by Alechia Dow
“Too close,” AvR0la agrees. “When you let your emotions show, they do not know how to respond. I cannot always distract them from your impulsiveness.”
“I’m sorry.” M0Rr1S runs a hand through his hair. It has grown since they arrived, but he doesn’t want to cut it. It makes him look unique. More human.
“Leadership will contact you soon. When the vaccines are administered worldwide, barring issues, you will be expected in the central carriership. Have you—”
“Avi, can we discuss something else for the short time we have?” M0Rr1S exhales, letting his head fall back on the metal wall. “For instance, I’ve learned that human stories have parallels to our way of life, and yet they found a way to fight back.”
AvR0la turns to regard him. “What do you mean?”
“The book was about a human with brown skin, which meant they were viewed as lesser than those with pale skin. Similar to how the labmades are viewed by the true Ilori.” He is excited to share this...this feeling he has bottled up deep inside himself since reading. “The human girl witnesses her friend die unfairly, and decides to fight for justice and equality by speaking the truth. It is very powerful.”
The elevator shifts in the beat of silence. He cannot hold it much longer, and already his charge is blinking at 10 percent over his left eye.
“Speaking our truth will only get us killed. You know this. Just as you know that reading their books is forbidden. We kill the humans here for it, what makes you think they won’t kill you, too?” AvR0la’s eyes lock on his. “You are too important to make mistakes. If you fail, they will pry, and then kill you.”
“If I fail, what was the point of my life?” The question leaves his lips before he can think better of it. The power slips from his hold, and the elevator begins its ascent to the penthouses on the top floor.
“We all have a purpose.” AvR0la’s words are edged with anger. “Do not forget yours. Do not forget what is at stake.”
M0Rr1S doesn’t respond. They are right. As always.
Just before the door opens and M0Rr1S must engage their Il-0CoM, AvR0la’s face softens. “I wish I could have read that book. To feel as these humans do... How did the story end?”
“With hope.”
The corners of their lips lift as Il-0CoM pings back to life within their mind. The moment is gone, and yet it was a good one that M0Rr1S will cherish.
AvR0la heads the opposite direction to their next assignment, while M0Rr1S must go to his private quarters to charge. Thankfully it is just the two of them at this level, which gives him much desired privacy.
He was given the highest apartment in the human center upon arrival. A sign of respect.
The kitchen is stocked with Ilori food designed for labmades; electrolyte loaves sprinkled with freeze-dried krulbs, globuli protein bars in various flavors and steamed bonji meat wrapped in donderaa leaves from his origin planet—his favorite. This space has been redesigned as permanent housing for labmades when their mission is complete. There are plush white carpets and solid white, unadorned walls. The Ilori love white. A window, taking up the entire far wall, has a view of a large natural reserve across the street. The bed, an exorbitant human structure, stands in the center of the room, although it is only for comfort and leisure activities.
Ilori don’t require sleep if they’re charged, and as such, the bed is the perfect place to listen to music. He sinks into the mattress and runs his fingers over the panel that stretches from behind his left ear to his jaw. It has six buttons; one for eye brightening, to see in dark places, another for uploads where he keeps documents, recordings, memories and files, a small button for translation, one for data display such as relevant information and charge percentage, the fourth for recording present or past memories, and lastly, the power button, which requires three on-screen prompts, asking if he is certain he wishes to shut down. Beneath the buttons are two inputs, one for a charge, and one that can accept most cables, even Earth-created ones like USB cords. And then there’s the switch for Il-0CoM, at the top. Closest to his mind. Very few select models have this option.
He keeps that off as he inserts the charging cable into the correct slot. He changes the charging speed to the slowest possible—too fast and he’ll be wired.
Once the pace is set, he sorts through the uploads folder, finding just the right thing to cure his uneasiness.
David Bowie. M0Rr1S has acquired two of Bowie’s albums, and since then, he has let the musician play softly in his mind whenever he has privacy. It’s not his favorite way to listen to music, but it is the safest way. When he leaves Earth with all the various formats and devices containing music files, he will be able to give them a proper play in his pod, out loud, so that he can feel the beats with his body. Maybe even sing along. But for now, he is content for just his mind to hear about Ziggy Stardust, who could play a guitar.
He taps another button on his panel, making the time appear before his left eye. In another few hours, he’ll be in a conference call with leadership, and he’ll be expected to be on his best behavior. Already, his body tenses up.
The charge icon appears on his main menu, alerting him he’s at 13 percent charge. He is supposed to charge every day to maintain health and abilities, but sometimes he delays it almost to the point of having to dip into his reserves of energy. The stronger the charge, the louder Il-0CoM. He prefers to hover around 50 or 60 percent, that way he doesn’t feel like electricity is constantly streaming through his body, making him twitchy. He feels less labmade, less Ilori.
M0Rr1S closes his eyes, running his hands over the soft material of the blanket. Another human addition made for warmth and comfort. His fingers catch on the book he read the night before. How could something so thick and cool to touch be so personal and important?
He pulls it toward him, and the book flaps open to the first page. There, his eyes catch on a note written in pen. Could it be instructions for an attack? Could the true Ilori be right?
But no. It says only a few words before it ends with a signature. It doesn’t seem to make plans or hide a complex code. To Janelle...he reads.
That must be the girl with the purple hat, the raspberry beret.
Janelle. He says the name again, aloud.
Tonight, he decides. Tonight, he’ll meet her.
The Starry Eyed: “Fairy-Tale Girl”
The Sound of Stars
Written by: Cecil Wright, Allister Daniels, Rupert Montague, Whisper Landsome
Far from the center, two worlds collide
Soon they’ll find each other among the divide
She fixes her purple crown
While he tells his big lies
Secrets cloud their darkening skies
Fairy-tale girl, don’t give up now
The story’s not over yet, you can’t take your bow
This is just the beginning, darling, don’t you see?
The world’s in disarray, but it won’t always be
Sow those seeds and dare to rebel
Keep your tales and songs hidden well
Travel beyond but beware the cost
One misstep and all will be lost
The world is ours, but how long can it last?
Take your fall forward, but don’t drop too fast
Use your numbers, take back your control
You think you know now, but what is your goal?
Fairy-tale girl with stars in your eyes
Use those stories to see through his lies
You only have now, it’s just you and he
The world is theirs now, but it won’t always be
Don’t!
No, don’t!
Don’t ever!
You can never give up
CHAPTER 5
“There is always more misery among the lower classes than there is humanity in the h
igher.”
—Victor Hugo, Les Misérables
JANELLE
Someone sobs loudly somewhere in the building as I stare at a picture of Mom and me, smiling with a group of women in pink hats.
We stopped for chocolate doughnuts on Independence Avenue on our way to the Washington Monument. She was telling me about my grandparents and great grandparents, and how they marched on this very road with Martin Luther King, Jr., when a group of ladies asked to take pictures with us and our signs. After that, we walked together to make a wave so tall that we could wash those streets with our anger. And yet, everyone was so nice and friendly.
Weeks later, we were holding signs in Union Square, protesting police brutality. No one was wearing bright, happy colors, and this time the faces standing beside us weren’t all shades under the rainbow. They were black like ours. And they were tired. Like us.
Another few months passed before the world fell apart. Invasion. Humans fought back in the streets, fields, the air...and lost. It was over too soon to really know what happened. For most of us, we’d heard only rumors before the occupation began. They seemed reluctant to kill us, but they could be keeping us alive for something worse than death. It was that ignorance—and that mom and daughter disappearing—that compelled me to start my library. I needed to find and provide my own kind of answers.
I settle back on my bed and exhale. The first bars of a Starry Eyed song have just come to mind when a thump in the hallway has me sitting up.
“Janelle.” My mom is whispering outside my door. It’s late, and she could get in trouble with Dad if she speaks too loud.
I shove the picture under my pillow before I open my door just slightly.
“Can you hide this in here?” She holds up a flask.
“Mom.” It’s all I can say. I weigh the options in my head. If she gets caught with it, it’ll be her second transgression. Death. If I get caught with it. It’ll be my first. Unless that damn book gets out. Although, to be fair, that would be two transgressions at once. So, what the hell? I take the flask with a nod.
“Thank you, baby.” Her words are slurred and she kisses my cheek. “They’re coming. They never leave us alone. The world’s theirs now. Don’t tell your father, okay? Don’t tell him, we can’t trust him. I’m scared.” Her gaze shifts away from me and she steps back, not really seeing me anymore. She disappears down the dark hall, and I close the door. She’ll sleep across the hall from my dad, who isn’t really my dad anymore.
Not that he looks any different.
I got my careful defiance, dark skin and thick, wild curls from him. But my introversion, freckles and big, brown eyes come from Mom. She’s mixed, and I suppose I am, too. Dad isn’t, though. He’s black, nothing else. Mom says that was why he had the hang-ups he did; all his life he was feared for no reason at all. Treated poorly for no reason at all.
When they came for us, he thought he might have a chance to negotiate. He was outspoken, clever and, honestly, he could have run for office with his ability to reach people. And he did. Just not the Ilori.
There was a bigger threat in town now than a smart black man; guns were pointed in a different direction. The same people who imprisoned people like him, killed them or judged them, were the people who looked to him to save us all. There was power in it, Mom said, and power does bad things to good people.
The neighbors asked Dad to negotiate with the Ilori, advocate for our rights, but when he stepped over the line to argue against stronger punishments for those who assaulted guards—people Dad didn’t know or care about before—the Ilori got fed up. They took the troublemakers, anyone who didn’t look like they’d step aside easily, and gave them a vaccine. The half-solutions program, they called it. Some responded “well,” becoming temporary half-shells of themselves, and some didn’t, either dying or running away.
Dad is one of the shells. He’s still in there, yet, there is this other...thing, too. Something foreign, willing to kill. He gets his injection monthly, but every few days, he peeks through, each time shorter than the last. He didn’t sell out my mom and her drinking the first time, or stop me when I concealed a book under my jacket when they came to round up the books and burn them. But I won’t risk telling him about the library.
This is the world we live in now, where we can’t trust our own fathers, and where our mothers spiral out of control.
This is what the Ilori have done to us.
I slide the flask into the hiding spot of my beloved copies of Harriet the Spy, Matilda, Corduroy, and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, behind my bed in a loose wooden wall panel. This room has been searched nothing short of seventeen times, and not once has someone stumbled upon it. I doubt they care too much about finding things anymore, but they want to appear as if they do. If they did care, they’d have found my library, and I’d be dead.
I sigh, pacing around my once colorful room. The walls are blank; all of my Starry Eyed posters were torn down; there’s no color, no joy; only bleached bedsheets and graying linen. I remember when people would say they don’t see color, and I’d laugh. Did that mean they couldn’t see me? Was that supposed to make me feel good, equal?
But now they have no choice. My family’s color is probably the most interesting, most vibrant shade of skin in our Upper East Side apartment building. While they’re pale from the lack of sun, I stay brown as if the sun lives within me.
Our skin still angers some folks, but the Ilori don’t care at all, which is nice. They just see me as another human, equal to all other humans. Taking up space and eating food until whatever happens, happens.
I stop, scrunching up my lips as I keep myself from punching the wall.
How could I have lost that book? Signed and autographed with my name above the dedication. Suddenly all my reasons to start a library and trust people seem ignorant and naive. I’m going to die for giving more than I take, for being kind.
The worst part is, I used to be smarter than this.
Dad’s mantra echoes in the back of my mind. Never tell them how smart you are. Work harder, speak softer, let them underestimate you. For years he told me that, and I tried, no matter how confusing and angry that made me feel. I became quiet and unsure. And that’s gotta be the reason I’m in this predicament.
Well, that, and my poor interpersonal skills. I learned everything from socializing to surviving from books. Characters, with their twisty plots and drama, were better than reality. Humanity’s better in stories. That’s why I saved as many books as I could, basically saving the humanity worth saving.
First, I read them on my own. I didn’t share; I didn’t trust anyone.
But then Alice caught me.
We knew each other before the Ilori came, we lived in the same building. We’d wait in the lobby in the morning together. She would wait for her taxi to take her to school, and I’d wait for Dad to take me on the subway. She was always on her phone or meeting with her popular friends, but sometimes she’d look up and smile. Sometimes I’d smile back.
When the Ilori came, we were forced together. Two terrified people desperate for friendship.
One day, I had a book hidden in a flap of my sweater. It was well hidden, or so I thought. Alice cornered me in the bathroom.
“You have a book?”
I held my breath, eyeing the bathroom stalls and corners of the ceiling. I nodded.
“Can I see it?”
“Too dangerous,” I muttered.
“Please?”
I sighed and took it from my pocket. I opened it and brought it before her. “Look inside.”
Her gaze fell to the illustration and widened in wonder. “What is it? I mean what’s it about?”
“Dragons.”
Her breath caught. “Can I borrow it?”
“No. They’ll kill you if they find it.”
“Janelle, if I don’t r
ead it, I’ll die a worse death. Come on, I love dragons. Please?”
I gave it to her and told her to call me Ellie. Three days later, she handed it back, asking for another. Soon, she’d told a person, who’d told a person, and so on. And she had the nerve to ask me why I started the library in the first place, when it was just as much her fault as it is mine now. Only thing is, for her, being part of the library would be a single transgression.
I snort, wondering if my dad will cry when they hang me. Or if he’ll be the one to put the noose around my neck.
I push that thought away. Who does that help?
Then I realize it’s quiet, so quiet. That means it’s time to go to the underground party, as promised. I could find my mom’s hidden makeup stash and attempt to do my face myself, or I could go as I am. I glance down. I look all right.
Creeping through our apartment is easy. The space is laid out like an oversize plus sign; a small entrance where our shabby coats hang leading to the kitchen, the living room across from it, bisected by a hallway with two bedrooms and a bathroom on one side, my bedroom and bathroom on the other. There’s no way Dad can hear me over his snoring. I make it to the front door and take a deep breath.
It’s ten at night; the patrols should be on. But they aren’t...not when the parties happen. Even the cameras are off. I’ve always figured it’s because people successfully bribe the human guards—the Ilori guards are scarce, almost nonexistent at night. Alice and I have asked but never found out. We just accept it. The lack of watchful eyes helps me with my library, and provides Alice with the opportunity to dig up dirt on potential patrons.
If all that weren’t weird, we hardly ever see the Ilori on night patrols. It’s like night falls and they disappear into the shadows, leaving only half-solution guards in their place. Some of the guards are as loyal to the Ilori as my dad, but some are not. I rely on those ones to get away with breaking the rules.
With that in mind, I shut the front door behind me and peek around the corner. I grimace as I slip down the hallway, making so much effort to get somewhere I don’t even want to be.