by Mary Fan
“I-Iris Lei.” I clench my empty fist behind my back. Heat rises from every inch of my skin, and yet my face feels cold. Did it see what I did?
Yellow light shoots out of the bot’s black torso, surrounding me in a holographic haze. “Come with me, Iris Lei. You are needed for questioning.” It wheels forward.
I follow. If I leave the bounds of the hologram, alarms will peal. Since the bot didn’t search me, Security must not have seen me hide the object. I’m safe—at least, for now.
I glance back at the Adryil boy. Metal ropes, extending from two bots on either side of him, coil around his slender yet broad-shouldered body. They wind around his long legs and pin his arms to his sides. The sight of him bound like that fills me with horror. The bots draw closer and use the ropes to lift him, then wheel away. The other machines follow, blocking him from my view.
I can’t help feeling as if I should have saved him somehow.
CHAPTER 2
I TWIST MY HANDS UNDER the steel table. The chair across from me remains empty, and I wonder if the official that Security contacted will show up in person. The name on the door read “Mistress Medina,” but I have no idea who that is. This is the first time I’ve been sent to the office for disciplinary reasons.
What was I thinking? The minders are always watching, though I’ve seen enough people get away with breaking the rules to know that they aren’t always paying the closest attention. I pray that I was in their blind spot tonight.
A light flickers above the chair, and a moment later, the seated hologram of a brown-haired woman glows across from me. “Hello, Iris. I know it’s late, so I’ll keep this quick. It’s my duty to ensure the safety of Papilio’s student population, and I take all security breaches very seriously. What were you doing in the quad after curfew?”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I visited my mother’s profile on the Wall of Glory.” Though I’m telling the truth, a nervous quiver tints my voice. “She inspires me.”
“That’s lovely.” Mistress Medina’s lips twitch, but her expression can hardly be called a smile. “What did the intruder want with you?”
“I don’t know.”
Mistress Medina narrows her eyes. “You’re not in trouble, Iris, but I want to remind you that we have very strict rules here.” Her voice isn’t loud, yet there’s something intimidating about its low sternness. “Noncompliance may result in your expulsion. Since the boy’s crime occurred on school grounds, we’re handling it ourselves, but we will bring in the authorities if need be.”
I swallow hard. “What did he do?”
“He trespassed on Earthling property. While this may not sound dangerous to you, relations between our two worlds are delicate. If he’d committed any further crimes—stolen something or, Creator forbid, hurt someone—he would have sparked an interstellar incident. That’s why it’s important for us to understand what he was doing. Security saw him speak to you. What did he want?”
“I wish I knew.” I widen my eyes, using the truth to shield myself from her prying gaze. “They captured him before he could tell me anything.”
“What exactly did he say to you?”
My lungs tighten, making my breaths shallow. If I’m expelled, I’ll never play my viola again. Why should I risk everything for an alien stranger?
I squeeze my eyes, pretending to search my memory when really, I just need a respite from Mistress Medina’s unforgiving glare. The Adryil boy’s otherworldly face appears, glowing against the darkness of my mind. The slant of his cheekbones, the angles of his chin, the lines of his mouth—and most of all, those fierce eyes. None of the holovids about the Adryil could have prepared me for what I saw tonight.
Who is he? That I’ll probably never find out frustrates me in a way I’ve never felt before. Questions gape like a great hole in my mind, a hole only he can fill. I only have one chance at finding the answers I seek: the alien item tucked into the side of the Wall. I made my choice back in the quad, and I’m standing by it.
“He spoke Adryil.” I open my eyes with renewed resolve. “All I caught was—”
“We don’t expect you to know their language.” Mistress Medina cuts me off. “That will be all, then. Thank you for your cooperation.”
I blink, startled by her abrupt reversal. But I’m not about to question it. And I’m glad I won’t have to make up alien syllables and hope she doesn’t realize I’m pulling them out of thin air.
Mistress Medina stands. “The school is currently on lockdown, but I’ll send a security bot to escort you back to your dorm. If you think of anything else, let me know immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The hologram flickers out, and I release a long breath.
A haze hangs over the campus. In the early light, the pavement appears a dull shade of bluish-gray. The plain dress I tossed on is the same color, and I feel like I’m fading into the background.
I rush into the quad, telling myself that the object must be where I left it. If someone discovered it, Security would have come for me already. They lifted the lockdown an hour ago, but I feared heading out too quickly might seem suspicious.
Black carvings cast dark shadows upon the Wall’s edge. I survey the quad to make sure no one’s around. Of course, the minders could still be watching, so I must be careful.
I turn warily, trying to recreate the exact position I was in when I hid the item. Reaching behind me, I feel the crevices until my fingers brush something round, and my throat tightens with excitement. I turn back around to find my hand in the bell of a stone tuba. Tightening my thumb and forefinger, I wiggle the object until it comes loose.
Staying in the shadow of the Wall, I examine it. A smooth, oval-shaped stone, about an inch wide and two inches long, sits in my palm. Etched lines snake across its black surface. They must mean something to the Adryil, but they look random to me.
“Iris?”
Recognizing Estelle’s deceptively girlish voice, I close my fingers over my palm as I turn to face her. “Good morning!” I notice that she’s straightened her usual red curls and, hoping to distract her, say, “I, uh, love what you did with your hair.”
She looks down at me with narrowed green eyes. I keep my hand behind my back, shrinking under her glare despite myself. Her broad face, with its prominent cheekbones and bold features, gives her an authoritative air. “You need to stop being so fake.”
“Excuse me?”
“You think playing nice will fool me?” Her voice lowers to a growl. “I know you’re after my position, and I’m watching you.”
I gape in surprise. Estelle’s the Principal—every violist wants her position. Why would she single me out? “I—”
“You don’t deserve to be here.” Estelle glowers. “How’s it fair that you inherited your spot when the rest of us had to claw our way in? Do you know how much my parents had to sacrifice for me to be here?”
If I were cruel, I could point out that had she been a better child musician, her parents wouldn’t have had to sacrifice anything. Papilio offers a free year of beginner education to all three-year-olds born in Dogwood, assigning each to the Art that best suits their abilities. Those who do well enough are granted a second year, and then a third, and so on until Papilio deems them ready for admission—or until another school’s scout offers them a place. The families of children who don’t qualify can pay for continued training, though from what I’ve heard, it’s not cheap. Estelle could have spared her parents the expense by being a prodigy instead of a late bloomer.
But I have no desire to hurt Estelle, even though she seems to be doing her best to hurt me. And I don’t want to fight with her, especially with the secret I’m clutching.
I brush past her silently, then quicken to a run. After a few moments, I glance back and realize she’s not following. I stop to catch my breath, wondering what’s gotten into her. My left hand, still clenched around the Adryil item, feels cramped, and I loosen it. Imprints from the object’s snaking lines streak ac
ross my palm.
I suddenly don’t care about Estelle or rankings or anything else Papilian. The Adryil boy’s face seems as etched in my mind as these incomprehensible markings are in the stone-like object. Whoever you are, I did as you asked. Now, what do you want from me?
I run my finger across the black oval, feeling the narrow grooves. Wondering if the object is a device that can be activated, I press its center.
The etchings glow green. I gasp, then stare anxiously, waiting for something to happen.
Nothing. I turn the object in my hand. The lines continue to glow, but that’s all.
It occurs to me that I’m out in the open. I clench my fist closed around the object and speed toward my dorm, wondering how I’m going to unlock its secrets.
As I pass the Circus’s rehearsal hall—a stone rotunda with a violet roof—I wonder… if I were to peel back the walls, would the holoprojectors and computers behind them look anything like the device in my hand? Most of the school’s technology was built from Adryil designs. Thanks to our alien allies, Earth now holds several gleaming, high-tech enclaves with not a crack in the pavement nor a weed in the gardens. Such as this school, and half a dozen others like it within the United States. Each was given a name that evokes the Arts; Papilio, also the Latin word for butterfly, was named after a song Katarin Kaminski performed to called “Butterfly’s Lament.”
Outside of these institutions, however, few can afford to live in such places. Advanced cities like Charlotte, our state’s wealthiest metropolis, are too expensive for even the professional class—the coaches, the doctors, the administrators. According to the history books, it didn’t used to be that way. But as the elites wove more and more Adryil tech into the city’s infrastructure, prices rose until only they remained. They even replaced those who worked for them with bots and computers.
When you think about it, there really is no middle. Only the rich and those who are different shades of poor.
I’ve heard it’s different on Adrye. Even their lowest class lives like our elite. What must they have thought of us when they first made contact? Did they find us as fascinating as I find them? Or do they look down on us the way Greek gods look down on mortals in the operas depicting those legends? I wish I could speak with the Adryil boy and ask all these questions—and so many more.
A cool wind rustles my hair, carrying the crisp smell of autumn leaves from the forest outside. Looking at that feral land, you’d never guess that two centuries ago, people feared there were too many of us on Earth. But our numbers shrank as fewer people chose to have children; most simply didn’t have enough to support large families. Yet technological progress marched on, so that by the time an Adryil exploration ship entered the Solar system in 2157, our telescopes were powerful enough to spot it right away, and our computers sophisticated enough to answer the aliens’ communications.
Our ancestors had long looked to the stars, wondering whether life lay beyond our world. Scientists and artists alike speculated about what we might find if we encountered beings from another life-supporting planet. Of course, the limits of the imagination meant that many pictured beings that resembled us. Those people were derided; life forms evolving countless lightyears away would surely be inconceivably different. I can imagine the shock people must have experienced when the Adryil turned out to be not all that different from humans. Looks like those with narrow vision had the last laugh.
From what I’ve read, many on Earth would have preferred that the aliens stay away from our planet. But those eager to learn from a more advanced civilization won the battle. Earth’s nations had united under one central planetary government by then, and those at the top brokered the peace and trade agreements that stand to this day.
As I make my way toward the Orchestra’s sector, I pass a line of novices—all around eight or nine—carrying miniature instrument cases. A middle-aged teacher leads them into the rehearsal hall. They still have a few years in the junior ensembles before they’re ranked as active performers, but most have already faced the kind of competition that’s been stealing my sleep. I wonder if any of them were born here like me.
One girl glances at me with an expression of awe, and I give her an encouraging smile. When I was her age, I used to look up at the Artists too, thinking they were so mature. Though I’m now old enough to get married, I don’t feel grown-up. But I don’t feel young, either.
The child’s gaze shifts toward my closed left hand, and I hurry away. She probably didn’t see anything, but as long as I’m holding this alien thing, I feel like there’s a spotlight leveled on me, and not the kind I would welcome. I wish I could stuff it in my pocket, but I doubt my skirt’s light fabric would hide its green glow.
Looking for a distraction, I flip the switch on the edge of my watch to disable the “hold” function. Also, my clenched fist might look less suspicious this way. I swipe my right index finger across the device’s face. The white numbers fade to gray, and a holographic menu appears above them.
I press the red “L” icon for Linx. The menu vanishes, replaced by my Linx profile. “Iris Lei, Violist” splashes across the top in blue letters, to the right of my miniscule portrait.
Although I came to check my messages, not my ranking, I can’t stop my eyes from wandering over to the small red numbers beneath my name: “1,034.” I tell myself it’s only because no one’s really seen what I can do yet, but I don’t know if I believe it.
I try to ignore the shout-out column, but nonetheless notice that the only notes there are from Milo and a few younger violists. Unable to help myself, I press his name to see how he’s doing. A green 132, which means he’s not only ranked in the low hundreds, but he’s on the rise. Not bad for a sixteen-year-old. His ranking skyrocketed after his solo dance in the last Spectacle. Maybe mine will do the same if I can secure a solo—or even qualify to play on stage instead of in the orchestra pit.
I shouldn’t check anyone else’s rankings, since it’ll only make my heart sink further, but my curiosity gets the better of me. I press the search icon in the corner, and a holographic keyboard appears to the side. Each letter I press glows green under my fingertips as I type “Estelle Carver.”
Her profile appears, a green 33 glowing under her name. Cold hunger gnaws at my insides. I’ll never possess a number that high. Estelle may be older than me, but I doubt I’ll be as exceptional a violist as her when I’m nineteen.
I press an icon to return to my profile. The number has changed: “1,035.” Someone must have left a shout-out on another Papilian’s profile. Or maybe an outside reviewer endorsed them. As the day goes on, my ranking will probably sink further.
Not wanting to see those mocking red numbers anymore, I press “M” for Messages. A handful of reminders greet me, as well as a note from Milo asking if I want to join him in the Ballet’s sector for lunch. I press “R” for Reply and type:
Sure! Do you mind if we grab and go? I have something to show you.
I swipe my watch’s face. The holograms disappear, and the numbers “8:12” brighten against the black band.
I enter the wide street lined with the angular glass-and-steel buildings that make up the Orchestra’s sector. Through the windows, I glimpse an assortment of instrumentalists—flautists, pianists, cellists, and more—practicing in their rooms.
Pausing, I take a moment to admire the image. Usually, the Orchestra performs as one unit, blending individual voices into a collective mellifluence. Right now, I’m able to catch a glimpse of the unique styles of the others in my Art. In a third story window, flautist Kiki Fiore blows across her silver instrument with a grace usually seen only in the Ballet. In the next room over, Alex Mbanefo plays the same instrument, but with bold, vivid movements.
I’ve mostly become accustomed to Papilio’s charms, but every so often I realize just how magnificent a place this is. It’s more than a school—it’s a nebula. Where stars form from undisciplined dust, where talented children transform into performers the Ad
ryil fly across the universe to see.
My eyes wander from Kiki’s porcelain delicacy to Alex’s striking African features, then down to the baby-faced prettiness of Felicity Liang, a clarinetist on the floor below.
But as much as I admire the Papilians, they all seem plain next to the face of one who etched himself into my memory. If only I knew his name. “Adryil boy” sounds so generic, almost condescending. But what else am I supposed to call him? “Adryil man,” maybe? No, that doesn’t seem right. He may be more than a boy, but he wasn’t quite a man. Not only because he looked about my age, Estelle’s at most. It takes a certain kind of youthful bravado to break interstellar laws. Either that, or pure insanity.
Maybe that was it: he was just a crazed, thrill-seeking alien boy looking to enter someplace forbidden. My heart cries out in protest at the thought. He had a purpose; I felt it in his eyes, in his voice. That fierceness—it meant something.
Either way, my only chance of finding out what he wanted is to solve the puzzle behind the strange machine he gave me.
CHAPTER 3
I SHOULD HAVE TAKEN A caffeine shot instead of hoping coffee would do the trick. I thought being a little slow would be preferable to fidgeting, but from the stern look Vera’s giving me, I would have been better off as a twitchy jitterbug.
The lines between Vera’s arched, black eyebrows deepen. With her narrow black eyes, high nose, and wild black hair, she always reminds me of a holographic harpy. Especially with the frown crinkling her thin lips.
“Play it again, and concentrate.” She looks ready to knock my skull with her marbled purple cane if I don’t get this run right. If she weren’t remoting into Papilio from her home in Indiana, she probably would. I’m glad the school didn’t assign me a local, in-the-flesh coach.
My right hand tightens around the smooth wood of my bow, and the polished stick digs into my forefinger. This isn’t the first time I’ve been nervous at a coaching, but I’ve never felt so tense before. Vera stands about two feet from where I hid the Adryil device. I really should have chosen someplace safer than my sock drawer, which is probably the first place the security bots are programmed to look.
