by Mary Fan
Jaerin then told me again he wouldn’t let me get caught. I stopped myself from asking how he could promise that when he can’t even come near the reeducation center. So many fears and doubts crowded my mind then, and despite my efforts, I feel them taking over again.
What kind of person volunteers to risk everything for someone she’s only met through holograms? Someone who never told me a thing about himself? Everything I am could be stripped from me, and I’m nothing short of crazy for stepping up as I did. I’m not the hero of an epic fairytale. I’m barely a member of the Abolition. Even if I succeed, only more trouble lies ahead.
What kind of person rejects a safe, worry-free life? I could have happily spent my days doing what I was born to do: playing an instrument that seems connected to my very soul. The life of a Ka’risil isn’t a terrible one. The safer thing to do would have been to quietly accept orders. If I were smarter, I would have let them take my memories of both Dámiul and Milo so I could settle comfortably into my new life. There’s nothing wrong with being sheltered and taken care of, and if I hadn’t resisted Erayet and Puna’s telepathic commands, I could have been content like Andreas, like Temir, like all these other Artists around me.
But if I had, what kind of person would that have made me?
I draw a breath. I may not have much experience in the realm of underground missions, but Atikéa and Jaerin do. They took care of the complicated aspects—all I have to do is go into one of the so-called classrooms. The guard will command Dámiul to go there, and I’ll convince him to come with me. After that, it’s just a matter of crossing a few hallways and leading him to freedom.
I’m coming for you, Dámiul. I finish applying rosin to my bow and pick up my viola. As I start playing a scale, I close my eyes and picture his face. I recall his smile and the wondrous way he looked at me. I can’t imagine how much pain he must have been hiding. I understand now what that strange combination of rage and sorrow meant, why he said he wouldn’t be here by the time I got to Adrye. He must have known that no matter how hard he fought, he wouldn’t be able to resist the mind-wipe forever.
I finish my scale. Instead of running through another warm-up, I choose to play a melody—the melody carried on a solo clarinet the night we danced. Keeping my eyes closed, I let it take me back to that enchanted evening, when I chose to forget the galaxies lying between us.
Now, it’s only a few walls and my own fears, and I won’t let either stop me.
I wait in the wings, awed by the current performance. A group of barefoot women, garbed in loose, colorful silk and towering gold headdresses, glides across the stage to the strange music of a woodwind instrument. The dancers all appear to be of East Asian descent, like me. Actually, since they all spoke an unfamiliar language backstage, I guess they’re actually from East Asia.
Is this the kind of world my ancestors came from? Their dance is so different from anything I’ve seen before. Each movement is performed with deliberate tranquility. Yet, there is seldom a still moment on the stage. A soft tension simmers behind each turning of a hand or flexing of a foot.
There was a time when Papilio contained my entire world. I let them take me whole; it never occurred to me to want more. Seeing the other Artists today has shown me how big Earth really is, and how little I actually know.
The performers conclude their dance, and the audience applauds. A light at the top of the stage tells me it’s our turn to perform.
Andreas leads us onto the stage. I follow Cara toward the semi-circle of music stands that rises from the floor. As I take my place, I survey the audience below. The black-clad prisoners sit clustered in a rectangular formation of seats to my left. Seeing Dámiul’s crisp jacket worn by hundreds of blank-faced captives sends a chill frosting down my spine.
On the other side of a wide aisle, to my right, the Ydayas sit with other members of the Adryil elite who lent their Ka’risil for the event. Guards in indigo uniforms stand between the prisoners and the wealthy, and I wonder if one of them is the man Jaerin bribed into helping us. A bright bolt runs through the air to their left. There must be a force field keeping the prisoners confined.
The contrast between the left and right sides of the audience is chilling. The flamboyantly dressed elites watch us with curiosity, their eyes bright with interest. They appear as an audience should: engaged and attentive. Some have little smiles on their faces and others wear critical expressions.
The prisoners, on the other hand, hardly look alive. None of them show any trace of interest in their eyes; they might as well be statues. They sit with straight, stiff postures, and they don’t move except to blink. They’re… empty. Robbed of their minds and hearts. This show is really just for the elite—perhaps an excuse to show off their Ka’risil collections for each other. The prisoners certainly don’t seem to care.
Andreas cues the opening of our piece. Although I try to concentrate on the song, my gaze wanders back toward the crowd of prisoners.
Where are you, Dámiul? Dozens of gleaming Adryil eyes color the darkness with shades of gold, green, purple, and orange. I see blues of every variety from cobalt to ice.
Then, I spot them: azure. Toward the back of the prisoners’ section, on the left. My heart jumps, and I quickly turn my gaze back to the music, not wanting to raise suspicions.
I conclude the song with a series of double stops, then step forward for my solo. The Ydayas wanted to show off their expensive new pet. I never thought I’d grow weary of “Butterfly’s Lament,” but after playing it every other day for weeks, it’s getting tiresome.
As I wait for the other quartet members to leave, I spot those azure eyes again. Even in the darkness, I can tell it’s Dámiul. A rush of emotions floods me—joy, relief, and the ever-present anxiety. The first time I played “Butterfly’s Lament” on stage, I was playing for him. Now, here I am again.
I inhale, then draw my bow across the string, letting the mournful opening notes ring out. Maybe, once he hears them, Dámiul will recall that night at the Spectacle. He’s so near, I could run up to him if it weren’t for the guards. Can you hear me, Dámiul?
As the song progresses, I feel Butterfly’s plight. Mine’s the same, except my prince isn’t just trapped by guards in an unreachable kingdom—he’s also bound by telepathic weapons and mind implants.
A surge of despair floods through me, and I move into the final run. I let it rage. This is my last chance to panic, my last chance to doubt. If he refuses to come with me, there’s nothing I can do. Atikéa waited until Jaerin left before telling me that if that happens, I should go back to my designated area and carry on as though nothing out of the ordinary occurred. But I don’t know if I could leave Dámiul behind like that.
I conclude the Lament, and enthusiastic applause rises from the right side of the audience, interspersed with calls of “Toká!” Apparently, even in my distraction, I haven’t lost my affinity for the piece. The prisoners clap politely, but give no indication of having any opinion about my performance.
I look to the back, hoping to catch a sign that the song impacted Dámiul in some way, but I don’t see him. Jaerin’s officer contact probably already summoned him to the room I’m supposed to meet him in.
I take a bow, resisting the urge to run off stage to find him.
CHAPTER 31
PUNA’S ATTENTION FIXES ON CARA, who somehow managed to provoke another argument with a performer who doesn’t speak English. Cara’s apparently so talented at conflict, even linguistic barriers can’t hinder her. I clutch the access card and inch toward the door.
Fifteen minutes. That’s how long I have to find Dámiul and convince him to come with me. There’s no time to be afraid.
I tap the card against the pad by the door, and it slides open. As Jaerin instructed, I tap it again before it opens all the way, then slip out through the crack as it starts closing again.
The door shuts, and I find myself alone in a long, white corridor. There’s something menacing about its pr
istine appearance. I feel exposed, like a million eyes are watching me. In a way, they are, since tiny cameras line the walls. But they can’t see me. Jaerin’s contact blinded them—for now.
According to Jaerin, all the guards are either out in the auditorium with the prisoners or standing by the doors to the outside. I shouldn’t run into any. If I do, I’m to pretend I got lost like the Ka’risil simpleton I’m meant to be. Since devices preventing the Adryil from using their telepathy are embedded within the walls of the facility, anyone I run into won’t be able to read my mind. At least not without either shutting down the devices, as they did in the backstage area so the Keepers could keep an eye on the Ka’risil, or using machines like the crown-like device the white-haired man used on Dámiul.
I speed down the corridor, passing several doors. Each has a large, rectangular window in it, through which I glimpse the classrooms the prisoners are reeducated in. Adryil letters splash across the fronts of many of these group rooms. I don’t recognize enough to read them, but Jaerin told me what kind of messages they display. Here, cooperation, conformity, and compliance are rewarded, and individuality is seen as a disease. On Adrye, uniqueness is a trait only valued in products and property—like the Ka’risil.
I turn a corner, recalling the layout I spent all week memorizing. I was afraid I’d panic again, but I seem to have passed the point of fear.
After winding through a few more corridors and using the access card to bypass a handful of gates, I reach the hallway at the end of which my destination lies. I see it ahead: the door at the end, to my right. Dámiul’s probably there already.
My steps speed up, and the next thing I know, I’m running. Through the window in the door, I glimpse the back of a boy with black hair. It’s him; I know it. I tap the card against the security pad and rush inside.
“Dámiul!” I run to him. He turns to face me, and I freeze.
I’m looking at a stranger. Dámiul’s eyes are as blue as ever, but the intensity that once took my breath away is gone. He blinks, as though waiting for me to continue.
“Dámiul, it’s me, Iris.” I walk cautiously around the metal table, approaching him.
He watches me blankly, but otherwise doesn’t react. Even if he doesn’t recognize me, I expected to see some measure of confusion. Shouldn’t he at least ask me who I am, or what I, a Ka’risil, am doing here?
They’ve even taken his ability to question away from him, leaving me with a tantalizing shell. At Papilio, I had all of him except his physical presence. He kept secrets, but his fundamental being was with me. I sensed so much when I was with him, even though he was just a trick of light, a creation of technology.
Now, I sense nothing. If I wanted to, I could finally feel the warmth of his touch, but it would be no different than laying my hand on a handsome statue.
I can help him remember who he is. I just have to get him out of here first. “Come with me.” I motion for him to approach. “I’ll explain everything later.”
Dámiul doesn’t move. “Zeth ut inyana enyil lorst.” I understand the statement: State your name and number.
Did the mind-wipe take his memory of English? “Zeth onayil Iris. En bektát fith ona razan.” My name is Iris. You must come with me.
Dámiul blinks, but otherwise remains still. “Ona fenst nur. Zeth ut inyana enyil taen dira nur.” I cannot. Your name and number are not correct.
He speaks like a machine, needing an access card to activate. There’s nothing—nothing—in his voice or his expressions.
I clench my jaw, willing my tears to stay behind my eyes. Is this what they’ve reduced him to? Dámiul, whose eyes once burned with energy, whose voice could carry both the power of conviction and the softness of compassion, who smiled defiantly in the face of torment. Have they destroyed him for good?
No, I won’t believe it. Maybe I can coax him into following me. Once we’re someplace safe, I can spend all the time I need helping him remember. My Adryil vocabulary is too limited to express much, so I repeat the words for, “You must come with me.”
His eyes remain fixed on me, but convey no reaction. I reach out and take his hand in mine. I don’t feel like I’m touching another person; I might as well be holding a language tablet. I give him a gentle tug. “Dámiul, ona en shraïn, fith ona razan.” Dámiul, I beg you, come with me. My eyes brim, and I wipe the tears away before they fall.
Dámiul blinks, and for the first time, a hint of emotion flickers through his gaze. “Zeth ut inyana enyil taen dira nur.” Your name and number are not correct. His eyebrows come together, as if he’s confused. “Ona fathrad idur yaerid.” I should sound the alarm. His tone wavers with uncertainty.
I tug his hand again and keep my pleading gaze on his. “Ona en shraïn.” I beg you.
Dámiul looks down at my hand, which still holds his, and the confusion on his face deepens. “You’re the Ka’risil who performed the viola solo.”
He remembers English! Hope ignites within me. In my own language, I can say so much more than my stilted knowledge of Adryil could express. “Yes, that’s me.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I don’t have time to explain, but you have to come with me.”
“The law says I should alert the guards. Noncompliance is immoral.” He sounds as if he’s quoting words he doesn’t believe.
I wish I could destroy the devices blocking his telepathy so I could tell him to look inside my mind and see my memories of who he is. If I knew where they were, I would try. “Please, trust me. I know you.”
“But I don’t know you.”
“Yes, you do.” I squeeze his hand and take a step closer. “You know you do.”
“I have never met any Ka’risil before.” Dámiul draws back, but his hand remains in mine.
“They’ve taken the memories from you. But please, believe me…” I trail off. If he sees me as a stranger, then he has no reason to listen to a word I say. Yet he hasn’t yanked his hand away—some part of him must remember me. Maybe a prompt will help bring him back. “Do you remember the song I played?”
Dámiul looks at the ground. “That melody… I’ve heard it before.”
“That’s right.” I manage a smile, hope quavering in my heart. “I played it for you at Papilio. Ever since we met, each time I’ve played it, it’s been for you.”
“Papilio…” Dámiul brings up his hand, and mine with it. For several seconds, he stares at our interlocking fingers.
My mind flashes back to the Wintertime Masquerade and how much I longed to hold his hand like I am now. My eyes sting, and a tear escapes.
Dámiul’s eyebrows tilt with sympathy. “Why are you so sad?” He reaches toward me.
I let him brush my tears away, keeping my eyes on his. The Dámiul I know is in there—I can sense him returning to me. They took his memories, but they can’t erase who he is inside. Even in this brainwashed state, he’s choosing to speak to me instead of sounding the alarm. He’s defying them.
“Because I remember you,” I say. “But they’ve taken me from your mind.”
He knits his eyebrows. “We were friends, weren’t we?”
I nod. “You danced with me once.” Hoping a hint will help bring back the memories, I place my hand on his shoulder. “We stood like this, except I would have been a telepathic vision to you.” I feel Dámiul’s hand on my waist, and my breath catches in my throat, both from his touch and the idea that the memory might be stirring in his mind.
Dámiul presses his lips together, and I know he must be struggling to remember more.
“There were stars and snowflakes,” I say. “You created them with the holoprojectors.”
“There was a song.” Dámiul’s voice is a whisper. “Played by a solo clarinet.”
Hope ignites in my heart. “Yes, that’s right.” I hesitate, then softly hum the melody.
Dámiul brightens, and I can tell he recognizes it. “You wore a silver mask. I remember wondering why you would cover such a
beautiful face. You told me…” He trails off.
I take a step closer. “‘Just dance with me.’”
The life has returned to him, and I can scarcely contain the deluge of joy and longing racing through me. I want to babble on and on about everything we shared, to quote our conversations and describe our interactions, but Atikéa warned me that doing something like that would overwhelm and confuse him. Only he can recover the memories in his head, and no amount of insisting can force them to return. So I hold my tongue, waiting.
Dámiul’s eyes widen, as though a window has opened before him, and he’s seeing light for the first time after being trapped in a dark room for weeks. His hand tightens around mine, and his mouth falls open. “Iris!”
A flurry of emotions crosses his face—confusion, joy, anxiety, shock. I can almost hear his thoughts whirling. His gaze locks onto mine, blazing like the blue-hot fires I know so well.
My tears of sorrow turn to tears of happiness, and I smile through them. In that one exclamation, he’s told me everything I need to know. “Hello, Dámiul.”
Dámiul puts his hand on my cheek, and he stares into my eyes in disbelief. “Am I hallucinating again?”
“No.” I put my hand over his. “I’m really here.” My heart threatens to burst from the overwhelming excitement. At last, after everything, he’s really here with me. Unable to help myself, I throw my arms around him. “I knew you’d remember me.”
His arms encircle my waist, drawing me closer. Suddenly, I don’t know where I am or what I’m doing. There’s only him and me, sharing the warmth we were once denied. I feel as if the sun has split open the ceiling above us, and in my mind, I hear the swelling of a thousand-piece orchestra—the soaring string melodies, the brass accents, the great choir shimmering above it all. If this were an opera, now would be the moment the prince and princess were finally reunited, holding each other’s hands on the stage and singing a devastatingly beautiful duet.
