Starswept Page 16

  The buildings outside vanish as the vehicle flies over a white expanse that resembles snowfall upon a plain. When the hovertram grinds to a halt, the ground’s artificial sheen glimmers under the light of several floating bots, which dot the air and illuminate the area. This must be the spaceport. The ship must be on the other side of the hovertram, since all I see outside my window is an identical vehicle with the words “The Sinfonia School” across its side. Sinfonia is in Illinois—I wonder how long it took those Artists to reach here.

  “Please exit the vehicle,” the hovertram’s automated voice says over the comm.

  The others file out. The only one I know by name is Eva D’Antonio. Though I shouldn’t resent anyone’s success, it disturbs me to see her here when she only became a soloist by sabotaging a fellow dancer.

  I’m the last one out, and when I emerge, I find myself facing an enormous starship. Cyan lights glow from the multi-paneled surface. With its elongated contours and two large wings stretching toward the sky, it reminds me of a swan in flight. A long ramp extends down toward us. Erayet stands at the top with a security bot beside her.

  “Single file, please.” Her voice comes from all directions at once; the floating bots must be projecting it.

  I follow several other Artists, most of whom are from the six other American schools, up the ramp and glance around nervously. Only strangers surround me; I’ve never felt more alone.

  I wait my turn, shuffling slowly toward the ship. When I approach the security bot, it scans my face.

  “Identity confirmed: Iris Lei. Sponsored by Soraï and Gysát Ydaya. Please proceed to Cabin Eleven.”

  Erayet waves me inside. A narrow corridor extends before me. Circular doors with black numbers stamped across their silver surfaces dot the steel-gray walls. While in transit, an automated message informed us that we’d be staying in the Artists’ sector, which is separate from the main areas of the ship where the Adryil passengers will be.

  I walk down the corridor until I find the door with the number 11 printed on it. It opens automatically when I approach.

  The room I enter is not much wider than the door, which closes behind me. Three beds sit stacked against the left wall. A girl with a myriad of black braids sits cross-legged on the lowest bunk, chatting with a second girl, who stands before her with crossed arms.

  To my dismay, the room has no windows. The only break in the featureless white walls is a large screen, which casts a silvery light onto the second girl’s olive complexion. The words “Please remain in your cabin until after take-off” scroll across the top in letters so red, they seem to yell. In the center, a gray rectangle displays my name. Identical rectangles display the names of the other two occupants—Ayana Washington and Sofia Cruz.

  I give them a timid wave and say hi.

  “You must be Iris.” The girl with the braids grins at me. “I’m Ayana. Opera singer from the Coloratura School.”

  “Sofia.” The second girl, who has cropped black hair and wide brown eyes, jerks her thumb at her chest. “Theater singer from the same, except apparently they teach you wrong on that side of campus.” She gives Ayana a side-glance.

  “Okay, listen up.” Ayana launches into an in-depth explanation of how classical vocal technique harnesses the resonance capabilities of the human skull.

  I nod along even though I have no idea what she’s talking about. Sofia, however, seems to understand all too well, because she counters with an argument about why the belting she learned with the Theater allows a singer more freedom. By the time Ayana demonstrates her technique’s superiority with a warbling high note, my mind is long gone.

  Memories from Papilio parade through my head, and a wistful thread wraps around my heart, keeping it from beating too excitedly over going to Adrye. It occurs to me that no one’s told me where on Adrye I’ll be sent, and I make a mental note to ask the next time I get the chance. I also need to find out what it takes to send a transmission back to Earth. Surely, there must be a way for me to communicate with Milo, even if it’s expensive. I’d happily give up the other ten percent of my earnings if it meant keeping in touch with my best friend. If I can’t send him a message right away, maybe I can at least see how he’s doing. Adryil patrons can view Linx profiles, so I should be able to as well—assuming Milo doesn’t drop out. Was it just this noon that I was begging him not to?

  This day has put my mind and heart through too much. Even my body is starting to feel the weight of exhaustion.

  Wondering what the screen is for, I press my name. A schedule appears. According to this, the trip will take approximately fifty hours, and I have two three-hour practice sessions during transit. My viola is being stored in my assigned practice room. It’ll be strange not having a coach to guide me—just one more thing I’ll have to get used to. My first session is in twenty minutes, and I’m glad. After all the madness of today, I’ll finally be able to retreat into something familiar.

  A tremor runs through the floor, and the message at the top of the screen switches to say: “Take-off in progress. Please remain in your cabins.”

  Exhilaration runs through me at the thought of blasting into the sky, and yet the actual circumstances are rather anticlimactic. Other than the faint rumbling, nothing has changed. I don’t know what I was expecting—some kind of rush, perhaps.

  A few minutes later, the cabin door opens. I take that to mean I can move around now. I wander down the corridor, wondering what else is in the Artists’ sector. A door at the end retreats into the ground as I approach. I gasp at what it reveals.

  I’ve entered some kind of recreational area—a large room with chairs, tables, and screens glowing against the lilac walls. But I hardly notice them as I stare at the wide window, through which a million stars shine.

  I rush up to it. I’m actually in space, sailing through the boundless black universe. Yet I don’t feel like I’m moving; the stars remain still outside. I search for the constellation Gemini, recalling what Dámiul told me about how his star lies on the other side.

  The run from Butterfly’s Lament flutters through my head, glittering with musical ornaments and every bit as luminous as the heavens before me. It no longer carries the weight of sorrow, but rather the fearlessness of hope. I imagine the moment before Butterfly took to the sky—the courage and blind determination she displayed. The strength that’s forgotten after the tragedy’s over. Yet without it, that final flight up the viola strings would not be so thrilling. With the starswept view before me and the starswept melody in my heart, I dare to dream too.

  Finding my mother will probably be the easiest dream to achieve. The Kandar Family is famous—my new patrons might even know them. And then we’ll find my father. I close my eyes and picture their faces—Theia Lei’s powerful cheekbones and sharp chin, Ronan Lei’s round eyes and broad smile.

  I wonder if other families have succeeded in reuniting, but the question fades from my mind as the answer becomes obvious. No, of course they haven’t. Artists leave their Earthling lives behind when they go to Adrye. They are completely dedicated to serving their patrons, and their sole focus is on their performances. The people they knew while they lived on Earth are irrelevant.

  Irrelevant? My own thought disturbs me, and I frown. How could I believe that? Without—

  Most will never make it to Adrye, and those with patrons have already let go of their pasts. The thought hits me like a wall slamming into my head. I should not waste time dwelling on such matters.

  What matters?

  Weariness fogs my head. I try to recall what I was thinking about before, but all I remember is that it had something to do with the Kandar Family. But why should I care about them? My patrons are the Ydayas.

  I blink slowly. The stars have lost their luster, and I wonder why I’m wasting my time staring at nothingness with my practice session so soon. The Artists’ sector can be confusing. I should start heading to the practice rooms now to ensure that I am not late.

  I turn t
oward the door and find Erayet standing under the frame.

  “Hello, Iris.” Her gold eyes fix on me. “I see you’ve found the recreation room. I am here to make your transition to Adrye as smooth as possible, so let me know if you have any questions.”

  “Thank you.” I approach her. There was something I wanted to ask—I need to know where my assigned practice room is.

  No, that’s not it. A nagging feeling gnaws at me, telling me that there were more important things I wanted to ask. Something about Papilians… or Linx… I wanted to see someone’s Linx profile…

  I wanted to know if I could see how Milo’s doing from Adrye. A bright patch appears in the clouds of my head, illuminating that one thought. “Is it possible for Artists on Adrye to view Linx profiles as our patrons do?”

  Erayet lifts her shoulders. “Each household has different policies.”

  I can ask the Ydayas when I meet them, although I shouldn’t dwell on my former schoolmates. My focus should be on my current priorities. Besides, it’s rather petty to check the rankings of my former competitors, like Estelle.

  No, it wasn’t Estelle’s ranking I wanted to see. And it certainly wasn’t to gloat.

  Milo. I wanted to see if Milo’s okay. But I will never see him again, so I should forget him.

  How can I forget him? Milo’s face appears in my mind, and a surge of sorrow swells within me. He was devastated the last time I saw him, teetering on the edge of his sanity. Yet the moment he saw I was in trouble, he—

  He’s the past. I must forget him and move on with my own life on Adrye. The thought crashes into my mind. Nothing I knew before matters except what I learned as a member of the Orchestra.

  The face in my mind fades. I don’t remember why I was picturing it in the first place—or who it even was. I blink several times in confusion. What was I just thinking about?

  Papilio—the answer appears like a spotlight in my mind. But there’s nothing left at the school that I care about. The only people I knew were shallow acquaintances. I’ll forget them all soon enough because none of them are important.

  Erayet gazes at me, drawing me into the radiant golden pools of her eyes. “You are no longer a Papilian. You are a Ka’risil, a human Artist in the service of the Adryil who hired you. You are to fulfill your contractual obligations to the best of your abilities, keeping your skills sharp and performing as your patrons see fit. Do you understand?”

  “Of course.” Why would I do anything else? It makes so much sense, the most precise logic, and all I want is to go to the Ydayas and begin my duties as a Ka’risil.

  Erayet’s face warms. “Very good. Now, was there another question you had for me?”

  For several seconds, only white noise fills my head. Then, I recall that my scheduled practice session is soon. I should start heading over. “Where are the practice rooms?”

  ACT II

  CHAPTER 20

  I WAKE TO WHITENESS. WHITENESS and lights. Strands of drowsiness stick to my mind like cobwebs. Soft humming buzzes in my ears, then abruptly ceases. The starship must have landed. I am to be taken to my new patrons shortly.

  I sit up in my bunk. My two roommates are already waiting by the door. I climb out of my bunk and join them. The circular door opens, and a squat robot with three long arms stands outside. It is the same robot that delivered our supplies previously during the two-day journey. Multicolored outfits dangle from each of the metal appendages. I go to the one in the center—that is what has been assigned to me.

  My roommates and I clothe ourselves in silence. I pull my dress, which is white and covered in patches of dark blue, over my head. The sleeves end at my elbow, and the flared hem brushes my knees. The material is so soft, it almost feels like a liquid. The bot then hands me a pair of pale pink shoes that resemble ballet slippers, and I obediently slide into them. Something about them causes an itch in the back of my mind… I once told someone I’d never wear ballet shoes…

  But that’s not important. I must not allow my mind to wander to useless places.

  The bot’s appendages retract, and it trundles away on stubby legs. I remain in the doorframe as I know I’m supposed to. Seconds later, a long, flat machine wheels toward me, carrying several items on its back. I recognize my viola case. It pauses briefly for me to pick up my instrument, then proceeds to the next room.

  I wait. So do my roommates. None of us speaks a word.

  A few minutes later, a tugging in my mind tells me that it’s time to go. The transport that will take me to my patrons is waiting on the landing pad outside.

  Along with the others, I march down the corridor. On the other side of the open doorway, winged silver transports, glimmering under Adrye’s twin moons, wait in a semicircular formation at the bottom of the ramp.

  Erayet stands by the starship’s exit and directs each Ka’risil to his or her transport. When it’s my turn, she points me to the one third from the right. I scarcely see the white landing pad or the hovering robots, which are virtually identical to the ones at the Charlotte spaceport, as I head over.

  The transport’s door opens to admit me. I slide my viola in first, then take a seat. A slight thud shakes the air as the door closes again. The engines whir, high-pitched and rhythmic, as the transport ascends into the sky.

  City lights shine outside the window. I hardly notice them. I care about nothing but my destination—not the transport I’m in, not the Adryil pilot in front, and certainly not the hectic city we’re flying through.

  A white spherical structure comes into view. It’s so familiar—where have I seen it before?

  The Hall of Justice. Dámiul showed it to me once. For some reason, that feels important. I haven’t thought of Dámiul since the starship took flight. I haven’t needed to, since I was so focused on being a good Artist.

  How can that be? I thought of Dámiul every day after I encountered him at Papilio…

  The question clings to my mind. The feeling is odd after two days of simply knowing what to do. I half expect something to blow the thought away, and yet it lingers—longer than anything else has outside the practice room on the starship. I feel it digging its claws into my brain, and an uncomfortable shiver runs down my spine. My heart clamors, yelling, Listen! Listen!

  Something’s wrong, and my subconscious is trying to tell me what. It’s like the feeling I get when I’m barreling through a fast song and accidentally skip a repeat. I never notice at first because I’m letting my fingers fly on their own, but something always nags at me until I realize what I’ve done. Whatever I’ve forgotten this time seems to be staring me in the face, and yet I can’t see it.

  We just passed the Hall of Justice…

  A realization slams into my mind, so obvious that it knocks the cobwebs from my head.

  I’m in Dámiul’s city.

  “Nathril!” The word tumbles out of my mouth. “Why didn’t anyone tell me we were in the capital?”

  “What did you say?” The pilot’s accent carries a heavy lilt. He must not be as fluent in English as Dámiul or Erayet.

  The city seems to brighten before me, as if a haze cleared from my mind. I press my forehead against the window. I recognize the buildings Dámiul showed me. The tall, spiral-like Museum of History, the clustered peaks of a science center whose proper name I’ve forgotten, the majestic columns of the senate building—we might fly by Dámiul’s building any moment!

  “Which sector of the city are we going to?” I ask.

  The pilot doesn’t respond. Thinking he didn’t hear me, or that maybe his English isn’t that good, I repeat the question, taking care to enunciate each syllable, but he still doesn’t respond.

  “Excuse me.” I lean forward. “Sir? Can you hear me?”

  “Gorxit Karovyil!” From the way the pilot spits the words, it must be an insult. I recognize Karovyil as “Earthling,” but I’ve never heard the first word before.

  I must stop talking. I have no right to talk. I’m just a stupid Earthling. The s
urge of thoughts hits me so fast, it makes me dizzy. I must be quiet for the rest of the journey.

  My head hurts so much, I feel nauseous. These thoughts aren’t mine… they must be the pilot’s. He’s telepathically telling me to remain silent. But he’s not allowed to do that—

  Of course he is. I am on his world now.

  The aching fades. I’m a mere Karovyil, and I have no right to speak with a superior being, let alone harangue him with questions. But now that I’m being cooperative, I should tell the pilot how I sensed his mental intrusion. As a Ka’risil, I shouldn’t know how Adryil telepathy works.

  He’s still in my head. I suppress a gasp. “I once read an Earthling scientist’s account of how Adryil telepathy affects the human mind.”

  I hope the lie is enough pacify his suspicions. In case it’s not, I recall the training Dámiul gave me and focus on keeping my mind blank.

  I think of nothing. Through the blankness, I sense the pilot’s presence in my mind. I look within myself for that kernel of truth. I’m not inferior to the Adryil—just different. The pilot’s opinion doesn’t matter anyway. Dámiul never treated me as beneath him. And just because I’m on the pilot’s world doesn’t mean he has the right to violate the interstellar treaties.

  The pilot’s presence fades. My answer must have satisfied him. As long as I keep quiet, he should be content with ignoring me again.

  I wonder if I should report what he did, but I don’t know who I’d tell or whether anyone would believe me. The pilot certainly didn’t seem worried about getting caught. Is this what Dámiul meant when he said some thought themselves above the law?

  I look out the window, and the sight sweeps my worries away. A smile tugs at my lips. That exciting, far-off world across the stars is within my reach. And the boy who showed it to me might be nearby. How did I let the city pass me by for the first part of the journey? That seems so unlike me.