Song of Edmon

by Adam Burch

  “Why did I stop you?” he asks again.

  I take a deep breath. “My pronunciation was off.” He says nothing. “The tone of my vowels was not pure,” I continue. “I could’ve attacked the first note of the second verse with more vigor.”

  “Edmon”—he removes his spectacles—“your performance was technical perfection.”

  Technical perfection? My breath catches.

  “What you lack, I cannot teach.”

  My brow furrows.

  “Edmon, do you want to do this? For your life?”

  “More than anything!” I exclaim desperately.

  “That!” He holds out his hands. “That’s the feeling I need to hear with every note, the utter commitment to the music. I need to know with every lilt, every vibrato, that this is what you live for.”

  I remember once Alberich told me the same thing about fighting—desire is the undefinable element.

  “Edmon,” he says, and taps his conductor’s baton, interrupting my train of thought. “This piece is about a hero named Siegfried, forging his sword. I chose this music because it’s a youth creating a destiny. Do you believe music is your destiny?”

  “I do.”

  “Then feel it when you sing.” He stands and grips my shoulders. “You’re one of the finest students I’ve ever taught. Including Andreas Catalano.”

  Maestro Bertinelli often mentions Andreas, the prodigy at the Sophia School of Music. His voice is so perfect, it’s rumored that he’s a designer organic, an artificially created human with special abilities. His music is so popular across the Centra Fracture he has earned the title “Voice of a Generation.”

  “You’re going to have to make a choice, Edmon.”

  I nod. “I’m just afraid they won’t let me.”

  “They may not,” he says. “However, I believe that responsibility to yourself supersedes any that others place upon you.”

  “You don’t understand.” I don’t know how to explain it to him.

  “Would you like to record something?” he asks slyly. “Perhaps an aria or some other small piece of music?”

  The offer is tantalizing. If I record, then there will be no denying my talent. Perhaps my father would see fit to utilize those skills in some way. Maybe he’ll understand how I could bring acclaim rather than shame to our family name?

  “Edmon, if music is what you want, we continue. If it’s not, then I think my time with you is over.”

  I want to argue, but I know he’s right. If music won’t be my life, then I’ve come as far as I can with him. I imagine my life like a mirror fractured down the center, each showing a different future—

  One reflection shows me something not unlike the celebrity of Andreas Catalano. I am a student at the Sophia Academy on Lyria, studying in great libraries and concert halls. I am walking down the great steps of the palazzo, talking with the grand masters and the other artists and musicians of the age. I am traveling the stars, singing for kings and diplomats. I see green worlds of woods and forests, I see desert palaces, and I see Nadia beside me as we stargaze from the cupola of a grand cruiser, young and free, exploring the Fracture together.

  The other life shows me in an arena with the blood of underclass gladiators splashed across my skin. I wear the black Julii uniform and stand among the other Companions behind Phaestion as he addresses the Electors from a Synod podium. Edgaard is there, too, only he sits on the Synod alongside Phaestion. Our father looks at him proudly, while I remain in the background, unnoticed, barely tolerated. Nadia is nowhere to be seen, and the sun of the island is gone, but Miranda Wusong is there. I lift a wedding veil to reveal a white face and black teeth. I see myself pretending to listen as Phaestion teases me and boasts of how he accomplishes great things, Hanschen adds a sly comment, Perdiccus laughs like a hyena fish, and Sigurd threatens me. My heart beats faster because I want to scream and run from this vision, but I can’t. There’s nowhere to go.

  I take a deep breath, calming my fears. This is no choice at all.

  “I’ve made my decision, Maestro. I want to become a singer. The greatest I can be.”

  He smiles, pleased.

  “Then I’m happy to tell you that I’ve actually already recorded you,” he says.

  My jaw drops. He’s already . . . ?

  “I had an aquagraphic mixer placed in the room to capture last week’s lesson.”

  “Maestro!” Betrayal, elation, and excitement all comingle.

  “Forgive me,” he says. “I feared you would say no. Or somehow the Julii would interfere. It took some doing, but I bypassed tower security and released the recording anonymously on the nets.”

  “Did people listen?” I’m scared to know the answer.

  “Siegfried’s song is ‘warrior music,’” he says. “Forging swords, fighting, a mythical dragon . . . the people of Meridian go for this sort of thing, yes? Edmon, they’ve gone, how does your planet say it? Wave?”

  Wave! I let out a whoop.

  “Practically the whole of Meridian has heard it,” he continues over my excitement. “I also transferred them to binary code cylinder for shipment via UFP courier to the dean of admissions at the Sophia School of Music.”

  The Sophia School of Music in Lyria?

  “Edmon, if you want it, I believe there will be a place for you there.”

  “Maestro . . .” My breath comes fast. I think back on our first lessons and The Maestro reprimanding me for merely breathing wrong. I’ve worked so hard, and now my dream is coming true.

  Is this real? I think of Nadia. I haven’t seen her in years. Still, I wish she were here to share in this moment.

  “Edmon!”

  We both turn at the new voice. Perdiccus stands in the doorway. Wild strands of gold hair hang in his eyes.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

  “What is it?” I try to cover my excitement.

  “It’s Phaestion. He’s set up a special training exercise for The Companions, the last of the season. Come on!” He grabs my arm, and all my thoughts slip away. The next thing I know, we’re running down the hall, and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach.

  Phaestion’s test has arrived.

  The wind whips my hair. I stare out my Plexiglass face mask at a searing drop. The other Companions are next to me in front of the open sondi carriage door, decked out in black body armor. The armor will unfold into a winged flight suit when we jump. And we are jumping.

  I toe the edge and look down out the open door. The caps of the towers of Meridian just peek above the fog cover from the nearby sea. The moons of Chang and Hou are visible in the gloaming. Chang is a green sickle, while Hou is but a mere sliver of silver. My heart pounds.

  This is too damn high.

  “The rules have changed.” Phaestion’s voice pipes in over the helmet comms. “Over the centuries, young fighters of the Combat have grown in skill and prowess, attempting more daring feats. It is no longer enough to simply win with martial skill. You must entertain. That is what drives the economic viability of our most hallowed blood sport. It is what the people demand of their Electors. So the High Synod has decreed an advancement in the technology of the arena. No longer will the Combat simply pit fighter against fighter. The arena itself will be armed with obstacles and mechanized weaponry to murder her challengers.”

  I wish he’d cut the monologue, but I know he records this for the same purpose, to broadcast our feats for the latest episode of The Exploits of The Companions.

  “You have already been well trained by Alberich and the automatons of our practice arena. Now it is time to test your skills in the real world. House Julii and the students of her academy will be second to none!”

  “Aroo!” the other Companions shout in response.

  “The game is simple. You each have been given coordinates in your heads-up display.”

  My face mask lights up with the time, date, altitude, wind speed, and information on the skyscrapers that claw from the city street
s up into the sky. Then a bright red beacon blips.

  “At these coordinates is a data card. Jump into the city, travel to the coordinates, and recover it. Return to the sondi that waits above the Banshee Rail. Whoever returns first with the data card in hand wins the graduation prize.”

  “What’s the trick?” Hanschen interrupts over the headset. He smirks behind his mask. In the years since our first fight, I’ve grown physically stronger than him, but he’s always been the cleverest of the others, the most likely to strike when my back is turned.

  “The trick”—I feel Phaestion grinning over the comm—“is that the rest of the academy members wait at points throughout the district to stop you.”

  “Lovely,” Sigurd growls.

  “Easy, Sig,” says Perdiccus. “This is going to be fun. Right, Ed?” He nudges me.

  “We haven’t heard what the prize is,” I say bluntly.

  “Oh, Edmon,” admonishes Hanschen. “Must there always be a reason?” He winks and eyes me flirtatiously.

  “Yes,” I say, deadpan.

  Sigurd snickers.

  “Your loss, beautiful.” Hanschen shrugs.

  This has become routine—Hanschen flirts, and the others laugh. While I attempt to fit in, he will attempt revenge when the moment is right.

  “As I said, there’s a gift waiting for the Companion who returns with the data card first.”

  I picture the red-haired youth sitting on his posh throne in the Julii tower watching us squabble on an aquagraphic. This has also been routine—Phaestion talking to us from on high, sparingly handing out praise and affection. He’ll hold celebrations where he will invite only one of us, but not the others. He’ll join us in the practice arena every once in a while, holding court among the boys, but choosing to ostracize one. The constant competing for approval has started to wear thin for me. Phaestion used to be my friend unconditionally. Now we all fight for him like a pack of wolf eels.

  “Approaching drop zone,” the pilot’s voice says, cutting in over the intercom.

  “You will be competing against the plebeian cadets of the academy and against one another as well.” Phaestion laughs.

  Competing for him, I think angrily.

  I flip my headset to a private channel. “Phaestion.”

  The sophistication of this point-to-point satellite transmission is quite beyond anything Tao had even a decade ago. Slowly the Pantheon has been incorporating the tech of other worlds into their arsenals.

  “Edmon?”

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask.

  “Doing what?” he responds. He’s probably cocking his head to the side in mock innocence.

  “Dropping us out of a sondi, having us scavenge, pitting us against each other?”

  “It’s just a simulation, Edmon,” he says coolly, his words the same as they were that night.

  This whole thing is to punish me.

  “This is how soldiers fight,” he says.

  “We aren’t soldiers,” I argue.

  “We’ve always been warriors. That’s our heritage. You haven’t seen the new arena the Electors have been creating. Since the Fracture Point opened, the Pantheon has been looking to sell the broadcasts and feeds to extraterrestrial markets. They have to make it more dangerous, more exciting. It’s a new world. We have to be ready.”

  I see the steely determination in Sigurd’s eyes, Perdiccus’s excitement for the challenge, and the mental calculations Hanschen’s going through. All of it for Phaestion’s love and approval. He has us in the palm of his hand.

  “Edgaard is too young,” I say with a snarl.

  I turn and see my eleven-year-old brother tightening the straps of his suit. He’s small but hearty, with a wide, square face. He tightens the final strap, completely capable even at this age, a miniature version of what my father must have been like as a boy. There is one crucial difference—Edric’s pale eyes are cold and hard. Edgaard’s soft blues are warm and kind.

  “Perdiccus is right. This is going to be fun!” Edgaard beams.

  “Edgaard isn’t the weak seal pup you were when you first started training. He’s pure Nightsider,” Perdiccus gibes.

  It’s true. Edgaard isn’t plagued with the same lack of skill, nor crippling sensitivity, but I’m not the same boy anymore, either. I’m stronger, my bones tougher than before. Physically, I’m now their equal. I’ve learned to show them a cold, hard side of myself. In the pit of my heart, though, it’s a lie. I’m not one of them, not truly. I am half Daysider, after all. The teachers’ insistence that the superiority of Nightsider instruction is the source of my achievements quells any question, yet everything from the lessons with The Maestro, to my old home Bone, to my dark hair screams to us all—I am different.

  I shove the feeling aside. You are who you say you are, Edmon, and you say you are one of them right now.

  Perdiccus punches me on the arm when he catches me staring at Edgaard. “You don’t give your little brother enough credit.”

  Edgaard smiles. “I’m going to come in first. Our father will be proud.”

  “You think he’s watching?” I ask. Even in the sondi, camglobes hover around us.

  “He’s always watching, Edmon.” Edgaard nods solemnly.

  No doubt the floating silver orbs will track the whole contest just as they’ve been broadcasting our program for years now. The Exploits of The Companions has been one of the most popular entertainment aquagraphics on the nets. Not that I’ve helped the ratings. I’ve refused to accept a concubine or allow a camglobe during my music lessons. In little ways, I’ve been a thorn in House Julii’s attempt to create a narrative about us even as I’ve tried to fit in.

  I don’t care, I tell myself. The Maestro said I might be able to go to Lyria—

  “Prepare to disembark,” the pilot’s voice says, cutting into my thoughts.

  Perdiccus steps up to the open bay door. “Last one home suffers the humiliation.” He sticks out his tongue and lets himself fall into the twilight.

  Sigurd scowls at me. “Don’t get in my way. Or do. I might enjoy that.” He jumps.

  Sigurd’s always baiting me these days. It’s his way of showing friendship, if in fact you could say he’s truly friends with anyone. I can tell he doesn’t like how much I’ve improved. It’s threatening.

  “They’re numbskulls,” Hanschen says. “But they’re strong numbskulls. Neither of us could take them alone.”

  “But if we team up?” I already know where Hanschen’s mind is going. He’s faster than any of us and could outrun them, but if it comes to a fight, he’s at a disadvantage. The way to win is to form an alliance.

  “Great minds . . .” Hanschen leers. “Whaddya say, gorgeous?”

  “You and me, stunner,” I say. “They won’t know—”

  “What hit ’em,” Hanschen finishes. He grins and steps out of the carriage door, diving toward the surface of Tao like a torpedo.

  I peer over the edge. My heart leaps into my gullet.

  “Edmon.” My little brother’s voice catches me. He looks at me with innocent blue eyes. “Did you just make a deal with Hanschen?”

  “If I did?” I ask. Part of me still resents him. He has everything that should be mine. It’s not his fault. He’s not our father. “Only one of us can win. Hanschen will betray me as soon as he has the opportunity, but I’d rather have to deal with him at the end than Perdiccus or Sigurd.”

  Edgaard nods. “How do you know he hasn’t already made the same kind of agreement with one of them?”

  “Smart thinking. Does it make any difference if he did?”

  “I guess not?”

  “You first.” I motion.

  He steps up to the doorway but stops. “What about me? Will you betray me if you get the chance?”

  Should I lie? Should I tell him I’d never betray him?

  “You’re my brother, Edgaard” is all I can say.

  He smiles and steps into the atmo.

  The rush of the wind is in
my ears. I tense. My pulse quickens.

  By the twisted star, I don’t think I can do this.

  “Drop zone window closing,” the pilot’s voice reverberates.

  If I don’t jump now, I won’t ever. The thought hits me. Maybe I shouldn’t. I’ve made a choice to follow my heart, to follow music. What does it matter if I don’t play their games? I step away from the door, but the dirigible banks, and I lose my footing. I stumble out of the bay and tumble into twilight.

  End over end, I flip as I fall. Cityscape alternates with sky. I struggle to right myself. The altimeter readout on my windshield scrolls furiously. I click my heels, bring my arms to my sides, and dive to the surface like a missile. Hooks spring from the sides of my armor and clasp my wrists. I spread my arms and tuck my chin, and a pair of mantalike wings deploy. The spider silk catches the air.

  I’m a feather on the current, the skyline of Meridian stretched out before me. The world at this height seems still and beautiful. The red eye of the sun is to my left, the blackness of night to my right. A veil of stars waits there framed by the slivers of the moons, beckoning me, but the beacon in my windshield flashes. I bank left at its indication. The data card’s homing device calls my armor like a pulse in my nervous system. The others must feel the same pull. Thoughts of quitting sift to the back of my brain. I circle to slow my descent, floating into the mist between two scrapers.

  The buildings here are run down and dirt covered, the glass of their windowpanes shattered and broken. The ground gapes open, revealing the massive cylindrical shaft of an arcology. I descend into the darkness of this enormous vertical tunnel dug into the crust of the planet. Within the outer edge of the arco tube are the hundreds of levels of residences, storefronts, and power centers for the self-contained mini-city. Lights from the upper residential district glitter and fade as I fall into the lower industrial levels.

  I swoop onto a landing pad that juts out from the side of the massive cylinder. The pavement comes zooming up at me, and I pull my arms and legs wide to hover. My feet hit; I drop and roll and come up in a crouched position. There’s broken glass everywhere, chunks of building strewn here and there. I walk from the platform through a doorway into the heart of the arco.