by Mary Fan
“I ran into an Adryil last night. Actually ran into.” The words I’ve kept bottled up for half a day tumble out of my mouth. I glance around to double-check that we’re alone, and then I tell him everything that happened, except the part where I’m seeing ghosts. He keeps eating while I talk, but his eyes express his disbelief. “I just wish there were some way to find out what he was doing,” I conclude. My stomach growls, and I take a large bite of pasta. A savory burst of bright, pungent flavor fills my mouth.
Milo remains quiet for a moment, absorbing the information. “You lied to a school official?” He bumps my shoulder. “Nice! Never took you for a rule breaker.”
“Trust me, neither did I.”
“What was that thing he gave you?”
I take another bite, glance around again, and then take the object out of my pocket, cupping my hands to shield it from any minders who might be watching.
Milo stares at it. “Whoa. Did the Adryil say anything about it?”
“Just ‘take this’ and ‘don’t let them take it from you.’”
“Seems important. Unless…” His eyes glint. “If this were a ballet, he’d be a prince, you’d be the fairy princess he fell for from afar, and this object is the token of his affections he risked life and limb to present to you in order to prove his undying love.”
I elbow him. “Milo!”
Milo grins. “Sorry.” He regards the device. “I wonder what those etchings mean. I remember seeing a holovid about something with green lines like that once… I think it was some kind of weapon.”
“A weapon?” It never occurred to me that the Adryil boy might wish me harm. “Do you think that’s what this is?”
“No clue.” He hands the device back to me.
The glowing lines suddenly seem menacing. What if it’s some kind of alien time bomb?
A calm feeling sweeps over me, one that conveys, Don’t be afraid. I relax, and the memory of the Adryil boy’s face floods my mind. Absent from it are any traces of the fierceness I saw in him. His expression is gentle, almost as though he was the one saying those words, telling me that he’d never hurt me. I don’t know why, but I believe him, even though I know he’s just a memory.
As I put the object back in my pocket, an idea occurs to me. “What about the library?”
“Yeah, right,” Milo scoffs. “Have you ever looked up something not related to the Arts?”
I try to remember an occasion where I went to the library for something other than a composer or performer bio, but draw a blank. “I guess not.”
“Believe me, there’s next to nothing. The administration thinks there’s no point in keeping the library stocked with information that won’t help us advance our Arts.” His eyes light up. “But I know a guy in Dogwood who might know more.”
“Really?” I’ve ventured into Dogwood a handful of times, but never stayed for long. Seeing where I’ll end up if I don’t find a patron stresses me more than I care to think about.
“It’s a long shot,” Milo says. “Still, it’s better than nothing. We could go this evening, if you want.”
“We’ll be back before curfew, right?”
“Of course.”
Though I have little desire to visit Dogwood again, going there is my best chance at learning the truth. I have to take it; I owe it to the Adryil boy—and myself. “It’s worth a try.”
Despite what Milo said, leaving out a library search feels wrong. Besides, rehearsals are done for the day, and I have nothing else to do between now and meeting him.
The library lies along the northern edge of the campus. Outside the line of oval-shaped windows, scraggly gray trees tower over a leaf-strewn ground. Shadows from the setting sun mute the reds and yellows of autumn, and branches sway under a strong wind.
I turn away from the window and sit down at one of the computer consoles. Apart from me, the library is empty.
A face flashes across the screen. I jump, startled, then blink rapidly, my heart pounding. It was the Adryil boy—again. His expression, one of intense concentration, was strained. Am I really losing my mind? Should I go to the med center?
But if I do that, they’ll drill me questions, like “what were you doing when the hallucination occurred?” I’m not sure I could keep from confessing about the Adryil device this time, and then they’ll know I lied to Mistress Medina.
A chill runs up my spine, and a feeling overwhelms me—the feeling that he’s here in this room, standing beside me.
CHAPTER 6
THE WALL’S BLUE LIGHT GIVES Milo’s silhouette an eerie halo. Though his face is shadowed, I know it’s him. Not only because he’s at our agreed-upon meeting place, but because I’ve known him so long, I’d recognize him anywhere.
I wave. “Milo!”
Milo walks toward me. “What took you so long?”
“I’m only a little bit late!”
“That’s like being a little bit pregnant.”
I smack his arm, and he laughs. We head over to West Gate, which lies on the other side of the Opera’s sector. The streetlights shed their cool, bluish light on the pavement. As we pass between the buildings, the intertwining voices of a dozen practicing singers give the night a haunting soundtrack. Soaring sopranos and commanding basses, lilting melodies and spinning arpeggios.
The memory of how little I found in the library gnaws at me. I spent two hours in there, scouring the archives for anything about Adryil technology, but turned up nothing more than I already knew.
I glance at Milo. “You were right.”
“Of course I was.” He throws me a teasing smile. “About what this time?”
“The library. I went just in case, but didn’t find anything.”
“Figures. Even if Papilio didn’t think non-Arts-related knowledge was a waste of time, the government’s pretty guarded about Adryil tech.”
I glance at the Opera’s rehearsal hall, an angular white building with arched windows. Though it looks simple, it contains all kinds of complex machinery from cleaner bots to holoprojectors. “But Papilio was built from Adryil designs.”
“That’s true.” Milo shrugs. “Well, even within the school, there’s a hierarchy. Maybe those at the top know what the rest of us aren’t allowed to.” He tilts his head. “Do you ever find it wrong that the people who do the least gain the most?”
“What do you mean?”
“This school is run by officials who live so far, they don’t even visit us in person. The Adryil buy tickets to see our shows, then pay Papilio a finder’s fee for each Artist they hire. Meanwhile, most of our earnings go to paying back tuition and everything else, whether we land a patron or not.” His expression darkens. “We work our asses off, but it’s the bosses who profit. Doesn’t seem fair.”
Recalling what he told me earlier about his family, I lay a sympathetic hand on his arm. “They’re the reason we have a chance at all. If it weren’t for them, Inna Havener—”
“Yeah, yeah, Inna Havener.” He jerks his arm free. “Most of us won’t be her. Most of us won’t be anyone.”
His words land like a punch. He’s right. Only a quarter of Papilians find patrons while everyone else ends up back where they started. Worse off, actually, since they still have to pay back their debt. Part of the contract your parents sign when you enroll states that the loan applies to your entire family, which means if you age out, the school can seize their property and earnings as well as make you hand over most of your wages. For that reason, virtually every family of aged-out Papilians disowns their children to avoid ruin. That means they’re not allowed to contact them anymore, even if they live in the same town.
If Milo doesn’t get hired, he won’t just lose his prospects. He’ll lose his family.
Violating the no-contact law means prison, and while it’s possible to meet surreptitiously, most find the risks too great. Some aged-out Papilians even request jobs in other states to avoid the possibility of running into their families, and for the most part, the
school is able to accommodate them. I used to wonder if that was the reason why my father ended up in California. I’ve tried asking around Dogwood to see if anyone knew him or my mother—or their relatives—but I never found anything. In addition, student files are confidential, so the school wouldn’t let me look at my parents’. I wish I knew where they came from. If I have aunts or uncles or cousins, I’ve never heard of them. At least I don’t have to worry about anyone depending on me.
Milo rakes one hand through his short curls. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. Guess I’m a bit on edge.”
“I understand.” I give him an encouraging smile. “But like I said earlier, you have nothing to worry about. You’ll find a patron for sure.”
“I wish I could believe you.”
The towering metal doors of the West Gate, flanked by two imposing security bots, open as Milo and I approach.
“Please remember that curfew is eleven p.m.,” one says in its mechanical voice. “The doors will not open past that time.”
A wide street stretches before me, lined with slender streetlamps and tight rows of concrete buildings speckled with dim windows. The colors are so dull, I feel like I’m gazing at a grayscale hologram. I spot Mistress Asif walking down one of the sidewalks and wonder where she’s heading. Home, perhaps? Does she have a family waiting for her? I know nothing about her life outside of Papilio. The same is true for every member of the school’s staff I’ve ever encountered, even Vera. Though she’s been my coach since I was seven, we’ve almost never spoken of anything other than music. I’ve tried asking her about her life, but each time, she sternly reminds me that she’s my coach, not my friend, and that the school’s policies require that we keep our relationship strictly professional. Though she did let it slip once that she’s a mother.
Mistress Asif’s gaze lands on me, and I wave hello. She frowns with disapproval, as if asking why I’m not on campus practicing or studying. I shrink a little and look away.
“Mind if we make a detour?” Milo strides forward at a brisk pace. “Won’t take long.”
“No problem.” As we approach an intersection, a rumbling sound rolls toward me. Glancing to the right, I spot a truck heading down the far street. It’s a rusted metal thing with large, dirty tires and a long flatbed in the back. Dim yellow headlights barely illuminate the ground ten feet in front of it. Several people sit in the flatbed, leaning back against the low walls. They must be laborers returning from work. I’d hate to have to ride like that for the hour or so it takes to reach the local manufacturing plant that employs most of Dogwood’s residents. Yet that’s probably what I’ll end up doing. Other than the retired Artists, most of whom now work on the school’s staff, every person in this town failed at the Arts at some point in their lives. Either they aged out of Papilio or a similar school or, like Milo’s sister, didn’t get in at all. The thought depresses me, and I try to banish it.
I wonder what it must be like to live in a place where success and failure doesn’t revolve around the Arts. Out there, in other parts of the world, people go about their lives without obsessing over a chance at glory like we do. Yet that’s because unless they’re born wealthy, they don’t have a chance. They’re trapped in an eternal cycle of labor and debt, trying to make ends meet. So are we, but at least we have the possibility of breaking out, as Inna Havener did.
Milo and I cross a wide street. Though the pale tenements before us are shaped similarly to the buildings we just passed, they appear beaten and world-weary. Weeds spring from cracks in the pavement, and ragged brown vines snake up the walls and strangle the lampposts. The forest is reclaiming this land, and it appears no one in this part of Dogwood cares enough to fight back. Only a few flickering lights illuminate the sidewalks, and the presence of so many dark corners makes me nervous.
“Awful, right?” Milo appears to have taken my anxiety for disgust. He turns toward one of the buildings. “I promised my parents I’d get them out first chance I have. I guess now I have to get Alice out too.” Bitterness clings to his tone as he approaches a row of small, metal mailboxes. “I don’t understand why she didn’t qualify. She’s a beautiful dancer… better than I was at that age. Don’t they realize what they’re wasting?” He slams the mailboxes, and the clanging noise splits the air. “Maybe if I were better, I’d have found a patron already and could pay for her to keep learning.”
My usual encouragements feel limp even in my head, so I just put my arm around him. Sometimes, there’s just nothing to say.
He retrieves a key from his pocket, then opens one of the mailbox doors. That must be his family’s.
He takes off his watch and places it inside, and I give him a puzzled look. “What are you doing?”
“My dad can pawn that for a few coins.” Milo locks the mailbox. “It’s barely anything, but maybe it’ll help.”
“But that’s school property.”
He waves dismissively. “I do this kind of thing all the time when I need quick cash. Whatever I sell or trade, Papilio just issues me a new one and adds the cost to my debt. It’s already a mountain. A few extra boulders won’t make a difference. Anyway, let’s go.”
I gesture at the building’s door. “Don’t you want to say hi?”
“Not tonight.” He walks away so quickly, I have to jog to keep up.
I follow him down a few more dark streets, wondering where he’s taking me. Ahead, the doors to a rust-stained building lie open, leading to an entryway glowing under a dim yellow light. Austere as the other tenements were, they looked like palaces compared to the chipped walls and cracked windows of the one we’re heading toward.
“What is this place?” I ask.
Milo strides up to the door. “Our future if we don’t make it.”
This must be one of the government housing projects the school sends its aged-out students to. It’s meant to be temporary, but from what I’ve heard, many ex-Papilians never earn enough to move elsewhere. This glimpse at the world I’ll face if I can’t get my ranking up makes my gut twist.
As we step through the doorway, a stench wafts toward me—a mix of sweat and decay wrapped in smoke. I resist the urge to wrinkle my nose. Many of the doors to the individual units lie open with the sounds of voices drifting out. Multiple bunk beds cram each small room. Almost every person I spot has either an opaque cup or a cigarette in their hand; some have both. Their eyes are glazed over, and their movements limp. I guess when you’ve lost everything, it’s easier to just forget. Some look old and worn, but many appear only a few years older than me. I have a hard time believing that these lost-looking people were once dedicated Artists like me.
How can Papilio make us work so hard, only to throw us away when they’re done? I wish I could change things, but I guess the school doesn’t owe us anything. No one’s forced to enroll.
A boy with long, brown hair and stubble covering his jaw emerges from a room. He must have aged out pretty recently, since he still looks like a teenager. Milo quickens his step.
“Phers!” He waves.
The boy must not have heard him, because he turns back toward the doorway, laughing at someone inside.
I give Milo a funny look. “His name is Fierce?”
“MacPherson Gill—Phers for short.” Milo’s lips quirk. “Though he sometimes pretends it is Fierce. He’s one of your kind: Orchestra guy born at Papilio.”
MacPherson? As in “MacPherson’s Farewell”? I wouldn’t put it past a Papilian couple to name their son after an ancient fiddle tune. Though, on second thought, that song was supposedly played by a legendary bandit on the gallows, right before he smashed the instrument and was hanged, so maybe not.
After Milo calls the boy’s name again, Phers spins around on his heel. In his hand, he holds a slim white cigarette. The bittersweet scent of its pale gray smoke curls toward me, overwhelming my senses. Whatever is wrapped inside that paper, it’s not tobacco.
“Oh, hey, Milo!” Phers’s brown eyes shift toward me. “Who
’s that lovely lady you’ve got with you?”
“Iris,” I say.
“Welcome to my domain.” Phers leans forward in a deep, exaggerated bow. “And what’s your Art?”
“Orchestra.”
“Orchestra!” Phers sweeps his arms to the side. “I was in the Orchestra too! Trombone! Got pretty good, until I figured out the school’s full of shit. I was never going to make it anyway, so I figured I might as well leave on my own terms.”
“You dropped out?” I don’t recognize him, so he must have left before I moved up from the junior string ensemble. Also, he doesn’t have the reddish marks around his mouth most brass players do; they must have faded. “But… why?”
“Saw no point in killing myself over something I could never have.” He shrugs. “Besides, that’s three years’ worth of debt I won’t have to pay back.”
I almost understand. Still, even in my most desperate hour, I could never bring myself to walk away from my instrument. Especially since dropouts are always placed in menial jobs, never good ones as coaches or anything.
“Hey, Milo, check out my latest. They call it lotus.” Phers hands Milo his cigarette—or whatever you call “lotus” wrapped in paper.
Milo puts it to his lips and inhales. My surprise must show on my face, because he throws me a smirk. “Oh, loosen up.” Smoke drifts from his lips. He hands the cigarette back to Phers. “Tastes fine, but I guess it’ll take a moment to kick in.”
Phers puts the cigarette between two fingers and offers it me. “How about you?”
“No, thanks.” The smoky atmosphere is already making my head spin, and I don’t feel like getting any dizzier.
Milo jerks his thumb at Phers. “Phers knows more about Adryil stuff than anyone I’ve ever met. He might know what that thing is.”
Phers rubs the back of his shaggy head. “What thing?”
After glancing around to make sure no one’s spying on us, I pull the Adryil device out of my pocket. Phers plucks the small machine from my fingers. “Where’d you get this?”