Starswept Page 6

  “Found it.” I pull my lips in, hoping he won’t ask for details.

  He peers at it, examining its etchings. Lines of green light appear on his pale face from the winding patterns. “Never seen anything like it.” He points at an etching in the center, which is shaped like a swirl with angular edges. “This symbol means ‘activate,’ but that’s all I know.”

  Disappointed, I take the device back. “Thanks anyway.”

  Milo angles his mouth. “Sorry, Iris. Guess this whole adventure was for nothing.”

  “It was worth a shot.” I drop the device back into my pocket. “Let’s go.”

  “No need to run off.” Phers peers at my watch. “You’ve got a few hours before curfew. Why not stay and hang out?”

  “Thanks, but I have rehearsal in the morning.” The words come out faster than I intended. They’re true, but the real reason I’m eager to leave is because the unfamiliar smells are starting to make me nauseous.

  “Oh, I get it.” Phers raises his eyebrows. “You think you’re too good for this place. Let me guess—you were born at Papilio?”

  I blink. “I was, but—”

  “I used to think like you.” Phers cuts me off. “Then I realized how twisted that place is. You’re squeezed for every ounce of skill you’ve got, ranked and measured to please a bunch of aliens who’ll decide your fate. Papilio traps you for the entertainment of the rich, profiting off your sweat. And you’re expected to be grateful for their crumbs while they gorge themselves on cake. At least I don’t serve them anymore. I’m free.” He puts his cigarette in his mouth and inhales. “As for you”—he blows a stream of smoke into my face, and I cover my mouth—“They own you.”

  “What the hell, man?” Milo steps between Phers and me. “Leave her alone.”

  I smile a little, glad that Milo’s on my side.

  Phers snickers. “You know I’m right.”

  Milo crosses his arms. “Maybe, but you don’t have to be an ass about it.”

  I knit my eyebrows. What did he mean by “maybe”? He’d never actually agree with Phers, would he?

  “Didn’t mean to rile you.” Phers raises his hands as if surrendering. He looks past Milo, meeting my gaze. “Life’s about more than work. So how ’bout it? There’s fun to be had.”

  Something about the way he talks says that he thinks himself better than me. What right does he have to act superior? He quit. I think about what Estelle said about her family’s sacrifice, about the look on Milo’s face when he told me about his sister. Yet here’s someone who, like me, was born into the opportunity Estelle and Milo had to fight for. At least I’m doing my best to be worthy of it. “I don’t need your kind of fun.”

  “You’re delusional.”

  Fury simmers within me, churning up something deeper than what Phers is provoking. “No, you are. How is this freedom?” I gesture at the smoke-filled tenement around me. “You were born with a chance others would kill for, and you threw it away. So don’t talk to me about what life’s all about, because clearly you don’t know. You’re glib about your very existence, smothering it with external pleasures because you can’t find anything inside. You’re a manifestation of hopelessness. That doesn’t make you freer than the rest of us.”

  “That’s nice.” Phers leans back against the wall. “Wouldn’t expect anything different coming from a slave of their system.”

  Something about his slack expression adds a new spark to the flame. “I may be part of a system, but I’m doing what I want to do. You think I haven’t gotten frustrated and wanted to quit?” My mind flashes back to the times I strove to my limits at an audition only to be rejected, the times Vera lectured me to tears, the times I attempted difficult pieces and found my feeble fingers unable to keep up.

  I sense a presence near me, like someone’s watching me in anticipation of what I’ll say next. Not wanting to let that invisible audience down, I keep going. “It’s easy not to care. If you don’t believe anything, you can never be wrong. But that doesn’t make you right. As much as I want it, I’ll probably never find a patron. In five years, I might be living across the hall from you, and you can laugh at me then. But until that happens, I choose to try anyway. I choose to believe.”

  “Believing isn’t the same as knowing something’s worthwhile.” Milo’s voice is quieter than usual.

  I whirl toward him, surprised that he’s the one who spoke those words and not Phers. “What do you mean?”

  Milo’s eyes are distant. “Phers has a point. We’re trapped. Forced into the system because it’s the only way out of something even worse.”

  I bite my lip, bothered by the bitterness in his voice. “But you love dancing, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, and that’s why I let Papilio swallow me.” Milo looks at the ground, his expression tight. “I just wish I had a damn choice.”

  “You do.” Phers puts his hand on Milo’s shoulder. “Walk away. Isn’t this where it’s all headed anyway?”

  “Of course not!” I want to slap Phers. If he were saying these things to me, he might have a point, but Milo’s good. “Milo, don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “Don’t I?” Phers drops his arm and glances at me. “You’re the hopeless one. Hopelessly enslaved to Papilio.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I don’t just play for Papilio. I play for the music. For me.”

  Phers puts his cigarette to his lips and inhales slowly, keeping his eyes on me. He’s probably contemplating what else he can say to make me concede that he’s right. Well, I won’t, and I return his stare to let him know I’m not backing down.

  He exhales, shaking his head, and his whole body loosens visibly. His stance becomes a slouch, and his expression loses its spark. Far from arguing back, he looks like he doesn’t care enough to respond, like he’s giving up. The sight is unnerving after the hostility he just showed, and I wonder if it’s the effects of the lotus—whatever that is.

  Phers turns back to Milo, tilting his head. “I don’t get it, Milo. You come here looking for escape, but you keep going back.” He sticks out his hand, offering Milo the cigarette. “Why not stay?”

  Milo’s mouth becomes a thin line, and worry creeps into my mind. The idea of Milo dropping out is ridiculous, especially when he’s flying high at the Ballet and has a family counting on him. But then I recall all the times he’s confessed to me how anxious he was about a particular audition, or how upset he was by his coach’s criticisms, or how scared he was of disappearing into mediocrity. Of not mattering. Of being forgotten, then tossed out. These are my demons too, but I’d never stop fighting them. Would he?

  I peer into his face, trying to read his expression. “Milo?”

  Milo glances at me, then gives Phers a dry smile. “I’m holding out, Phers. Still got a shot at Sabina, after all.”

  Phers barks out a laugh. “Fair enough.”

  A veil seems to have settled over his eyes, robbing them of the focus they’d held just moments ago. There’s a strange mix of emptiness and euphoria in his expression—the way his lips curve, the way his eyelids droop, the way his brows tilt—as if someone smothered a piece of his soul, and he’s glad they did. Unnerved, I turn and head down the hallway.

  As Milo walks beside me, he gives me a sheepish grin. “Phers takes some getting used to. You know, he may be an ass, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”

  I meet his gaze, worried. “Do you really agree with him?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes not.” He lifts his mouth into something of a smile. “Don’t fret, Iris. I don’t plan on dropping out. Couldn’t if I wanted to.”

  Despite his casual tone, I sense something dark behind his eyes. I don’t know how to reply. After everything he’s said since I met up with him in the quad, I’m beginning to realize that there’s a whole other side to him that he’s kept hidden from me.

  I continue in silence. Perhaps I am complacent, following Papilio’s system without question. None of us have a
choice—Milo was right about that. We do what we do because we love our Arts, and those who run Papilio know it. Nevertheless, I won’t rebel like Phers, just for the sake of rebelling. What kind of life is that, existing without purpose? Even if I stood at the edge of the universe with only my viola and the abyss yawning before me, I’d play to oblivion.

  A warm feeling glows within me, like someone’s smiling at me. I look around, but see only the empty haze of the tenement.

  CHAPTER 7

  PALE LIGHT STREAMS THROUGH MY window onto the desk before me. The screen displaying tomorrow’s rehearsal schedule glows yellow in my otherwise dark room. I should have been in bed hours ago, like everyone else. Instead, I lean forward in my chair, turning the Adryil device in my hand. A day ago, I wouldn’t have dared to keep it out like this, fearing that a minder might be watching me, but now, the need to know what it is outweighs my instinct toward caution. Considering the number of times I’ve handled it without getting caught, I get the feeling that the minders aren’t nearly as watchful as I thought they were.

  Two whole days have passed since I went to Dogwood, and despite coaching, practice, and rehearsals, I haven’t been able to shake the Adryil boy out of my mind. It seems my hallucinations have been replaced by his invisible presence—I feel like he’s here, even though I can’t see or hear him. But I don’t mind. When I was practicing earlier, I sensed a rapt audience of one watching me, and I think it helped me play better, knowing someone thought I was brilliant.

  I run my finger across one of the green etchings. The grooved surface, warm from my constant touch, presses into my skin. If the center symbol means “Activate,” the other patterns must have meanings as well. Maybe if I play with them long enough, the machine will reveal its purpose.

  Minutes roll by, and all my poking doesn’t seem to do anything. I sigh, feeling defeated. Maybe I’ll have better luck tomorrow. I get up, aiming to go to sleep.

  Something’s off. For a moment, I can’t put my finger on what’s changed, but then I notice that the monitor has gone blank. But I didn’t switch it off—is it glitching?

  The Adryil boy’s presence sweeps over me, stronger than it ever was before. This is the first time it’s happened in my room other than when I was practicing, and I’m glad I didn’t change out of my blue dress. If he’s here somehow, I wouldn’t want him to see me in my pajamas.

  That’s ridiculous. He can’t be here.

  Suddenly, white letters type across my monitor, brilliant against the blackness:

  Iris, don’t be afraid. I mean you no harm.

  I blink, stunned and confused. Despite what the words tell me, my breath quickens with fear. More letters appear on the screen:

  I ran into you at the Wall of Glory. The Zexa device I gave you allows me to communicate with you telepathically, despite Earth’s satellites. It keyed itself to your DNA when you touched it, so you’re the only one who can hear me when I try. I can also communicate through nearby machines, which is how I’m typing this message.

  So the device is connected to him. Still unable to believe what I’m seeing, I whisper, “Who are you?”

  The letters vanish, and new ones appear in their place:

  My name is Dámiul Verik.

  “Dámiul.” At last, I know his name. It sounds like the name of one of the angels from the ballet “Heaven’s Fury”—Gabriel, Nathaniel, Barachiel. Dámiul. He’s real, not a figment of my imagination. Excitement replaces my fear. Questions swirl in my mind, and I can’t pick which one to ask first.

  Dámiul must anticipate them, because he starts answering:

  I tried communicating with you telepathically before, and then through Papilio’s holoprojectors, but the Zexa device wasn’t on the right settings. I’m also new to this, so I might have made a few errors in my attempts. I’m sorry if I scared you.

  I glance at the stone-like object in my hand. A Zexa device. So that’s what it’s called. “Is it on the right settings now?”

  More or less. However, before I say anything else, I must warn you that what I’m doing—sending unauthorized interstellar transmissions—is illegal on my world and yours. And by responding, you would be complicit in the crime.

  Crime? How is talking to someone a crime? The logical part of my brain reminds me that interstellar communications are tightly controlled, and that the authorities could arrest me for bypassing their systems. But I must’ve already broken one law or another by hiding Adryil technology in the first place. That bridge is burned—I might as well see what’s on the other side.

  “I don’t care.” I glance up at the holoprojectors. “Can you appear holographically?”

  Yes. I’m only using typed messages because I didn’t want to show up suddenly and frighten you again. Do you mind if I appear?

  I start to say yes, then remember something. “What if a minder’s watching?”

  I can alter the images they see. Even when I’m not here, the device emits a signal that interferes with any monitoring technology within a twelve-foot radius. To your minders, it looks like nothing more than a stone as long as it’s active. Don’t worry, Iris. I took precautions to ensure that these transmissions would not be discovered.

  No wonder they never spotted it. “In that case… um… please appear.” My heart speeds up with anticipation.

  The letters dissolve from the monitor. Something glows behind me, and I turn to see a shaft of white light in the middle of the room. The light shimmers, then takes the shape of a person’s ghostly silhouette. Tall, with broad shoulders and an elegant figure. Colors fade in from the white—black hair, amber skin, black-and-silver outfit reminiscent of a military uniform.

  The next thing I know, Dámiul is standing before me. If this were an opera, now would be the moment the hero appears, and the music would swell to epic heights. And I… I would be the awestruck maiden.

  Those azure eyes, luminous even compared to the glowing hologram, are once again fixed on me. I long to know who lies behind them, but remind myself that this is not an opera. I’m not the giddy soubrette, and he’s not the gallant tenor. He’s a stranger who broke the law and dragged me into his trouble.

  Dámiul lifts the corner of his mouth into a rakish half-smile. “Hello again.” Even those simple words are melodic in his crisp accent, which sounds like a combination of Arabic and Italian accents spun together by threads of British.

  I realize I’m staring like an idiot and force myself to say something, but all that comes out is, “Hello.”

  Dámiul’s smile falls. “Do you want me to go?”

  I realize he mistook my fascination for fear and shake my head. “No. I’m just… I never thought I’d see you again. What were you doing here the other night?”

  Dámiul shifts his gaze, his eyes darkening. For several seconds, he doesn’t say anything. Then, he looks up, and any trace of whatever bothered him vanishes, replaced by coolness. “I was visiting the city of Charlotte when I learned the Papilio School was nearby. This place is legendary among my kind: the original training ground of Artists, where Katarin Kaminski herself studied, and where Earthling performers spend their days doing things we, in all our advancement, never could. I had to see it for myself, so I hired a transport to take me as close as possible then scaled the wall. As for the Zexa device—I gave it to you so I could return later, either telepathically or through the machines. After I was caught, they sent me back to Adrye.” He pauses. “I’m forbidden from entering Earthling space again.”

  There’s something he’s not telling me—I can feel it in every word he says. It doesn’t make sense to me that he would have come out of simple curiosity. His expression crackled with purpose that night.

  My suspicion must show on my face, because Dámiul says, “I’m sure it’s not as interesting a story as you were hoping to hear, but it’s the truth.”

  Though I don’t really believe him, I decide to turn my questions elsewhere. Maybe if he comes to trust me, he’ll tell me what he really came for.


  It hits me that, as a telepath, he should automatically trust me because he knows what I’m thinking. That must have been how he knew my name, maybe even how he anticipated my questions—and how he knew he could trust me with the Zexa device in the first place. Telepathy on humans may be forbidden, but the law clearly means nothing to him. Or to me, since I accepted his invitation to break it.

  The presence I felt—that must have been him in my head. I suddenly feel as if everything I’ve done in the past two days has been in a glass box under his scrutiny, and I shudder. I don’t like the idea of him invading my mind.

  Dámiul’s black eyebrows knit together. “Is something wrong?”

  If he’s in my head, he would know already, wouldn’t he? “Can you see my thoughts?”

  “I could if I wanted to, but I’m not looking right now. The one time I did was when I first encountered you, and it was only for an instant to see whether I could trust you with the Zexa device.”

  So I was right about that. I’m somewhat disturbed by the idea that he knew I’d disobey the school’s authorities before I did. “What did you see?”

  “I read enough from your personality to know how much unanswered questions bother you, and I believed that would keep you from handing over the device. After that, I didn’t pry further.”

  He read me right, then. But that doesn’t mean I like it. “What about later? I felt your presence in my head.”

  “I was only trying to communicate,” he says quickly. “You knew I was there, but you thought I was a ghost. It wasn’t my intention to spy on you. My kind can share their thoughts as well as read those of others—if you don’t believe me, let me show you mine and prove that it’s true.”