Starswept

by Mary Fan

  His hurried reassurance amuses me, and part of me believes I don’t need to look into his head to know he’s telling the truth. But I’m not sure I can trust that instinct, and I’m curious to see what it’s like to have someone share his thoughts with me, so I say, “I’d like that.”

  Dámiul looks into my eyes, and I feel myself pulled into his bright gaze. A feeling floods my mind—the kind you get when you say something you know is true. It tells me that, yes, after our first encounter, he was only in my head to try to talk to me, and each time, I knew he was there. He tried to speak to me backstage, attempted to use the library’s computers, and followed me to Dogwood, hoping that someone there would know how to put the Zexa device on its right settings. He never meant to spy on me; he just didn’t know how to make his presence known. And he’d certainly never telepathically manipulate me. Using that ability for control rather than communication goes against everything he believes in, and I feel his fury spark in my own chest.

  Then, I see something else: myself, through his eyes. Not the shy, awkward mouse I know myself to be, but a strange beauty from another world.

  The feeling disappears, and he turns away sharply. “There you have it.”

  I blink, surprised by how I look to him. I realize that he might be as fascinated by me as I am by him. To him, I’m the alien, and Papilio is as foreign as Adrye. If I had the chance, would I break the law to see a faraway world I might otherwise never reach? I think I would. Looking at it that way, his desire to simply see Papilio doesn’t seem so far-fetched after all.

  Dámiul’s back is still to me. I don’t see why he’s so embarrassed—he was hovering in my mind while I was obsessing over our perceived connection.

  I move to face him. “Is that how people talk on Adrye? Through their minds?”

  “Sometimes.” His expression relaxes. “Our language is much simpler than yours because we can share what we mean without words. It’s the reason we never developed anything like your Arts—we don’t need to find creative ways to express ourselves. We can simply let people know what we’re feeling.”

  “Can you say something in your language?” I feel stupid asking, but I can’t resist.

  Dámiul presses his lips together, as though contemplating what he should say. His gaze meets mine. “En selár Karovyil dira.” His words sound almost sung. “It means, ‘You’re a beautiful Earthling.’” He gives me that half-smile again.

  I drop my gaze. “Thank you, but compared to everyone else at Papilio, I’m actually quite plain.” The words come automatically, and too late, I realize how awkward I must sound. It’s true, though. Maybe I’d be considered attractive elsewhere, but at this school, I’m just a decent-looking swallow in a flock of elegant swans and vivacious cardinals. Looking for another subject, one that won’t turn me into a blushing idiot, I ask, “Does everyone on Adrye speak the same language?”

  “Yes. Our ancestors spoke in different tongues, but over time, their languages blended into one, which we simply know as Cambr’endra Adryil, or ‘Common Language of Adrye.’ For centuries, that was the only language anyone knew, until we encountered Earth. Now, we’re all taught the most common Earthling languages.”

  “How many do you know?”

  “Only six, I’m afraid.”

  “Six?” I have a hard enough time with the Italian musical terms in my scores. Just thinking of learning six whole languages—seven including Adryil—makes me dizzy.

  “It’s much easier to learn when one can interface with machines and absorb information. For example, shortly before arriving at the Charlotte spaceport, I read in a map of the city. It was like swallowing a bitter medicine—somewhat unpleasant, but simple enough.”

  The mention of Charlotte brings me back to the question of what he was doing in Papilio. Hoping to learn a little more, I ask, “Why were you visiting Charlotte?”

  “My father is a businessman, and he has several contacts there. I volunteered to go on an assignment on his behalf. He wasn’t happy when he learned what else I did.” Dámiul looks away with a private smile. “But it was worth it.”

  “Really?” I tilt my head skeptically. “Even though you were knocked out and dragged away?”

  “Even so. If nothing else, I defied my father.” His eyes glint.

  Maybe I was right about his motives being pure insanity. Maybe his coming here really was just a stunt. Yet I have a hard time reconciling what he’s telling me with what I saw before. But I could have been wrong, reading into things that weren’t there.

  “Who is your father?” I ask.

  “The business he conducts is unique to Adrye.” Dámiul’s tone becomes terse. “There’s no equivalent on Earth. Do you have any other questions?”

  His brusqueness makes it clear that he doesn’t want to talk about his father’s business. That annoys me, but I suppose if it’s private, he has no reason to share it with a stranger. “I have too many questions to count. Where do you come from? What do you do on your world?”

  “I live in Adrye’s capital, Nathril.” His words are stiff, as if he’s picking them carefully. “My life is not particularly fascinating, especially compared to that of an Artist. All I do is attend classes and prepare for exams.”

  On the contrary, even if he considers himself ordinary among his kind, I find everything about him interesting. “So you’re a student? What do you study?”

  “I won’t need to choose a concentration until I reach university. Right now, I’m simply educated in the standard subjects—and taught to think the same way as everyone else. My people revere such conformity and order, unlike Earthlings, who value individuality.” Dámiul’s expression grows distant. “Sometimes, I think I don’t belong here.”

  I glimpse the buildings outside my window. “Papilians are obsessed with standing out, and in their efforts to be unique, they blend into each other. I want the same things as they do, but… I often feel like I don’t belong, either.”

  “Do you want to leave?” Dámiul’s eyes regain their fierceness, and I wonder what angers him.

  “No.” Despite everything Milo—and Phers—said to me, a few bitter words aren’t enough to turn me against my home. Maybe we are bound to Papilio by the threat of poverty, but I spend my days doing something I love. As long as I’m here, I’ll enjoy what I can. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

  Dámiul’s expression falls into something akin to sadness. He remains silent, and I wish he’d let me read his mind again. An idea strikes me. “Do you want me to show you around? It’s after curfew—no one else will be out.”

  Dámiul’s face brightens. “I would be honored.”

  Who talks like that? I smile and hold up the Zexa device. “All I have to do is carry this, and you can use the holoprojectors?”

  “That’s right.”

  I tuck the device into my skirt pocket. Dámiul’s hologram follows me to the door. I still can’t quite believe that he’s here with me after days of haunting me through captivating visions I couldn’t trust. In a way, that hasn’t changed. Each question he answers opens a hundred more, and no matter how many I ask, I’ll probably never understand him.

  But I’d love to try.

  CHAPTER 8

  FROM THE TOP OF THE Grand Hall, Papilio’s campus appears spectral, with icy light washing over silver-and-white buildings. An abstract, mirrored sculpture rises from the roof’s center. From below, it always appeared pristine—a flawless gem crowning the school’s oldest structure. But from this close, I can see how dusty and blemished it really is. Yet the stars reflected in the gleaming surface are no closer.

  A metal fence runs around the roof’s edge. I approach the side facing the quad, hoping I don’t look too out-of-breath from the long climb up the stairs.

  Dámiul walks beside me. If it weren’t for the glow surrounding him, I would have forgotten that he’s only here in holographic form. He carries a certain kind of presence. It reminds me of how Master Raucci can silence a room just by
showing up, or how Sabina can light up a stage by walking onto it, or how Brent can awe an audience before he’s played a single note. It’s quiet, yet bold.

  I point at the concrete building across the quad. “That’s the supply center, where they issue us clothing and any equipment we need for our Arts. Behind it lies the children’s sector, where I used to live before I became an active Artist.” I point to my left. “See that giant stone building? That’s the Circus’s rehearsal hall. Everything past it is the Orchestra—we’re the biggest Art by far.” I turn toward Dámiul. “What do you call the Arts on Adrye?”

  “Ka’ris.” Dámiul approaches the fence, surveying the campus below.

  “Kah-rees.” I repeat the word slowly.

  “Don’t let your school officials hear you say that—or any other words in Adryil.”

  “Why not?”

  “They wouldn’t like it, and they’d ask where you learned the word.”

  The second part of his statement seems obvious, but the first… Why wouldn’t the school want us learning the Adryil’s language when our goal is to live among them? I suppose this question never occurred to me before because every holovid of the Adryil I’ve ever seen showed them speaking perfect English.

  “Everyone on Adrye must speak Earthling languages,” I muse aloud. “Or could learn them quickly through telepathy. Still… It seems strange that we wouldn’t be taught the native tongue of the place we’re supposed to live someday.”

  “I can’t speak to your school’s intentions. I’m unfamiliar with their particular policies.” Dámiul’s words sound a little too businesslike, and I wonder if he’s using them to circumvent something.

  “Maybe they don’t teach us for the same reason they don’t teach us science or history.” I peer at the library—a barely visible mass of shadowy angles. “We’re supposed to dedicate all our efforts to our Arts. There’s no room for anything else.” I turn back to Dámiul. “Tell me more about your language.”

  “Ka’ris is short for Karovyil ris, which means ‘Earthling Arts.’ Before we made contact with your world, ris referred to literal representations of reality.”

  “Kah-roh-vye-ill rees.” Sounding out those strange syllables gives me the thrill of speaking a secret code. I wonder what it must be like to live in a world where you can simply show people how you feel. “It must be nice to have people always know what you want to say.”

  “It’s good for cooperation. Perhaps too good.” Dámiul leaves the words hanging, like he wants to say more, but doesn’t continue.

  I look down at the quad, where Estelle accused me of being after her. If I could have shown her my thoughts then, maybe she wouldn’t have treated me as an enemy. “If we had your abilities, life would be a lot simpler.”

  “Even with understanding, people still disagree.” Anger darkens Dámiul’s tone. “Don’t envy us, Iris. By taking the easy way, we’ve missed much. That’s why the Arts fascinate us so—in your efforts to express what’s within, the Earthlings gave rise to something sublime.”

  “And impossible.” I stare at the Wall. “The Arts are all about endless reaching. When I play my viola, I feel the music, both within me and beyond me. It’s a force of its own, possessing everything I am, carrying me toward a perfect world. But when I try to release it and show others what I hear, what comes out always seems so weak.”

  “I’ve seen you play, and I don’t agree. I think you’re brilliant.” Dámiul’s voice rings with sincerity.

  I turn to him with a wry grin. “You must not have watched many violists play, then.”

  Dámiul returns my smile. “Contrary to what you may think, you’re not the first Ka’risil I’ve seen.”

  “Kah-ree-sil?” I draw out the word, hoping I’m not mispronouncing it too badly.

  “It’s what we call the Artists. I’ve seen plenty of shows, and you… there’s something genuine about your performance. It’s more than technique and showmanship. You play like you have something true to say.”

  I feel a blush tiptoe into my cheeks. “Thank you.”

  Dámiul’s gaze turns contemplative. “A famous memoirist from my world once said that the Earthlings aren’t less advanced than the Adryil—they just advanced differently. I think he was right. You can do things we can’t even imagine.”

  I lean back against the fence. “Building spaceships that can bridge the stars beats twirling on silks, I’d say.”

  “That’s just it though—you look at a pair of silks and see an instrument of beauty. Until we came across the Earthlings, we’d look at a pair of silks and see only fabric. My kind might have brought you technology, but you… you brought us the transcendent. You can pick up a box of wood with metal wires strung across it and create sounds we couldn’t imagine. It’s magnificent.”

  His gaze is too magnetic to turn away from, and I find myself lost in its azure beauty. I’ve often dreamed of taking to the stage, catching the eye of a handsome young man in the audience, and going backstage to find him waiting with an expression not unlike the one bright on Dámiul’s face.

  I take a breath, cursing my mind for wandering into such ridiculous places. “It’s not so difficult. The Adryil’s lack of Arts is just cultural, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” Dámiul replies. “Though they’ve had a great impact on our world since we encountered your kind.”

  I look up at the night sky. “Can we see your star from here?”

  “Not yet.” I catch a glow in the corner of my eye—Dámiul stands beside me. “Irinn is two trillion lightyears away, in another galaxy. Its light hasn’t even reached Earth yet. But when it does, it will be in the constellation you call Gemini.”

  “Oh?” I scan the sky, searching for the celestial twins. Spotting the winking pattern, I point one finger at the center. “About there?”

  The glow of Dámiul’s hologram draws closer, and I glance over to see him eyeing the constellation. He stands so close, I could feel his breath against my cheek if he were really here. The still air suddenly feels hollow, deprived of the warmth and life that should have filled it. When he places his holographic hand on top of mine, I can’t help wishing I could feel his touch instead of seeing an illusion. The usual beeping that occurs when one touches a hologram is absent; he must have disengaged it.

  Still, I somehow sense the slight pressure against the back of my hand, and I move my outstretched arm to the left in response, allowing him to guide me.

  “About there.” He lowers his hand.

  My finger points at a black void, and I imagine it’s where the twins’ hands would meet were the image more complete. I gaze at the space, beyond which lies a star I can’t see, that I might never see. By the time its light reaches this spot, Earth will be long gone, along with the sun, the moon, and even Gemini. A pang fills my heart. That’s enough space to make contact between our worlds utterly impossible if it weren’t for the Adryil’s ability to travel through hyperspace. They can fold space like origami paper to reach worlds across the universe, but unless I find a patron, I’ll never leave Earth. I’ll probably never even leave North Carolina. So much lies between the stars that I’ll never know. And it’ll be my own fault for failing. My eyes sting, and I blink rapidly.

  Stop it, Iris. I turn further away from Dámiul, hoping the feeling will subside before the tears spill.

  “Iris?” Dámiul sounds worried.

  “I’m sorry.” I try to keep my voice from trembling. “It just gets to me sometimes—all the pressure. I want nothing more than to go to your world someday, but… I don’t think I will. And I can’t stand the thought of them taking away my music when I age out.”

  Sympathy fills Dámiul’s eyes, and he places his hand on my shoulder. Though I know he’s just a projection, I can almost feel his warmth. Yet such a gulf lies between us, I can’t even see his star. I never knew it’d be possible to experience both comfort and sadness at once.

  “I’m sure you’ll find a patron if that’s what you really want.�
� Dámiul’s voice is quiet, like he’s afraid anything louder will bring forth the rest of my tears.

  I turn my gaze toward the sky, wondering what it would be like to travel through the glittering abyss. “What’s Adrye like?”

  “Most of the planet is covered in cities. Even though we have no Arts, we still have design. I think you’d find it appealing.”

  “I’ve seen the holovids.” I try to smile. “It’s so beautiful.”

  “On the outside, perhaps.” There’s a hard edge to his voice. But before I can ask more, a mix of worry and surprise flashes across his expression, as if he abruptly remembered something. “I should go. I’ve already kept you too long.”

  I want to tell him that I’d stay up all night if it meant getting to learn more about him. But that would sound crazy, so instead I ask, “Will I see you again?”

  “Only if you want to.” A cloud seems to have descended over his expression.

  I approach his holographic form. How can I say, “Come see me whenever you want” without sounding foolish or desperate? Realizing I can’t, I let the words out and bite my lip, hoping he doesn’t make fun of me for it.

  Dámiul gives me a slight smile. “Are you sure? I might keep showing up.”

  “That’s okay.” I shrug, trying to seem casual. “You’re the first Adryil I’ve ever met, and… I’d like to get to know you.”

  “All right.” Dámiul’s smile falls, and he looks behind him. “I’ll return soon.” Before I can say anything, his hologram dissolves.

  I reach into the empty space where he just stood, suddenly feeling isolated.

  CHAPTER 9

  I HEAD TOWARD THE ORCHESTRA’S rehearsal hall, drowsiness fogging my mind even though I’ve been awake for hours. Staying up last night was worth the lecture from Vera. Thoughts of Dámiul cling to my mind, tugging at me in a way I wish they wouldn’t.

  As I walk down the street, I sternly remind myself that I’m only fascinated by Dámiul because he’s beautiful and from another world—the perfect recipe for ridiculous dreaming. I used to mock characters in operas and ballets for swooning over someone they just met, and here I am, swept into their ranks by an unwelcome riptide.