by Mary Fan
Before I can ask who “these guys” are, the door finishes its journey into the ground, and Cara spins away from me to enter the large, rectangular room, illuminated by flat sheets of yellow light that cover its low ceiling. The stained concrete walls and dirty floor remind me of Dogwood’s tenements, and a musty smell drifts toward me.
Cara cups her hands by her mouth. “Atikéa? You here? I brought her this time!”
A high-pitched creaking sound grates on the air, and I cover my ears. A door on the far side of the room sinks into the floor.
A young woman strides out, her purple eyes glowing beneath ragged white bangs. Her smooth, sienna skin sharply contrasts her snowy locks. A second Adryil follows her. My eyes widen at the sight of him.
Slender, yet broad-shouldered. Thick, black hair. Glowing azure eyes. But his face is slightly older and somewhat on the long side, and he lacks the intensity that seems inherent in Dámiul. Yet he’s definitely not the same man I saw in the sign—not only is he too young, but he looks altogether narrower. He appears somewhat nervous, but his mouth is pressed in the same firm line I’m so used to seeing on Dámiul’s face.
The Adryil woman stops before me and puts her hands on her hips. “You’re Iris Lei?” Her voice is a firm alto.
“Yes.” I force my gaze toward her. “Who are you?”
“Atikéa Laksol.” She offers me her hand.
“Atikéa. It’s nice to meet you.” I take her hand, but can’t keep my gaze from wandering back to the Dámiul lookalike.
Atikéa releases her grip. “Is there something behind me?”
I try to focus on her purple gaze, but the man’s face distracts me. “I’m sorry. It’s just… he reminds me of someone I know.”
The man steps forward. “Who?”
I glance at Cara, unsure of what to say. Cara gives me a nod.
“Dámiul Verik,” I say.
The man knits his thick eyebrows in an expression so similar to Dámiul’s, it fills my heart with yearning. “How do you know Dámiul?” He even has Dámiul’s accent.
“How do you know him?” The question escapes my lips. I realize too late how rude and confrontational it seems, but I have to know.
The man gives me an appraising look. “I’m his older brother, Jaerin.”
My heart skips with excitement. Dámiul’s brother—and Master Verik’s other son. The answers I seek are at last within reach. “Where is he? Can I see him?”
“No.” Jaerin’s expression fills with sadness, and he looks down. “I know where he is, but by now, he’s probably lost to us.”
CHAPTER 26
I BLINK. JAERIN MUST MEAN that Dámiul’s already been sent on that secretive assignment, but why would that make him so sad? “What do you mean?”
Jaerin looks past me. “Cara, how much have you told her?”
“Nothing, really,” Cara replies.
“Why not?”
Cara shifts her weight. “Because I’m blunt and unlikable. Do you really want me to be the one who crushes her past?”
Jaerin smiles. “You’re blunt, but there’s nothing wrong with that. I, for one, happen to like you quite a lot.”
Cara’s face brightens, but I hardly notice. Crush my past?
She tilts her head. “Well, I might have mentioned that your father runs the performing arts schools.”
Jaerin gives me an apologetic look. “What you’re about to learn will be shocking, and I confess, I was a part of it once. I ask you not to judge me for my past.”
I stare at him, perplexed.
Atikéa gestures for me to follow her. “Come. There’s something I need to show you.”
I keep my gaze on Jaerin. “What are you talking about? And where’s Dámiul?”
Any trace of his previous smile vanishes from Jaerin’s face. “He was sent to a reeducation center. I’ve been doing my best to appeal the judgment, but I fear it may be too late.”
“Too late for what?” A reeducation center—I don’t understand what that means. It sounds like some kind of school… Is this where Dámiul was sent? But why would he think he might never come back?
Jaerin glances at the square device on his wrist, and his eyebrows gather with concern. “I’ll be back soon.”
He starts to walk off, but Atikéa steps in front of him. “Jaerin, I don’t think—”
“I’ve tried everything else.” Jaerin looks into Atikéa’s eyes and says something soft in Adryil.
Atikéa shakes her head. She gives Jaerin a light kiss on the lips, then steps to the side. He strides away from me.
“Wait!” I start after him, but Atikéa blocks me.
“Don’t worry, Iris,” she says. “We’ll tell you everything. It would just make more sense if you let me start from the beginning.”
Jaerin disappears behind a door. I won’t be getting any more answers from him for now, so I give Atikéa a reluctant nod.
Atikéa walks quickly toward the door on the far side, and Cara follows. I have to trot to keep up with them.
Cara pulls the Grámed device from under her hair, wincing as it slides off. She glances at me. “You can ditch yours too. No one here will mess with your head.”
Glad to relieve the pinching, I pull my device off, fold it, and tuck it in my pocket. “Where are we?”
“The headquarters of the Abolitionists.” Cara lifts her chin. “Atikéa’s the founder and ringleader of an underground movement aiming to abolish what’s being done to the Ka’risil. She and Jaerin are university classmates during the day.” She makes a face. “In case you couldn’t tell, they’re also together.”
Atikéa gives Cara an exasperated smile. “Oh Cara, how did you become a musician when you detest all things romantic?”
Cara wrinkles her nose. “I detest all things, period.”
Atikéa lets out a slight laugh. She enters the room and approaches a round, metal table in the center. “I used to just lead protests and petitions, but since Jaerin joined, we’ve gone underground. We’re still protesting above ground, of course, but we’re also working to spread the truth among the Ka’risil.” She sits down before the table.
I pull out the bronze chair beside Cara and take a seat, waiting for her to explain.
Atikéa looks down at a screen, which lies flat on the table before her. Her eyes flick from side to side—she must be telepathically commanding whatever computer the screen controls. A hologram of a school appears—it’s Papilio.
“There it is: your old school.” Atikéa looks up. “They tell you your one chance to escape a life of poverty is to find an Adryil patron, and that if you work hard enough, you can pay off your debts and become wealthy. But I suppose you know there’s something wrong with that story.” She glances at the touchscreen again. “This is an advertisement that recently aired in Nathril.”
Elaborately drawn Adryil symbols stretch across the hologram, then morph into the word “Papilio.”
A holovid of a stage replaces the image of the campus. A lithe aerialist twirls in red silks, and I recognize her immediately as Katarin Kaminski. A gentle female voice emits from the table, and English subtitles appear. “For over eighty years, TalentCorp has been dedicated to nurturing the skills of the finest Earthling Artists.”
The holovid switches scenes, this time showing a close-up of Inna Havener, her face radiant with stage makeup and her voice ringing in a glorious melisma. “From the latest sensations to the one who started it all, each Artist is passionate, uniquely gifted, and highly trained to bring you the very best entertainment.”
A montage of Artists flashes before me, accompanied by a rousing symphony. I recognize them as the greats from the Wall of Glory, and it reminds me of the sign I saw on my way to the Ydayas. I wonder what this video means, and what Dámiul’s father has to do with it.
The holovid returns to the image of Papilio, and a line of intricate Adryil symbols appears bit by bit, as though being drawn by an invisible hand. The subtitle spells the word: “TalentCorp.”
>
The hologram disappears. I turned to Atikéa, puzzled. “Was that an ad for a Spectacle?”
Atikéa leans forward. “It was an ad for you, the Artists. TalentCorp is the oldest and largest trafficker on Adrye, and it’s owned by Fyrin Verik—Jaerin and Dámiul’s father.”
Trafficker? That’s a word used to talk about trading illegal items, such as drugs or weapons. Why would Atikéa use it to talk about my school? “What do you mean?”
“You weren’t hired, Iris. TalentCorp—which owns Papilio and most of the other schools—sold you at auction.”
Her words sit on the edge of my ears, refusing to enter my head. “I wasn’t sold! I… I have an employment contract!”
Cara scowls. “So do I. But did you read it closely? Even if you tried, did you understand it?”
I shake my head. “One of the administrators and the Adryil liaison explained the terms to me.” Erayet also erased Milo from my memories because I unknowingly gave her permission to. My stomach twists as I realize how little I understood about what I was signing.
“Well, they left out the part where you’re agreeing to become property,” Cara scoffs. “They trick their way into owning you. Twice. First when you enroll—your parents have to give the school custody. That means you belong to them until you come of age at fifteen. But by that point, almost no one thinks to leave. Then, as an independent adult, you forfeit your rights by signing that so-called employment contract. It’s not hard to fool someone when you keep them from learning too much. I don’t know how it is at Papilio, but back at Sinfonia, they don’t teach anything other than what’s relevant to the Arts. No math, no science, no history except the bare bones… Nothing that would take time or brain space away from honing our talents.”
Looking back, I see everything in a new light. All that nonsense the school told us about avoiding distractions was just that—nonsense. They kept us ignorant so we wouldn’t question our circumstances and isolated us so no one else could inform us. Even if there were hints to be picked up, we were too obsessed with artistic glory to pay attention to anything else. It suddenly seems so clear, I wonder how I didn’t see it before.
“I really did sell myself, then,” I murmur.
“It’s not your fault.” Atikéa speaks gently. “The system of debts was put in place to control you, making you believe you’re paying the school back when in reality, the salary you’re told you’ll receive is an annual payment from the buyer to the seller. The percentage you’re told you can keep is a stipend you’re supposed to save for after your patron retires you. When that happens, TalentCorp buys back your contract for a fraction of your price and places you in one of the secluded, school-adjacent towns they own, where the money flows back to them. By then, a Ka’risil has spent so much time under Adryil telepathy that his or her mind is altered permanently into accepting instruction without question. They behave autonomously, but they have little independent thought and lack personal memories from their own time as students.”
My hand flies to my mouth. Vera was a retired Ka’risil. So were Master Raucci and Mistress Asif and every coach and director I ever encountered. The whole time I knew them, they were actually puppets. “What about the people they knew before they left? Surely they’d recognize retired Ka’risil who used to be their families or friends?”
“The company makes sure they don’t,” Atikéa says. “Retired Ka’risil are sent to live in towns far from the ones they grew up in. In the cases where coaches or staff members are needed at their former schools, they’re made to remote in so they’ll only be seen by students too young to have known them previously.”
Which means Vera might have family in Dogwood she doesn’t remember. But Inna Havener moved her family to Charlotte—was that a lie? I voice my question.
Atikéa twists her lip wryly. “No, her family is in Charlotte. Once in a while, TalentCorp chooses a Ka’risil to lavish rewards upon in order to motivate the rest of you. But those are the ones most tightly controlled. And they’re the only ones permitted to remember their families.”
“This is all so horrible,” I murmur.
“Oh, and here’s the worst part.” Cara stabs the table with her finger. “This whole thing started out as an Earthling operation. The Earthling government and elites wanted fancy alien tech, but the Adryil weren’t willing to sell at first. Our planet is worthless compared to Adrye, and the only thing we have that they want are our people.”
“Katarin Kaminski was the first one traded.” Atikéa sweeps her bangs out of her eyes. “She was a ward of the state attending the Papilio School, which at the time was a small performing arts center for underprivileged children called Dogwood Music and Dance. After her famed gala performance, a wealthy Adryil businessman told her he’d pay anything to hire her and bring her to Adrye. The age of majority used to be eighteen, meaning she was still legally a child, so the man negotiated with her public guardian. The matter was escalated into the highest reaches of the Earthling government until a deal was reached. Katarin believed she’d found a wonderful career opportunity, but the government declared her legally incompetent so they could control her earnings. They saw an opportunity and bought the school, renamed it Papilio, then sent their wards there in hopes of repeating their success. These were the children no one wanted, the ones who would do anything to escape a life of destitution and crime. The plan worked, but not everyone was willing to let go of their lives on Earth. So an exception to the telepathy ban was negotiated.”
“Those in charge of our planet wanted to make their product more appealing.” Cara’s voice is almost a growl. “The first Ka’risil were problematic because they demanded ridiculous things like the right to visit their families and student debt forgiveness. That made the Adryil hesitant to ‘hire’ more. Our government put the telepathy exception in place so the Adryil could transform us into the single-minded objects they wanted, which encouraged them to keep buying. Eventually, the system was privatized and evolved into TalentCorp.”
“Our government sold their own people?” I ask, incredulous.
“Yes.” Cara’s eyes flash. “The Adryil run TalentCorp now, but it was founded by fellow humans. And TalentCorp pays the Earthling government each year for the rights to control everything around us.”
“Being an honorable and just society is a fundamental piece of Adryil culture,” Atikéa says. “That is why they wanted to become allies and trade partners with Earth even though they could easily have conquered your world. But this doesn’t mean they’re immune to prejudice. Unfortunately, most view Earthlings as inferior beings and see nothing wrong with treating them as property, particularly because it was the Earthlings who first proposed the system.”
I shake my head. One by one, I’ve watched my illusions about Papilio shatter. I used to think it was a haven where we could develop our talents for a chance no one else would grant us. Then, I saw how much madness and desperation simmered beneath the beauty. Now, I realize why Dámiul spoke so angrily about it.
It’s not a sanctuary—it’s a factory. And I’m a product.
When Cara said Mistress Ydaya “had to have” me, she meant that Mistress Ydaya wanted me the way a girl wants a new ballgown. All that time we were clamoring for the spotlight, thinking it would bring us opportunity and glory, we were helping TalentCorp turn a profit. No wonder only the poor attend schools like Papilio.
And Dámiul knew—his father as good as owned me. Why didn’t he tell me?
“We’re really slaves.” I can’t help a measure of disbelief. I never felt like I was being forced into labor. I still love music, and I’m sure the others still love their Arts. Maybe that’s why so few of them question. “Do the other Earthlings know?”
“Like I said, it was their idea in the first place.” Cara grimaces. “Most Earthlings are so poor, all they worry about is taking care of themselves. Some even envy us because we’re the only ones with a shot at breaking into the elite class. They either don’t realize or don’
t care what people like Inna Havener must give up. The rich few are just like the Adryil. They see us as beneath them and think TalentCorp is doing us a favor by keeping us employed.”
I’m reeling with disbelief. “And all the coaches and directors are brainwashed.”
“Not just them,” Cara says. “The minders, administrators, nurses—everyone you’ve ever encountered at school. Some are retired Ka’risil, and the rest are aged-out students who counted themselves lucky to get jobs on campus. They, too, sign employment contracts that turn them into property. Basically, they’re ‘recycled’ into TalentCorp’s labor force and never think to leave. Adryil telepathy is extremely powerful. It can make things that don’t make sense seem like they do.”
Everything seems so wrong. We work so hard, tantalized by false promises. How could they do this to us? I recall how the pressure nearly destroyed Milo—and how it could still be destroying him.
But Milo was on the verge of dropping out, and if he does, he won’t receive a school job. “What about the factory workers?”
Atikéa puts her elbows on the table. “They, too, are part of the company’s labor force, manufacturing everything from the costumes to the holoprojectors. However, their destitution prevents them from leaving, so TalentCorp rarely needs to brainwash them.”
“They could if they wanted to.” Cara’s jaw is tight. “But telepathy takes effort, and they found an easier way: drugs. It lets people think they’re rebelling in a way when really, it’s another way to control them. Keeps them too fogged up to revolt or anything. It’s genius, in an evil way.”
I recall the way Phers suddenly lost his aggressive edge, how his eyes glazed over and his focus slipped away. The whole time he thought he was free, he was actually doing exactly what TalentCorp wanted.
“The world of TalentCorp is entirely separate from regular Earthling life,” Atikéa says. “They created a kind of ecosystem, one that’s renewable and genetically diverse. A lot of talent is innate—like facial bone structure for singers or body types for dancers. Therefore, the company monitors the children of their laborers, searching for potential Ka’risil. That’s why they instituted the beginner education system.”
