I WAKE TO WHITENESS. WHITENESS and lights. Strands of drowsiness stick to my mind like cobwebs. Soft humming buzzes in my ears, then abruptly ceases. The starship must have landed. I am to be taken to my new patrons shortly.
I sit up in my bunk. My two roommates are already waiting by the door. I climb out of my bunk and join them. The circular door opens, and a squat robot with three long arms stands outside. It is the same robot that delivered our supplies previously during the two-day journey. Multicolored outfits dangle from each of the metal appendages. I go to the one in the center—that is what has been assigned to me.
My roommates and I clothe ourselves in silence. I pull my dress, which is white and covered in patches of dark blue, over my head. The sleeves end at my elbow, and the flared hem brushes my knees. The material is so soft, it almost feels like a liquid. The bot then hands me a pair of pale pink shoes that resemble ballet slippers, and I obediently slide into them. Something about them causes an itch in the back of my mind… I once told someone I’d never wear ballet shoes…
But that’s not important. I must not allow my mind to wander to useless places.
The bot’s appendages retract, and it trundles away on stubby legs. I remain in the doorframe as I know I’m supposed to. Seconds later, a long, flat machine wheels toward me, carrying several items on its back. I recognize my viola case. It pauses briefly for me to pick up my instrument, then proceeds to the next room.
I wait. So do my roommates. None of us speaks a word.
A few minutes later, a tugging in my mind tells me that it’s time to go. The transport that will take me to my patrons is waiting on the landing pad outside.
Along with the others, I march down the corridor. On the other side of the open doorway, winged silver transports, glimmering under Adrye’s twin moons, wait in a semicircular formation at the bottom of the ramp.
Erayet stands by the starship’s exit and directs each Ka’risil to his or her transport. When it’s my turn, she points me to the one third from the right. I scarcely see the white landing pad or the hovering robots, which are virtually identical to the ones at the Charlotte spaceport, as I head over.
The transport’s door opens to admit me. I slide my viola in first, then take a seat. A slight thud shakes the air as the door closes again. The engines whir, high-pitched and rhythmic, as the transport ascends into the sky.
City lights shine outside the window. I hardly notice them. I care about nothing but my destination—not the transport I’m in, not the Adryil pilot in front, and certainly not the hectic city we’re flying through.
A white spherical structure comes into view. It’s so familiar—where have I seen it before?
The Hall of Justice. Dámiul showed it to me once. For some reason, that feels important. I haven’t thought of Dámiul since the starship took flight. I haven’t needed to, since I was so focused on being a good Artist.
How can that be? I thought of Dámiul every day after I encountered him at Papilio…
The question clings to my mind. The feeling is odd after two days of simply knowing what to do. I half expect something to blow the thought away, and yet it lingers—longer than anything else has outside the practice room on the starship. I feel it digging its claws into my brain, and an uncomfortable shiver runs down my spine. My heart clamors, yelling, Listen! Listen!
Something’s wrong, and my subconscious is trying to tell me what. It’s like the feeling I get when I’m barreling through a fast song and accidentally skip a repeat. I never notice at first because I’m letting my fingers fly on their own, but something always nags at me until I realize what I’ve done. Whatever I’ve forgotten this time seems to be staring me in the face, and yet I can’t see it.
We just passed the Hall of Justice…
A realization slams into my mind, so obvious that it knocks the cobwebs from my head.
I’m in Dámiul’s city.
“Nathril!” The word tumbles out of my mouth. “Why didn’t anyone tell me we were in the capital?”
“What did you say?” The pilot’s accent carries a heavy lilt. He must not be as fluent in English as Dámiul or Erayet.
The city seems to brighten before me, as if a haze cleared from my mind. I press my forehead against the window. I recognize the buildings Dámiul showed me. The tall, spiral-like Museum of History, the clustered peaks of a science center whose proper name I’ve forgotten, the majestic columns of the senate building—we might fly by Dámiul’s building any moment!
“Which sector of the city are we going to?” I ask.
The pilot doesn’t respond. Thinking he didn’t hear me, or that maybe his English isn’t that good, I repeat the question, taking care to enunciate each syllable, but he still doesn’t respond.
“Excuse me.” I lean forward. “Sir? Can you hear me?”
“Gorxit Karovyil!” From the way the pilot spits the words, it must be an insult. I recognize Karovyil as “Earthling,” but I’ve never heard the first word before.
I must stop talking. I have no right to talk. I’m just a stupid Earthling. The surge of thoughts hits me so fast, it makes me dizzy. I must be quiet for the rest of the journey.
My head hurts so much, I feel nauseous. These thoughts aren’t mine… they must be the pilot’s. He’s telepathically telling me to remain silent. But he’s not allowed to do that—
Of course he is. I am on his world now.
The aching fades. I’m a mere Karovyil, and I have no right to speak with a superior being, let alone harangue him with questions. But now that I’m being cooperative, I should tell the pilot how I sensed his mental intrusion. As a Ka’risil, I shouldn’t know how Adryil telepathy works.
He’s still in my head. I suppress a gasp. “I once read an Earthling scientist’s account of how Adryil telepathy affects the human mind.”
I hope the lie is enough pacify his suspicions. In case it’s not, I recall the training Dámiul gave me and focus on keeping my mind blank.
I think of nothing. Through the blankness, I sense the pilot’s presence in my mind. I look within myself for that kernel of truth. I’m not inferior to the Adryil—just different. The pilot’s opinion doesn’t matter anyway. Dámiul never treated me as beneath him. And just because I’m on the pilot’s world doesn’t mean he has the right to violate the interstellar treaties.
The pilot’s presence fades. My answer must have satisfied him. As long as I keep quiet, he should be content with ignoring me again.
I wonder if I should report what he did, but I don’t know who I’d tell or whether anyone would believe me. The pilot certainly didn’t seem worried about getting caught. Is this what Dámiul meant when he said some thought themselves above the law?
I look out the window, and the sight sweeps my worries away. A smile tugs at my lips. That exciting, far-off world across the stars is within my reach. And the boy who showed it to me might be nearby. How did I let the city pass me by for the first part of the journey? That seems so unlike me.
Because it wasn’t me. A chill creeps down my spine. If the pilot could plant thoughts into my head, then Erayet could have as well. I never imagined she’d break the law, but then again, I never imagined anything while in her presence. She must have put my mind in a fog to keep me focused on my new duties. And everyone else too… I suddenly recall how animated my two roommates were when I first met them. Their silence earlier was more than unusual; it was unnatural.
Erayet must have been manipulating all of us, and none of us suspected a thing. We couldn’t have—she would have erased the suspicion before it could land.
What else did she erase from my mind?
I try to bring up the memories of our conversations, but I keep drawing blanks. Frowning, I stare at the ground. My shoes—they made me think of something.
A shadow of a memory winds through my mind. I once told someone I’d never wear ballet slippers. And it was funny… part of some inside joke…
I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking as hard as I can about the first conversation with Erayet on the starship. That must have been when my thoughts first started slipping from me. Dámiul said that blocked memories could be recovered with enough focus. Whatever I was thinking of, it was important enough for Erayet to take it from me.
There was a face. A boy with gray eyes, blond curls, and a sad smile. Someone I was thinking of before Erayet put my mind in a haze…
I wrack my brain, but I can’t remember whose face that was. No wonder Dámiul was so insistent on the mind training. If the Adryil can make me forget someone who must have meant a lot to me, what else can they do?
Dámiul must have known that his kind would use their abilities to manipulate me despite the laws. Unless… Could there be an exception to the telepathy ban, one that allows the Adryil to command Artists? There was so much in that contract that I didn’t understand. Could I have signed away my own mind without realizing it? Why would they even need me to? The contract was already so restrictive. But I suppose rules and incentives don’t guarantee total obedience, which seems to be what the Adryil want from me.
An icy fist closes around my heart. This must have been why Dámiul was so afraid for me, why he said his people could erase me if they wished. They can take my memories and bend my will without me even realizing what’s happening until it’s too late. I want nothing more than to remember the boy with gray eyes, but since Erayet made me forget him, I must be careful. Dámiul warned me that the longer a person’s under the influence of Adryil telepathy, the easier it becomes to control them, and the less likely they are to recover their minds. Next time, he could be the one they make me forget.
I can’t let the Adryil take over my mind again. I don’t know if I’d be strong enough to resist if they enter my thoughts once more. Already, Erayet has kept me in a fog for more than two days, and I didn’t even notice until I was out of her presence.
As I gaze out the window, a light catches my attention—a bright sign that takes up the entire wall of a towering skyscraper. Only the left half is visible from my angle. Images of dancers and instrumentalists and acrobats flash in brilliant colors. They’re Artists—or rather, Ka’risil. Why is that building blazing with their pictures? Are the Adryil really so fascinated by us?
The transport turns, and the right half of the sign comes into view. I suppress a gasp. An older version of Dámiul stares at me. Same black hair, same handsome features—same blue eyes, even. Yet there’s something cold about the man’s expression. Who is he? Dámiul mentioned that his father was important—could this be him? But why would he be on a sign alongside all those Artists?
Giant Adryil symbols splash across the enormous screen, and I wish I could read them. If that is Dámiul’s father, then he must have something to do with the Artists. Maybe he arranges shows on Adrye. Or perhaps he’s some kind of liaison like Erayet, only more important.
Dámiul seemed ashamed of what his father’s company did. Is this why? Because his father profits from our labors while we’re left with debts so deep, we must sign away our freedom to repay them?
I have so many questions, but I can’t answer them through wild speculations. I need to seek Dámiul out and make him explain. I cling to the hope that he’s still in this city. Until I find proof that he left, I won’t stop looking.
The transport slows. We must be getting close. If the pilot or anyone else hears my thoughts, they could invade my mind and obliterate them.
My only choice is to play along and hope they don’t catch me—and wipe my memories completely.