The Sound of Stars

by Alechia Dow

  “Mom, everything’s okay. I was just walking around the apartment. Getting exercise.” I hate lying to her, but her eyes are far-off already anyway. She’s been mentally checking out more and more. I sit her down at the kitchen table.

  When Dad stomps inside and takes a seat, barely glancing at us, Mom pushes her chair as far away from him as she can. I remember how they used to laugh about silly things and get lost in their own little world of love. Now, they’re both lost, just in very different worlds. And the love seems nonexistent.

  Minutes pass in silence until I answer the door for dinner. There’s a polite smile on my face as I accept the trays and thank one of our elderly neighbors, but I can’t help recoiling at tonight’s meal. For the fourth time this week, we’re given hard crackers smeared with a tasteless protein spread. The canned peaches are new, though.

  After setting the food down, I hand Mom a paper napkin, although she barely ever eats enough to make a mess. I know I shouldn’t ask anymore, that I should keep quiet and let everyone be, but I miss talking to them. “How was... Was it a good day?”

  Mom shoots me a look as she pushes her untouched plate toward me. She’s reluctantly lucid and terse. “There are no good days.”

  I take her portion of peaches and eye Dad, wondering if I should even try to reach him. He’s stoic, and survives only to serve them. His humanity, if he still has it, is dwindling away. In the beginning, he used to hug me fiercely and tell me that knowing I’m still here got him through dark days.

  And yet, the days are darker than ever, and I’m not certain he even remembers my name. The anger at how unfair it all is keeps my mouth shut.

  After he inhales his food, he marches off to bed, leaving Mom and me to go through our usual motions. I clean up. She sneaks around the house to her various stashes of alcohol, drinks enough to dull her pain and stumbles to the guest room. I wait in my bedroom until their snores echo down the hall before I make my move.

  Twenty-three steps from my room to the kitchen. From there, fifteen steps to the door. Easy peasy, I tell myself.

  But I can’t hear my footsteps over the incessant pounding of my heart.

  I’m breaking more rules than usual tonight: out of bed past curfew, out of domicile past curfew—yes, those are two separate things—fraternization outside of socialization hours... The list goes on. If I get caught, and it’s a sympathetic human guard whose injection hasn’t kicked in today, it’ll be just a half a transgression. But if they find out I’m going to my contraband library in the basement, I’ll be up for execution.

  It’s that last part that gives me chills.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Listen.

  No one’s here. The stairs are deserted. I know the guards’ schedules and plan accordingly, but plans sometimes go awry.

  I gotta believe it’s worth it.

  A book can change someone’s world. Especially Zoe’s. Her dad, the building’s repairman, and my dad, are part of the half-solutions program, a monthly mood-enhancing vaccine that turns humans into obedient Ilori servants. But at least I’ve somewhat got my mom. Zoe has no one, and she’s been pulling her hair out of loneliness, boredom and probably terror. Fear makes folks reckless enough to risk their lives. I get it.

  Down just the two flights of stairs. That’s it. Take another breath and wait.

  I swallow before pushing myself off the wall and down the stairs to the basement. One glance around, and I pluck the key I keep hidden under my purple beanie. There’s not too much light, but I know this door well enough. I touch the edges of the lock and slide the key in. One quick twist, and I swing the door open.

  Once I’ve closed it behind me, my shoulders finally unhunch. I’m in.

  Our family storage unit is the first door on the right with a broken padlock. The Ilori broke it the moment they seized control of the building, although they never searched it hard. I’m grateful for that.

  Everything’s smooth sailing now, but still my gaze flicks down the hall to the boarded basement hatch. A painful memory I try to block out slams into my mind and heart until I gasp and let it claim me.

  I was fifteen when they took over. I’d been looking out our living room window, rocking back and forth, mourning. Another execution had happened less than an hour before. It wasn’t the first, but it was the first time a teenager was killed. Alice cried on my shoulder—she’d gone to school with him—while I looked on. My eyes were open, but my mind was closed. Our situation had become real.

  None of us would be spared.

  I’d seen a mother and child run toward our building, to the basement hatch. My emotions were raw, and I knew they’d either get taken in or killed. I ran from the apartment, down the stairs just as the shift changed, a lucky break for me. I went to the basement and hurried toward the hatch. It required a key. I didn’t have the key. I tried my own, but it didn’t work.

  “Please, let us in,” her voice called from outside. “Please. I have a little girl.”

  “I’m trying,” I answered through the door. “I’m trying.”

  I pulled, I scratched, searched for something—anything—that would fit in the lock, that would open this door to hell and offer her purgatory. Tears streamed down my face, and I muttered, counted my numbers, hummed a song, recited a quote from a book...but nothing opened that door.

  And then I heard his voice. “I told you not to leave. I told you...”

  “You hit me, you—” The woman’s voice wavered.

  “I love you... Stay with me. I can save you, I can—”

  Her panic seeped through the door. “I want to be safe. I’d choose the Ilori over you. They have food and heat.”

  And then she screamed.

  The little girl yelled for her mommy. I grabbed a book and hit the lock over and over and over, drowning out the shouts and the sounds. It clattered to the ground, and I opened the hatch. There was a pool of blood, but the woman and the little girl were gone. So was he. I closed the doors and ran back to my room, where I sobbed and told myself over and over that it wasn’t my fault, that they were okay...even though it was impossible. There’s no way our stories have happy endings anymore.

  A few days later, I began lending out books.

  I push that memory aside, like always, as I hit the flashlight on a few times to make it work. The agony in my chest subsides as I remind myself that I can’t have an emotional breakdown right now. I was helpless, too weak to stop whatever happened to that woman. Too slow. But now I can help people. Some people. Patrons.

  My flashlight flickers on. I’m out of batteries, so I don’t waste too much time collecting the books.

  The space is tiny and tight, and a great hiding spot. I sidestep random old furniture my parents moved down here when Mom wanted new decor. I weave past the midnight blue ottoman my dad used to prop his feet on while reading the newspaper in Brooklyn. He’d kick the ottoman away in anger and comment about another senseless hate crime, or nuclear tensions rising, or climate change, or our morally corrupt politicians. My dad refused to throw it away when my mom said the color didn’t match our new couch. Sometimes I go down here just to be reminded of our other life. And him.

  My hip brushes against one of my great-aunt’s old table lamps. And then my eyes flash to the floor. The matching lamp is scattered in ceramic pieces. That’s not right. My body tenses as I maneuver around the shards to the old mattress.

  Breathe in, breathe out. A broken lamp doesn’t mean anything.

  I tug on the ripped fabric, lifting the flap I cut, and let a sigh loose. My books are still inside. Thank goodness.

  My gaze roams over the titles before I pull out my old, tattered copy of Twilight and then, because I really am committed to being kind, the first book in The Dark Artifices series. Zoe will love these. Then I grab The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy for Jack. I’m about to replace the covering when a gap in the
shelf catches my attention. How many books are checked out?

  Seven.

  I scan the stack. Then why are there eight holes?

  No. Am I losing it? Think, Ellie.

  I remember every interaction I’ve had regarding the library. In the last few days, I’ve lent seven books to four patrons. I count again. Fifty-two books. Only fifty-two books. I’m going to hyperventilate. Oh damn. Numbers roll off my tongue as I try to keep it together.

  But who could’ve taken it? Which book? Another scan and I know. The Hate U Give. I stood in line with my dad to get Angie Thomas’s autograph at the Strand.

  Why would someone take it? If it was them, I would know by now, right? A small, mirthless laugh escapes me. If it was them, I’d be swinging by my neck in front of everyone already. Did I misplace it? A shudder rolls through me. No.

  Who took it?

  My eyes flick toward the corner, where, for a second, I think I see movement. There’s this sudden sensation that maybe I’m not alone. But that’s ridiculous. This space is too small for someone to hide. I stamp down the thought before the realization hits me. My name is on that book. The what-ifs strike.

  What if my mom took it? No. She’s never down here, and she doesn’t know about the library.

  What if it’s someone who hates me and wants leverage? I make a list, but it doesn’t take long. There’s only one person who hates me enough to want to see me dead: Mr. Hughes, a neighbor with a serious chip on his shoulder. But when would he have had the time?

  What if it’s somewhere out there, waiting to be found? Already, I can feel the rope tightening around my neck.

  This book is going to get me killed.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Raspberry Beret”

  —Prince

  M0Rr1S

  One hour ago

  Stage three is complete, M0Rr1S says into Il-0CoM, the internal Ilori communication system, as he sets his tools carefully on the marble counter of the makeshift laboratory. The liquid formula has taken nearly two years to perfect, and he is confident it will do exactly as true Ilori leadership expect. He leans back in the chair, closing his eyes. His shoulders tighten at his neck as he prepares for the conversations and orders that’ll stream into his mind.

  Satisfactory. Distribution Services are on standby. Several voices say in unison. M0Rr1S cringes. His charge is low, which makes his head hurt, and their intrusion exacerbates the pain. He has been on Earth for only three days and has had no chance to rest.

  Finally. A true Ilori commander speaks with condescending authority. It has taken you too long. We have given you thousands of scans and samples of blood. We let you create costly projections to determine how their minds react not only to the behavioral vaccines, but also to artistic stimuli provided by their human art. We have never fully understood why that was necessary or why you’ve rejected human experimentation.

  M0Rr1S responds carefully. Live experimentation is wrong and would not yield consistent results.

  Take care with your words, 1lv, the commander says pointedly.

  M0Rr1S straightens, panic threading through his gut. He may carry the 1lv name, but he is still labmade. Still expected to be obedient to his superior. My apologies. I meant only that their minds are stronger when they’re in control of their personal autonomy. To force beings—

  This conversation is useless, another chimes in.

  Correct, a labmade from another faction states. Earth’s preparations are thirty-three rotations away from completion. We are engineering the atmosphere for upper leadership arrival, and Habitation requires twenty-one rotations to cleanse the surface. The humans are the last, small piece.

  M0Rr1S must convert the time. He hasn’t seen much of Earth’s one sun to calculate the rotations, unlike home where there are three. For Ilori, one full rotation equals eight human hours. Three rotations are one day. Thirty-three is eleven days. Twenty-one is seven. Only seven. They are moving fast now.

  Begin testing tomorrow. Distribution labmades are charged and waiting with your list of ingredients. A true Ilori voice leisurely cuts through the others. The owner is in one of the fourteen carrierships hovering somewhere above the atmosphere. Maybe even the same one M0Rr1S lived in while creating the vaccine. Only instead of working, the true Ilori bask in luxury, drinking photosynthesis teas while surrounded by simulations of their origin planet. They cannot enter Earth while the air is so polluted, the landscape so unclean. It would kill them.

  Unlike M0Rr1S.

  Their species is comprised of two races, and M0Rr1S hears reminders of that fact every time one of them interrupts with a dictatorial tone. The true Ilori, immortal beings with a violet sheen—called their shell—clinging to their energy form, develop the majority of the universe’s technology and advancement. They are wealthy and prone to sustaining that wealth by colonizing worlds for their needs, and sometimes pleasure. When they realized how much work and danger it was to invade and take control of entire planets, they created a new race, the labmade Ilori, to do it for them. Labmades are modeled after the dominating life force that controls the planet the true Ilori want to colonize. They are conditioned to serve, to eschew emotions like their masters and to operate the new colonies for true Ilori usage and profit.

  The labmades on Earth were created to look human. To maintain Earth for the true Ilori and make their new colony a truly immersive experience. Even so, M0Rr1S feels out of place.

  He misses home. If he shuts out the voices and the images of the sad world around him, he can imagine the tall trees climbing into the cerulean sky, his family estate nestled between the thick trunks atop the capital city. There are no walls there, unlike here. Home is open, allowing air to come and go, while the thick, massive leaves provide shade from the three suns that set and rise every eight hours, or rotation.

  And the food. He almost salivates thinking of fresh, juicy stardust berries and the sap-infused hofis plucked from within the bark of breeding trees.

  It seems no one on Earth is pleased with the current arrangement. The humans are hungry for freedom, and M0Rr1S is hungry for home. But there is no more home. Not after this.

  Commander M0Rr1S, we will be contacting you before the first round of treatment. Upon successful implementation, you will be directed to extraction protocol. Understood?

  Yes, M0Rr1S responds to the true Ilori. Thank you, Acquisitions Command. Permission to sign out for temporary energy relief.

  Granted.

  He clicks off the small metal switch located on the panel running along the left side of his jaw.

  The sudden silence is most welcome, but across his small office the door opens, requiring more of his attention. He is both lonely and never alone.

  AvR0la enters, and M0Rr1S relaxes. “Congratulations, sir.” Their tone is purposely blank.

  “Avi,” M0Rr1S huffs. His mouth twists with the Ilori dialect from their origin planet. To a human, their language might resemble something akin to a mathematical equation, and it sounds like one, as well. “We were grown in the same lab. You do not need to call me sir.”

  AvR0la punches a few keys on the panel, their breaths coming in tiny spurts. They have been on Earth longer than M0Rr1S and they have not yet adjusted. AvR0la has been his personal assistant and companion since youth. They are nonbinary, efficient and far more sensible than he. Their pale blond hair is pulled back into a severe bun, and their green eyes shimmer in the reflection they cast in the window. “Not all of us are granted permission to sign off Il-0CoM, sir.”

  M0Rr1S never forgets that; it’s just that sometimes he wishes it weren’t so. They are both labmades, yes, but unlike AvR0la, M0Rr1S was not created expressly for this invasion. Genetic material from the highest-born family within the Ilori empire lies inside him. This has allowed him certain freedoms—and abilities—his peers will never have.

  But he aspires to openly be fr
iends with AvR0la, however frowned upon that would be. Labmades, most created only for colonization missions, are lesser than their true Ilori masters. Regardless of their inclinations, they are not supposed to form connections or feel. Only serve.

  “Surveillance will be down, as scheduled and requested, tomorrow night in our current location, Center 11408-H, sir.”

  On unsteady legs, M0Rr1S wanders to the window and raises the shades. “Explain to me why we have scheduled downtimes?” The jagged skyline of deserted skyscrapers and veliopter cranes, solar-powered machinery used to demolish large structures and excavate natural surfaces, stares back at him as the sole sun sets. The stars peek through, but they aren’t bright, not like back home.

  Ilori have taken this world, yet the cost has been great. Not only for the humans. Currency and the lives of many labmades were lost making this planet suitable for true Ilori needs. And M0Rr1S has a role to play in that; he is the head scientist in charge of the final stage of acquisition and the commander always concerned about the bottom line, interested in every detail. Play your role.

  “You approved of humans having unmonitored recesses within this quadrant, as it is one of the last origin quadrants still in lockdown. You said, sir, that when humans believe they have a modicum of freedom, they are less likely to revolt. And that we need their compliance until their permanent housing has been allocated and the vaccine is effective. I have made sure to keep these evenings scheduled. No one has questioned my authority, and our fellow labmades need the respite.”

  “Thank you.” M0Rr1S cannot quite recall saying that, but it does align with his, with their, ideals.

  And AvR0la is correct. There are so few origin quadrants—designated sections of land where humans originated and still inhabit—left. While other commanders across the world moved humans into housing reconfigured specifically by Habitation Services for the species, this land, New York, M0Rr1S recalls, was too heavily populated to clear quickly. Thus, it had been determined by true Ilori leadership that the humans with the necessary requirements would remain here until the vaccine could be effective, forced against their will—and against M0Rr1S’s wishes—to be the first testing quadrant. As true Ilori waited impatiently for him to complete the formula, it has become the most guarded, most policed, most volatile quadrant. Humankind stands on the edge of rebellion without their freedom.