I STARE AT THE ZEXA device in my hand, wondering if something’s wrong with it. Three days have passed since the Spectacle, and there’s been no sign of Dámiul. Did I accidentally change the device’s settings? Even if I had, and Dámiul tried to contact me, I would still feel his presence, wouldn’t I?
I’m sure he’ll be back as soon as he can. My own thoughts ring of false reassurance. I keep recalling how weak he appeared. Is he sick? What if he’s dying on Adrye?
I fling the thought away. I’m being ridiculous. He’s probably caught up in something. Or maybe he left for his mysterious government assignment. But if that were so, wouldn’t he at least say goodbye?
I need to stop this. I’ve told myself time and time again that all this longing and dreaming can’t lead to anything good. What’s the sense in yearning when you know you can never have what you seek? Even if I were sent to Adrye tomorrow, I still couldn’t be with him. Maybe, by some miracle, he could find me there, but he’d still be called away. I’d find myself right back here—alone and lost, like the sole survivor of a shipwreck at sea.
Why is it that even though I’ve just experienced the greatest triumph of my life, all I can do is think about a boy? I should be worrying about how I’m going to keep up the momentum from the Spectacle, not about where Dámiul is. But no matter how much I try to bring my head back to where it belongs, I can’t take my mind off of him.
It won’t do me any good to lie around pining. I sit up in my bed. The schedule on my monitor tells me I have the next hour free. I drop the Zexa device in my pocket and slide off my bed. It occurs to me that Dámiul’s not the only one who disappeared after my performance; I haven’t heard from Milo since the Spectacle either.
I’ve tried messaging him about a dozen times, but he hasn’t responded. Not that I’ve had much time to worry about it—Master Raucci has been keeping me busy. I’ve rehearsed with more small ensembles—quartets, chamber orchestras, and such—in the past few days than in my entire life before that. Apparently, he wants to find more ways to showcase my skills. Could Mistress Duval be doing the same with Milo? Or has he been in a practice hole of his own, like I was in the days leading up to the audition?
Wondering if he responded to my messages yet, I bring up my Linx profile. The green number 13 beneath my name makes me grin. From over a thousand to the top 20—I can scarcely believe it. I’ve never heard of anyone’s ranking rising so fast, and every patron in that audience now knows who I am. Typically, a patron will watch an Artist in at least three or four performances before deciding to hire. If I can keep my ranking at these stratospheric heights, I could be on Adrye by this time next year.
I glance over my inbox, which is full of congratulatory messages. Milo left a shout-out on my profile, but hasn’t contacted me otherwise. Wondering if he posted anything, I go to his profile. To my dismay, a red 144 sits beneath his name. That’s still decent, but a far cry from what he was hoping for. And for a principal, having your ranking decline after a show can be disastrous. This must be killing him.
There’s nothing on his profile since before the Spectacle. Maybe he knew his number would sink after the lukewarm reviews of his performance and has been avoiding Linx altogether. I check the time. It’s getting close to noon. I might be able to catch him for lunch.
I leave my room and head to the Ballet’s sector.
As I approach the Ballet’s dormitory, I see Sabina ahead and wave, calling her name.
She turns to face me, eyebrows raising. “Yes?”
“Have you seen Milo?”
She purses her lips. “No. He’s missed every rehearsal and coaching since the Spectacle. I’ve tried to get him to come, but he keeps ignoring me.”
My spine tenses. The reviews must have affected him more than I thought. “I’d better go talk to him.” I turn toward the dorm.
“You won’t find him in his room. I saw him heading for Dogwood earlier.”
“What?”
“That’s where he’s been spending his time, though at least he’s been returning before curfew.” Sabina sighs. “You’re a good friend of his, right? Maybe you can convince him to return to his assignments before the school expels him. He won’t listen to me.”
“I’ll do my best.” I rush down the street, heading toward the West Gate. The Milo I know is too dedicated to skip anything, let alone miss three whole days. I don’t blame him for needing a break after pouring so much effort into the last Spectacle, but what he’s doing could destroy any chance he has.
By the time I make it to the West Gate, I’m breathing so hard, I barely hear the security bot’s customary reminder about curfew. I speed through the town, retracing the steps Milo and I took last time.
The sun highlights every dying vine and dried-out blade of grass surrounding the stained tenement walls. With the winter-gray hands of nature seizing the buildings and the wind-chilled silence in the streets, I feel like I’m entering a ghost town. Everyone must be at work in the manufacturing plant. I start toward the building where Milo’s family lives, then freeze. He didn’t want to speak with them before because he was too stressed. I doubt he’d go to them now, when he’s neglecting the school they worked so hard to get him into.
The only other place I can think of to check is the housing project where I met Phers. I hope Milo’s not there. As I enter the building, I tell myself I’m going in to make sure he isn’t, not because I think he is.
“Milo?” I make my way forward. Most of the doors stand open, and every room I peer into is empty. I wonder if they leave their doors open because they have nothing worth stealing.
The chatter of voices drifts toward me from the end of the hallway. Recognizing Phers’s voice among them, I break into a run. When I reach the open door of the cramped room, I find Phers sitting on the floor, along with several young men and women, each with either an opaque cup or a cigarette in his or her hand.
“Hey, you’re back!” Phers raises his eyebrows at me.
Spotting a head of blond curls, I feel my face fall with dismay. “Milo!”
Milo turns toward me. His eyes are glazed over, and his slouch is so unlike him, I briefly wonder if I’ve got the wrong person. “Oh, hey Iris.” He holds his cigarette out toward me. “Want some?”
“What are you doing here?” I step over someone’s legs to approach him. “It’s the middle of the day!”
He puts the cigarette to his lips. “So it is.”
I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see Phers leering at me. “C’mon, pretty lady. Make yourself comfortable.” He presses down on my shoulder, trying to force me to sit.
“Get your hands off her!” Milo jumps up and shoves Phers.
Phers holds up his hands. “Cool it, man.”
Milo’s eyes snap with fury. “Touch her again, and I’ll beat the shit out of you.”
“I’m all right,” I say, startled by Milo’s sudden and unwarranted violence. I’ve never seen him like this before.
He grabs my arm and pulls me toward the door. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you!” I let him lead me out of the room, then shake him off as soon as we’re in the corridor. Someone shoves Phers’s door, which swings shut with an unceremonious click. “What’s going on?”
Milo shrugs. “I’m finished. Thought I’d give it a few days just in case, but my mind’s made up. I’ve already started filling out the resignation docs.”
“You’re quitting?”
“Yeah.” He leans back against the wall. “I’ll never make it anyway. Whether tomorrow or in four years, I’m going to end up here. Might as well spare myself the extra debt.”
“What about your family? They’re counting on you!”
“Sucks for them.” He gives a limp shrug. “My parents hate me for blowing my big break. Sent me a message telling me how disappointed they are. They sacrificed my sister’s chances by spending all their money on getting me into Papilio first, so they can’t forgive me for failing them. They’re ready to disown me anyway. Well, now they can pull the trigger.”
Sorrow pricks my heart. How could his parents say that? “But… But you’re a wonderful dancer.”
Milo examines the cigarette in his hand, avoiding my gaze. “Have you seen the reviews? ‘Decent,’ they said. And that’s all. I gave them everything and got a collective shrug in response. Do you know what it’s like when your best isn’t good enough?” He angles his mouth in a humorless smile. “No, of course you don’t. You’re gifted. I’m not, and… I accept that.”
“I’m not gifted. I—”
“You don’t even realize how talented you are, do you?” Milo gives me an incredulous look. “Estelle had good reason to be afraid of you. Your playing speaks to people. We all saw it on stage. I, on the other hand, have nothing but technique. Maybe a little flair. But no matter what I do, something’s just missing.”
“That’s not true! Mistress Duval—”
“Mistress Duval picked me because I’m better than the other guys in the Ballet, but that doesn’t make me worthy of a patron.” He drops his cigarette and stomps on it.
“Come on, Milo.” I want to shake him. “You’ll do better next time.”
He stares at the ground, a look of pain distorting his face. “I can’t do this anymore. That school… it’s driving me insane. I used to come here because it was the only way I could escape. Each time, part of me wanted to stay. But I had no choice—I had to go back or lose everything. Now that I know it’s going to be lost anyway, I can finally let go.”
I bite my lip. I knew he had his anxieties, but I never realized how deep they ran. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I knew how you’d respond. ‘Oh, just keep trying. Everything will turn out okay.’” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Isn’t that right?”
My eyes sting. Who’s this bitter young man before me, and where’s the friend I knew so well?
Milo softens his expression. “I’m sorry. I know you’re just trying to help, but there’s nothing to help anymore.”
I blink to keep the tears from spilling. “I thought you loved dancing. Forget patrons and debts and rankings… Isn’t the stage enough?”
“If we were anywhere else…” Milo’s expression hardens. “It doesn’t matter if I love my Art. Numbers and reputations are all that count. It’s time to cut my losses. You’re not going to change my mind, so you should just go.”
Does he realize what he’s saying? If Milo drops out, I’ll barely see him anymore. “What about me? What about Sabina? How can you leave us?”
“Sabina will get a new partner soon enough. As for you…” Milo turns away, angling himself so I can’t see his face. “I can’t be the person you want me to be. I’m pretty damn worthless.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’re family to me, and I love you.” I reach toward him, but he steps back.
“Come see me now and then. I won’t be hard to find.” He turns toward Phers’s door. His face has become an inscrutable mask, and I’m at a loss as to how to answer.
I should say something. There must be a way to convince him to come back. He said it himself—he loves ballet. It’s Papilio’s system that’s getting to him. I should have seen it. If I had, maybe I could have been there when he needed me. How could I have been so blind?
Milo enters Phers’s room, shutting the door behind him. I stare in silence. I should go after him—drag him out of this place and shove him back where he belongs. But if he won’t listen to me, then all my pushing won’t do any good.
Still, Sabina said he’s been returning before curfew. That means part of him still wants to stay at Papilio. It’s possible that between now and this evening, whatever kept him from burning his bridges before will bring him back again. I’ll return tonight, armed with actual arguments. Right now, my brain seems too paralyzed to come up with anything convincing. Maybe if I bring Sabina, the two of us can convince him.
But what if the pressure’s really too much? I recall Estelle’s panic attack; she looked like someone had snapped her mind in half. Maybe Milo’s afraid something like that will happen to him. Or maybe it already did, and he didn’t tell me.
Dried weeds crunch beneath my boots as I walk down the street, which seems haunted by the ghosts of fallen dreams. Surely, this can’t be where he was meant to end up—or anyone, for that matter. Yet for most Papilians, this is their future.
A flame ignites within me, and I clench my fists. Milo was right—we’re all trapped. They give us two choices: do as they say or rot in the tenements. There’s no space for anything else in this bleak world.
Dámiul said they drive us to desperation so they’ll get better performances. Now, I understand why that made him so angry. If this place weren’t so relentless, maybe Milo wouldn’t be so miserable.
How would I change things if I could? Is it even possible? Or are we all cursed by the very things that motivate us? Take away patrons and rankings and Spectacles, and I would still cling to my viola, searching for a way to show the world what I can do. The music commands me, and I’m helpless to resist.
I reenter Papilio, stopping briefly to let a security bot confirm my identity, then head back to my dorm.
When I reach my hallway, I find the door to my room open. Surprised, I dash forward and catch the doorframe, swinging inside. Two security bots wheel around, rummaging through my drawers. A minder’s hologram stands between them, watching them with a severe expression.
I approach tentatively. “What’s going on, sir?”
The minder turns toward me. “Estelle Carver filed a formal complaint against you, stating that you poisoned her prior to the last Spectacle.”
My jaw drops. “She’s lying!”
“That may be, but all complaints must be investigated.” The minder’s eyes relax. “Look, if you didn’t do anything, you have nothing to worry about. We’re not here to entrap you.”
I nod. They can turn my room inside out—they won’t find any poisons here.
One of the security bots flashes a hologram that says: “Clear. No contraband found.”
“Good,” the minder says. “Search her person.”
My heart jumps. The Zexa device is in my pocket. I turn to run, hoping I can get away long enough to hide the device.
A metal rope wraps around me, pinning my arms to my sides. I scream and stumble to the ground. The rope coils, forcing me to turn around, then pulls me to my feet.
I struggle to escape. “Let me go!”
“It’s not going to hurt you.” The minder sounds exasperated.
Lines of green light shoot out of the rope binding me. I keep twisting, trying to find a way to free myself.
“Object detected in subject’s pocket,” the bot says in a mechanical monotone. A small claw extends from its side.
I can’t stop it—its grasp is too tight. I squeeze my eyes as the claw reaches into my pocket.
“What’s that?” the minder asks.
“Unknown Adryil technology.” The bot keeps its rope coiled around me.
I open my eyes, clenching my jaw to keep my voice from quivering. “I can explain—”
“Don’t.” The minder’s sharp voice stops my words. “You are in illegal possession of alien technology. The school is obligated to turn you over to the local authorities.” He turns to the machine holding me. “Bot A-Fifty-Three, bring the subject inside and keep her confined to her room. Bot A-Fifty-Four, take the contraband to the Security Center.”
Both machines beep with acknowledgement. The second bot takes the Zexa device—my one connection to Dámiul—from the first.
“You can’t!” I writhe within the first bot’s rope. “I—”
“Save your breath.” The minder’s hologram disappears.
The rope around me pulls forward. The bot drags me into my room. The second bot retracts its claw, and the Zexa device disappears into its metal body.
Without that machine, I’ll never see Dámiul again. Any chance, any hope of even a goodbye is gone. I’ll surely be expelled for having it. I’ll probably be jailed too—maybe for the rest of my life. A painful mix of dread and misery strangles my lungs, suffocating me. I’ve lost Dámiul, I’ve lost my music, and I’ve lost my future.
I’ve lost everything.