The Sound of Stars

by Alechia Dow

  “It’s basic math.” I adjust my glasses on the bridge of my nose. We’re lined up outside the former “residents’ retreat” room, waiting to be let in. It used to be a nice space, with oversize couches and armchairs, televisions, a small library of books neighbors donated and a pool table. Only the armchairs remain, stationed in front of large dining tables with whatever today’s lesson will be laid on top.

  Before the invasion, this was a normal, luxurious Upper East Side apartment building, reflecting the successful and rich New Yorkers it housed. It was right off Museum Mile, a stone’s throw from the Met, Central Park and the Eighty-Sixth Street subway stop. Beautiful and tall, with plants erupting from balconies, a flawless green awning and a white polished front without a smudge of dirt. It had the best views in the city.

  Now it’s a prison.

  The empty rooms, freed up from neighbors who left for somewhere else or had children and were moved elsewhere, have transitioned into living spaces for the Ilori guards or folks bussed in from other buildings that the Ilori deemed unacceptable. The penthouses were converted to apartments, offices, or left as medical labs, while the gym was gutted and left bare so that we could use it as a lap room, keeping our muscles from atrophying. Like cattle.

  The floors are stained from things it’s best not to think about, and the pocked walls tell stories of struggles and death. Of fights between humans trapped inside, who let their anger and frustration tear each other apart. The worst part, though, is the chemical odor that clings to the surfaces and makes our skin itch. I doubt it’s lethal, just a by-product of whatever’s upstairs.

  I sniff, turning to Alice, whose perfect pink lips settle into a frown. She pulls at the strands of her long, dirty blond ponytail, while her dark brown eyes bore into mine.

  “I haven’t done math in forever.” Alice leans closer.

  “We haven’t done anything important in forever,” I grumble. We still go to a form of school, but mostly we sit around learning things we already know while doing pointless tasks. I remember someone saying once that idle hands make idle minds; but from what I’ve learned in the last two years, it depends on what you’re doing with your hands.

  “True, but if it’s basic math, how come I don’t understand it?”

  I don’t bother suggesting that perhaps Alice doesn’t understand because she’s not paying attention. That she’s only half listening. I can tell by the way her gaze keeps darting down the hallway and pausing on Jackson Hughes. But I don’t let it get to me. I have bigger things to do than analyze our friendship. We’re friends, and nothing will change that, even if we didn’t become close until we were imprisoned together.

  “Zoe Landson needed some paranormal. I gave her two. Jack Gibbs requested one dark humor, I dropped that in the broom closet this morning. A few days ago, Josh Farrow asked to borrow nonfiction military books. There was only one book that fit the bill. Heather Robard wanted to borrow one book on music composition and another on fairy tales. That’s seven books checked out.”

  Alice huffs and brings her fingers up to count them. “Yeah, that’s...seven books. Okay. So, what’s the problem again?”

  “The problem, again, is that eight books are gone.”

  “I don’t understand.” Alice shakes her head, while Jackson winks at her from down the hall. “You have a log.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Over a week ago, I told her that my log was gone. “I got rid of the log. I’ve got a good memory—and I never should’ve kept records in the first place. It’s only sixty books. The problem is the missing book.”

  “Okay, but so what? Even if someone found it, how would they know it was yours?”

  “The book’s got my name on it.” Truth is, quite a few of them do, which is pretty careless on my part. I scribbled out most of the labels when I started lending them, but there’re a few I had autographed that I just couldn’t efface.

  “Damn it, Janelle!” Alice’s voice falls to a whisper, her undivided attention now on me. “Why do you do this? Why even have a library?”

  This time I do roll my eyes. “I love books. And I want to help people. The Ilori don’t get to tell us how we can live before we die.”

  “It’s so dangerous.”

  She’s right. After the Great Death—that’s my name for it, everyone else calls it the Purge or whatever—they took our electronics; computers, phones, anything that needed to be charged. That hurt, but not as much as when they took the things that made life nearly bearable. Books, instruments and art...everything they found was collected, taken outside and burned in the courtyard. I remember smoke clouding the sky, and not just from our building.

  But they didn’t find my stash. Some belonged to my mother, once an English Literature professor at Columbia, and some came from my father, once a librarian in Brooklyn. Most were my own. Others I stole from piles of trash people were throwing away while we still had the chance. And I hid them in storage, knowing that that choice could end my life.

  They don’t get to tell us how to live before we die.

  Alice angles closer as if to comfort me. If she gets too close, the guards will break us apart. They don’t care about us talking quietly, but contact? They’ll punish us for that. Getting in trouble now is a death sentence later.

  “I know it’s dangerous.” It’s why she and I vet each potential borrower, learn everything we can about them till we believed they won’t toss me to the Ilori. If we were allowed our Kindles, I could’ve found a simpler way to share my books, a safer one, too. But when the Ilori came to confiscate our electrical items, I hid my Kindle but forgot to hide my charger with it. We still have electricity, yet no internet. I tried to create a charger from spare wires using my own instincts, and nearly succeeded, until it burst into flames.

  That was devastating. But I reminded myself that I still had the books I cherished most. The ones I waited in line at bookstores to get on release day, and had signed by the authors who created the worlds I lived in and loved.

  I couldn’t keep them to myself forever. The idea of bringing stories to those in need outweighs my fear. Makes me a rebel. If I die for it...there are worse things to die for. Better things, too. And in my heart, I know I’m doing the right thing. My patrons rely on me to give them literary escapes. Still, I don’t want to die today because someone took a book and exposed me.

  They’ve killed people for less.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I have to... I haven’t decided yet. I could wait, hope it turns up. Or I could interrogate the last three people who came to my library.”

  Alice tilts her head. “You need my help, don’t you?”

  I messed up. That’s not something I usually want to admit, even to a friend. I don’t want anyone to think I’m weak or fighting a growing sadness. Even though I am.

  “You’re better at people than me.” I brush a loose curl behind my ear and adjust my standard black glasses once more. What I don’t say is that, while I like my patrons enough to risk my life for them, I generally dislike everyone else. They’ve made their judgments of me pretty clear since the beginning, and I’m not ready to forgive them.

  “You mean I’m capable of getting answers without offending or insulting someone?”

  “That’s what I said, didn’t I?” I raise my eyebrows at her.

  “You know, you could be better at people if you put in a little more effort.”

  “I put all my effort into running the library. I help the only way I can. I don’t sneak off to underground parties to kiss people.”

  “Janelle, you’re cute, you know.”

  “I’m not cute.” I narrow my eyes at her. “I’m serious. And I’ll be in very serious trouble if I don’t find that book. I’m asking you, Alice Dresden, my only friend in this sad, cruel, gray world, for help. Will you help me?”

  Drama works with her, and
it’s all true.

  “Of course, I’ll help you. But on one condition. You have to come with me to Jackson’s underground party tonight.”

  “But I’m busy,” I whine.

  “Look, I do for you, you do for me. If we get caught, who would believe Janelle Baker would associate with anyone or anything so scandalous? You know how the old folks are, they’ll be like, ‘no, please don’t kill our kids, Janelle was there, which means no one was doing anything wrong!’ It’ll only be your first transgression anyway.”

  A guard passes by us, and we quiet until they’re out of earshot.

  “That’s exactly why I don’t go places,” I whisper. “If I ever get caught with the library, I want them to think I’m a saint, never a step out of line. I might live a little longer.”

  “You have to live a little more while you can. Doesn’t your mom tell you that?”

  My mom is a bad influence. She spends her days drunk, even though alcohol is illegal and hard to come by. She’s bartered away most of our silverware, all of her fancy dinnerware and every last designer dress in her closet for her precious supply.

  In the beginning, she loved to break the rules. If she’d known before she lost herself to desperation that I ran a library, she would have been proud of me. If she knew I’d been invited to an underground party, she’d pick out my clothes and scrounge up some makeup. But now? She either scowls, mumbles nonsense and/or drunkenly cowers in a corner.

  “I’ll go for an hour.”

  “Two.” She holds her head high, like an unimpressed swan.

  “One and a half.”

  “Deal.” She smirks.

  And I smile back before the sirens blast overhead, reminding us that we’re here. That we aren’t safe, not really. We fall to our knees then lie facedown on the checkered floor with our hands by our sides.

  I take deep breaths, trying to keep my cool as stomping boots approach. Count, sense and relax. 5-4-3-2-1. If they can read minds, all they’ll hear are my numbers. 5-4-3-2-1.

  Five, Alice, whose eyes lock on mine. She smells like...like jasmine and grapefruit, her favorite perfume. Are they here for me? Already? Four, I count, blue shoes that tap on the linoleum.

  I’m going to die, I know it.

  Three, fingers flat against the cold, unyielding floor.

  They’ll melt my mind until I’m gone. My eyes will bulge out at my peers as my soul disintegrates. Just like I saw it on TV before our world was taken over.

  Two. The anxiety is at its peak now. Will it hurt? Two. I can’t... I can’t find something else. Two, two...

  I stop counting and suck in a breath. Whoever they’re coming for has done something bad. Eight pairs of black boots pass inches from my face. Two, a Kill Squad.

  Screams echo down the hall. The voice is familiar. But I can’t quite place it. Alice’s hand brushes mine, telling me she’s here, we’re here, we’re not going anywhere. We’re in this together, she and I. I could cry thinking of how lucky I am to have a friend. I feel bad for thinking she isn’t capable of paying attention when boys are around.

  Standard blue tennis sneakers are dragged past us, and I look up to see bright red hair I recognize instantly.

  One, Erica Schulman. Second transgression. I remember hearing about her first transgression: she tried to build a radio to communicate with any free humans. But she failed. What could she have done now?

  Alice mouths the word bomb. My eyebrows lift. I wouldn’t have expected that from Erica. But then, all I know about her is that she’s a year older than Alice and me and planned on becoming an engineer like her mom. She was good at science, but her projects tended to be about solar ovens and baking bread, not bomb making.

  The loudspeakers boom overheard. “You are all ordered outside for an execution.”

  Outside? Nine out of ten executions are spoken of, never seen. The Ilori can use their minds to crack ours into a million pieces. But when they want to make a point...they hang someone from the seventh-floor balcony.

  Alice and I get to our feet. We don’t bother talking, just shoot fearful glances at each other as we follow the others down the hallway, bypassing a group of soldiers dressed all in black, with black masks so that we’ll never know their faces. We know they’re human; the Ilori move fluidly, otherworldly, while humans are clumsy in comparison. My own father might be among them.

  We step through the glass doors into the enclosed courtyard, the air biting and brisk. Normally the Ilori want us to stay warm, but the announcement didn’t say we had a few minutes to collect coats. I saw someone make that mistake before, and the beating wasn’t worth it. Better to be cold than bloody.

  We take our places in the back and I greedily inhale the fresh air. Alice bumps elbows with her crush, Jackson, and my pulse pounds in my ears before I reluctantly stand beside Monica Lehrman. Tears stream down her face, and I want to snap at her, tell her to save it for later so that she doesn’t draw attention to us. But it’s not my place to tell her when she can be sad with our lot in life. Just because some of us have accepted it doesn’t mean it’s acceptable.

  Our heads all whip up toward the same spot on the oversize balcony that’s missing a protective fence. Erica screams, begs for help. She tells us all that she’s innocent. But innocence means nothing when the Kill Squad comes.

  “Human ES-1-A-11-B has been found guilty of building a technological weapon. The punishment is death.”

  Erica bellows, her eyes searching for someone among us. Beside me, Monica bursts into fresh tears, and I find myself wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Monica once started a petition to have me removed from our performance arts summer camp, because she thought my presence was proof of affirmative action, not based on merit. I try not to hold that against her as I console her. It’s uncomfortable, but I know it’s what people do, even when they loathe the other person. We’re supposed to be there for each other now. Or at least appear to be.

  A soldier above us ties a noose around Erica’s neck and flaming bright red hair. There’s no warning, no final words when she’s pushed off the edge. Her neck snaps when she reaches the end of the rope. Lucky. Her blue sneakers touch the brick building while she swings gently in the cool breeze.

  Goodbye, Erica Schulman.

  Alice pulls me to her side and brings her lips to my ear. “That could be you.”

  “It won’t be.”

  My mind travels to that woman and her daughter outside the basement. I can still hear her screams, remember the blood. I won’t stand by and do nothing anymore. My library is too important.

  “I can’t lose you,” Alice says, her voice raw. “Please, Ellie.”

  We’re in our own bubble, lost in the crowd staring up at a dead girl who dared to do science in a time where math, science, creativity, books and art are illegal. They want us numb and hopeless; it’s easier to roll over us that way. They want us beaten and broken, too scared to rebel.

  But they don’t know that rebels are made in the worst of circumstances, and even death can’t stop them.

  Us.

  CHAPTER 4

  “As”

  —Stevie Wonder

  M0Rr1S

  M0Rr1S paces with his fists by his sides. The fear spiraling through the humans makes his stomach churn. His black boots stomp on the white tiled floor. Another execution.

  “They will lose the will to survive. Is that not more dangerous? Is that not more likely to result in revolt?” His voice echoes across the lab. The teams of Ilori, minus their half-solution helpers, stand before him. There aren’t many left. That is why they needed to modify some humans early. If the humans knew how few there were... “Why was I not consulted?”

  “We were told not to disturb you, sir, by command.” A timid labmade with a fourth colony accent and black hair cowers as if she has to fear him. For a moment, he is uneasy being regarded in such a w
ay. But then, he considers, perhaps she is not afraid. Perhaps it is that he is expressing emotion. Openly defying the rules. Her gaze slides to AvR0la’s before settling back on him.

  M0Rr1S quickly straightens and exhales the anger. It would not do well to have any more attention on him. How many true Ilori are listening through Il-0CoM? “My apologies. My charge is low, and I haven’t had the time to connect.”

  AvR0la steps closer to M0Rr1S, covering for his outburst. “As per true Ilori leadership, we are entering the final stages of acquisitions. The vaccine will be tested. Until then, please confer with our commander before human penalizations.”

  There’s a collective nod, but M0Rr1S doubts any will trust his judgment. Not when they’ve been directed by true Ilori via Il-0CoM all this time. They don’t consider him a leader, and why should they? He’s too young. Too emotional. He hasn’t been here long enough to have earned their respect. They tolerate him only for his name.

  “You are dismissed.” M0Rr1S stalks toward the elevator with AvR0la following as the labmades scurry back to whatever assignment they’d been given. The sun rises, sending beams of light bouncing off the white interiors. Even the warmth doesn’t elevate his mood.

  This day has just begun and already it is not going in his favor.

  Inside the elevator as the doors close, M0Rr1S sends an invitation to connect to AvR0la. Once they accept, he disengages their Il-0CoM by patching into their system and gently overriding the codes. Using as little energy as he can spare, he then connects to the mechanics around him, pausing the cords and electricity that would bring them to their destination.

  They have two minutes at most.

  AvR0la’s shoulders sag. “How was your search?”

  “I found a book.” He doesn’t mention the human girl he took it from, or that he wants to see her again. Or that instead of searching through the storage, he sat down and read the book, cover to cover. It took up most of his night. He didn’t accept calls from Il-0CoM either, which surely had been noticed. “That was close.”