Free Circus Galacticus by Deva Fagan Page A

find something."
    He doesn't need to tell me twice. Now that the terrible knots are starting to unwind, I'm starving. As I chow down, the Ringmaster flits along the shelves, muttering and occasionally resting a hand on a volume, only to pull away.
    "Aha!
A Treatise on the Social Conventions, Taboos, and Millinery of Deneb-5.
Perfect!"
    "You want me to read about hats?" I ask around a mouthful of cheese and beans.
    "What? No, the book's rubbish," he says as he returns to the table. "Miss Three insisted I read it before our last—and consequently only—performance on Deneb-5. But it's perfect raw material for the replicator."
    I watch in alarm and fascination as he piles a mountain of avocado and beans onto a chip, all while balancing the book atop his baton, defying both gravity and common sense. Maybe that's his superpower. That and the ability to wear a bazillion sequins without looking like an ass.
    After piloting the loaded chip into his mouth, the Ringmaster heads for the nearest painting. The stern lady in the portrait disappears, to be replaced by a slot like a library book drop and a glowing screen. The Ringmaster pops his book into the slot, then taps the screen. A loud whirring and clacking echoes from beyond the wall. With a triumphant trill of beeps, a dark oblong pops out. The Ringmaster stares at the cover for a long moment.
    "Didn't it come out right?"
    He sighs, so faintly I almost think I'm imagining it. "No, it's fine." He hands me the book, then plops down and begins polishing off the rest of his nachos.
    I can barely make out the title.
The Programme of the Circus Galacticus, Twelfth Edition.
Someone used up an entire lifetime supply of gold curlicues decorating this thing. I flip to a random page and read aloud. "'Act Nine: Firedance. Having gained the Seeds of the Tree of Life, the Dreamers seek to Kindle the Seeds in the Fires of the King. As the Trickster confuses and beguiles the King, the Dreamers carry out a series of foudroyant escapades...'" I look up. "Is
foudroyant
a real word or is the translator being goofy?"
    "It's most certainly a real word, and an excellent one at that. It means
dazzling.
"
    "And you didn't think it might be easier just to say
dazzling?
"
    "You can never have too many words that mean
dazzling.
Besides, I didn't write it. The Big Top did."
    "The spaceship takes notes on your performances?"
    "The Big Top is more than a spaceship. And it's not notes; it's a script. A performance by the Circus Galacticus is more than death-defying feats and amusements. It's a story."
    "Like a musical, but with clowns and acrobatics?"
    He taps his nose. "Exactly."
    "Do you mean the Big Top writes the plot? Is it always the same?"
    "Yes and no," replies the Ringmaster vaguely as he carves off a chunk of cake and wraps it in a napkin. I crunch down on my last handful of chips, waiting for more answers.
    "But you should read
The Programme
before we continue this conversation," he says, standing. "You do that, and I'll be back before you miss me." He winks, toasting me with his slice of cake, then disappears out the door before I can do more than sputter through my mouthful of corn chips.
    The blonde is watching me. "You don't fit," she says. "You have to find it."
    "Um. Okay." I slouch down, open
The Programme
to page one, and begin reading.
    It starts with a cast list of a dozen characters. First up is "The Ringmaster: Madcap and Mysterious, he awakens Dream and Color in the grim world of the sleepers held fast within the hold of the Iron King."
    I read through the rest of them, my brain struggling under the onslaught of melodramatic word choices and capital letters. Some of the entries don't make a lot of sense. There's one for a character called the Trickster: "Veiled in Shadow, he may be Friend or Foe." I've got no clue who that is.
    Others are clear enough. "The Stardancer: A Graceful Voyager who cavorts among the Stars, her Beauty and Power inspire the Dreamers to hold fast to their