leads the way to a low table bearing matched silver-domed platters. As I sink into one of the pudgy armchairs, he pulls the covers away with a flourish.
    Two heaping servings of nachos lie drenched in cheese and salsa and beans, sprinkled with black olives, and decorated with giant dollops of guacamole. The cake stands proudly alongside, topped with candied pineapple and ruby-red cherries, oozing caramel.
    "Help yourself. I've got to