Excited whispers pass the room like a fretful breeze.
“—Each day leading up to it, you will spend in class. Classes will consist of four categories of training—Agility Training, Combat Training, Atlantis Tech, and Atlantis Culture. Each of these is equally important. Your daily progress and performance will not only determine your performance on the Semi-Finals, but it will also be closely monitored by your Instructors all throughout the process. In fact, their final recommendations will be added to your Semi-Final score. So, don’t think you can slide by in any of these types of classes.”
Mark grows silent, and now John Nicolard speaks. “All right. The following is your schedule. Your day will be divided thusly. Rise at 7:00 AM and breakfast. Starting at 8:00 AM will be your first two classes, then lunch from 12:00 noon to 1:00 PM, followed by two more classes, then dinner at 6:00 PM, followed by rest hour at 7:00 PM. Finally, from 8:00 PM you do homework or practice, and lights out at 10:00 PM. You get limited allowance for going outside after 8:00 PM homework hour, and absolutely no going outside your Dorm after 10:00 PM, that’s the curfew. I realize this is highly structured, and leaves you little time for anything personal. But all of you here understand that this is not fun and games, this is deadly serious. It bears repeating that you are all fighting for your lives here. Your actions and personal achievements will determine your fate.”
“And speaking of personal,” Gina Curtis interrupts. “Your presence here in this compound is contingent on your good behavior. Basic rules of courtesy and cooperation will be observed, and anyone found fighting, stealing or vandalizing property, or trespassing or engaging in other unacceptable behavior—such as hooking up, for example, yeah, sorry, no dating or intimate ‘socializing’ beyond normal public conversation—anyone found doing this will be immediately dismissed and sent home. Besides, there are surveillance cameras all over, so you cannot hide your behavior. No girls on the boys’ floor after lights out, and vice versa. Why, you might ask? Because there’s just no time for this kind of distraction and nonsense in your intense schedule. Anything that distracts you from your training will not be tolerated.”
The room is filling with waves of anxious whispers and a few stifled giggles.
“You think this is funny?” Mark Foster says in his powerful ringing voice. “Let me reassure you that after your first full day of classes you will be glad to fall into bed at 10:00 PM, and you will have no thought of anything else. How do I know this? Because as a Dorm Leader I went through a two-week crash course of precisely the same kind of training that you will be going through. We all did. Dorm Leaders were pre-selected on our merits, maturity, and leadership skills, basically upon recommendations of various school districts—a kind of trial group of teenage test subjects—before the general teen population was to be subjected to this training. You might say we were guinea pigs on your behalf.”
John Nicolard nods with a rueful smile. “These last two weeks were pure unadulterated hell. We did it, we survived, and now we want to help you make it too.”
“As far as your classes and class Instructors,” Gina says, “they are going to change and rotate on a weekly basis. Some of the classes will be taught by specialists and designated Earth experts. But many more of the classes will be taught by Atlanteans. Many of them are amazing at what they do and what knowledge they will share with all of you. My strong recommendation is that you listen with all you’ve got and pay attention. The skills you will learn will save your life, literally.”
“We are almost done with Orientation.” John Nicolard looks around at our faces with a kind of hard fervor of a preacher—definitely someone older than his seventeen or eighteen years. “The last thing you need to know is that there are about five hundred people here in Dorm Eight. And there are twelve such dorms in this RQC. Three dorms each are allocated to the Yellow, Red, Blue, and Green Quadrants. That’s a whole lot of people. About six thousand Candidates in all, which could be the population of a sizeable small town. And that’s not counting Dorm Leaders, Instructors, Administration, Security Guards, Techs, Maintenance, Atlanteans, and other personnel. That’s just one RQC. Now, multiply that by thousands, all across the country and the entire world. You are each other’s competition, and it’s only going to get more and more brutal as the ranks are weeded down. The crash-course training that we, the DLs, went through is nothing compared to what lies ahead. And by the way, none of us DLs are guaranteed Qualification either. We have to compete for the coveted spots on the Atlantis ships also, and we must continue to prove ourselves, all the way up to the last minute, even as we continue to help you. Talk about killer brutal!”
“One last thing before you go.” Gina Curtis raises her hand for attention, because the room is once again filling with noise. “As of this morning, all electronic signals to and from outside the RQC are being blocked by industrial strength e-dampers. Your electronic and smart devices are functional, but you will not be able to call out and contact anyone outside the e-damper firewall range. Nor will you be able to hack through the firewall, so don’t bother. There are two good reasons for this. We need to maintain the atmosphere of focus and no external distraction on your behalf. And we need to limit sensitive information that might be inappropriate for the fragile mental climate of the outside world. The only exceptions to this two-way ‘wall of communication silence’ will be extreme emergencies—as determined by RQC officials—and the specially authorized media televised events for the Semi-Finals and Finals.”
“That’s pretty much it,” Mark Foster says. “Your schedule starts today, with your first class in twenty minutes. To find out your specific order of classes for this week, check with any official with an ID reader handheld like this one here—” He holds up a small gadget—“or any of us, your DLs, and we will scan your ID tokens and let you know where you need to go. Most of your classes are held in this same exact building, either upstairs on the fourth floor, or downstairs in the basement floor. Some classes will be held elsewhere in the RQC, including other dorms, and you will be informed well in advance, in each case. Between classes you are free to go anywhere you like on the RQC grounds, including the large Arena Commons super structure, but you may not leave the compound or you will be Disqualified immediately.”
Gina Curtis speaks up: “And now, we have about five minutes for questions.”
A bunch of hands fly up.
“How do we find you DLs in the middle of the day?”
“Come to the Common Area and ask at that info desk in the corner. There will be a guard posted and he will contact us as needed.” Gina points to the farthest wall near the Cafeteria.
“What if there’s an emergency? What if I get sick or someone gets hurt?”
“Same thing—info desk.”
“What if I need something else—”
This time half the room repeats, in a choir, “Info desk!”
“All right, we’re done here!” Gina Curtis blows her whistle.
The noise level returns, and the three Dorm Leaders are swarmed by teens all trying to get their ID tokens scanned for their schedules.
I look around and notice a woman official near the front entrance, and she has the same ID reader gadget and no one is mobbing her. So I calmly head in her direction.
Naturally, Laronda is right behind me.
I get my ID token scanned without the hassle of a line, and according to my schedule I have Agility and Atlantis Tech followed by lunch, then Atlantis Culture and Combat. Which means my first class is down in the basement.
Laronda gets hers scanned and she has a different class order except for Atlantis Culture which we both share at 1:00 PM. “I guess I’ll see you then, or for lunch, eh? Wonder what kind of new torture they’ll be putting us through today!”
I mumble something at her then head downstairs in a hurry. I have no idea what Agility Training is, but I am already numb with fear, because it kind of sounds terrifying and precisely the opposite of what I’m normally good at, which w
ould be ordinary schoolwork. Agility and me don’t really work well together in the same sentence. Maybe it would if I were a dog?
The basement floor is deep below ground—once again, way too many stairs. The landing is brightly lit, and it opens into another large hall similar to our sleeping dorm floor. Except, the Training Hall is pretty much one huge gym, and it has an extra-tall cathedral ceiling. How do I know it’s a gym? Because to one side of the hall is an area of about fifty feet filled with weights, stationary bikes, treadmills and other workout equipment which I know nothing about because, yes, if you haven’t figured it out by now, I don’t exactly work out. But okay, I have seen some of these things on late-night TV infomercials.
The rest of the hall is empty, except for strange, stacked metal structures against three of the walls—structures that resemble weird, massive gymnastic monkey bars, except they are made for full-sized grownups, not little kids. Some of the structures consist of multi-tiered scaffolding resembling a metal truss bridge, and things a trapeze artist might use for practice. And these bizarre scaffoldings go all the way up to the ceiling. The fourth wall is a climbing wall, with footholds and protruding ledges.
Lord help me. . . . I absolutely suck at climbing, and have never been able to do even a single complete pull-up—at least the last time I tried to do one, which was two years ago. Honest, I’ve only survived P.E. by the sheer grace of the Almighty, and even so it’s been touch and go quite a few times.
Did I mention I’m afraid of heights?
And oh yeah, the worst part is, I see no safety mats anywhere.
Let me repeat that, no safety mats.
I look around the room, and there are already about twenty teens gathered, girls and boys of various ages, just standing around looking dazed. Some have the deer-in-the-headlights look. I recognize a few faces. There’s even one girl from my school. I think her name is Theresa something or other. Also, I quickly recognize Jaideep Bhagat, the friendly-smile guy, and Janice Quinn, the girl with a mousy brown ponytail, both of whom I’ve met briefly last night as we waited for others from Dorm Eight.
Jai sees me and immediately waves, and again, that big smile. “Hi, Gwen!” Holy wow, he is so sugary nice that I again wonder if maybe he’s really a serial killer. . . .
A few more people come down into the Training Hall. We mill around for a couple of minutes, glance at each other, at the weirdly equipped walls.
“Okay, who’s teaching this class anyway?” a girl asks.
“I am.”
I, and everyone, turn to stare, and immediately it gets kind of surreal. Seriously, it’s no wonder.
The speaker is a girl our age, or maybe slightly older—it’s hard to tell, really—because she is Atlantean. Metallic blond hair down to her shoulders, beautifully defined curving eyebrows, steely eyes of a strange almost turquoise blue, outlined in smoky black kohl. Features so perfect they appear somewhat doll-like, too sharply chiseled. . . . She is about my height, with a body that’s to die for, a combination of spare curves and muscular strength. The grey uniform neatly follows the willowy lines of her hourglass waist, her long legs, and tapers at her calf-high combat boots. She could be wearing Earth military fatigues, she’d fit right in.
The Atlantean girl must have come up from behind, silently, and now stands before us, giving us all a close silent scrutiny, with her arms folded at her chest in a confident stance.
“I am Oalla Keigeri,” she says in a strong voice. Even the sound of her name is exotic, pronounced in that strange subtle accent that I am beginning to pick up when I hear Atlanteans speaking English. “You may call me Oalla. I am from Atlantis, and I am one of your Instructors. Today I will be teaching you Agility. Welcome. Please gather closer, and first I want you to go around and give me your names.”
We do as we’re told. Some of the boys continue to stare so blatantly they should probably wipe some drool.
“Now, I will be scanning you each time at the beginning of the class to mark your attendance.” Oalla passes a handheld gadget over each one of our ID tokens. “I will also scan you for merit or demerit, as applicable.”
Nervous looks fill the semi-circle. Even Jai’s smile is pretty much erased.
“You have all managed to ride the hoverboard during Preliminary Qualification, which is good. It landed you here—”
Oalla is interrupted in her intro speech by the arrival of a latecomer. Standing in a semi-circle around her we all stare as a guard approaches. He is pushing a familiar boy in a wheelchair.
I catch my breath as I recognize him, the same kid who rode the board yesterday at my school, while lying down on his stomach, after pulling himself onto it by the arms.
Oalla looks on while the guard leaves the boy in place at the edge of the semi-circle, nods, then exits the gym.
“You are late,” she says to the seated boy. “Next time, please make sure you are here on time with the others. Name?”
“Blayne Dubois . . .” the boy says, gripping the sides of the wheelchair. His voice is soft, slightly reedy. “Sorry.”
I frown, noting the reaction of the rest of the teens. One girl drops her jaw and makes a weird face. Another boy looks on with pity. Pretty much everyone is showing surprise. Unlike me, they have no idea about the amazing way Blayne Dubois can ride the hoverboard.
But Oalla must know. Because she turns away from him calmly, showing no inkling of surprise, and continues where she left off. “As I was saying, you all handled the hoverboard halfway decently. Get ready—you will be doing a lot of hoverboard riding in the coming days. Now I need to find out what else you can or cannot do. Before we begin real training, I want to see you run, climb, and exercise.”
Oh, no, I knew it. . . . This is P.E. of the worst possible kind. I am going to die.
My gut is churning with a very sick feeling. And somehow, even though I’ve seen Blayne on the hoverboard, I just cannot imagine what he must be feeling right now about all the rest of it.
As I’m thinking all this, Oalla motions with her hand, palm up, and suddenly makes a very strange noise that sounds like a single long musical note—a G note, I think. She looks up, continuing to hold the note, and suddenly from overhead, we see a hoverboard flying toward her. It has taken off from one of the tall scaffolding levels, about twenty feet up, and has sailed at a horizontal line, stopping directly above the spot where Oalla and the rest of us are standing.
Oalla motions us to step back, while continuing to sing the note. She then changes the G to a falling major scale, ending on another G, only an octave lower. As she does that, the hoverboard descends gradually, then stops six inches away from the floor.
“Whoa,” a boy says, impressed.
“This is another way to command the hoverboard.” Oalla looks around at us. “Congratulations, you’ve just learned something new.” And then she turns to Blayne, the boy in the wheelchair. “This board is for your use today, Blayne. While the rest of the class does other physical activities, I want you to get onto the hoverboard and practice riding it around the hall. Use the basic verbal commands you learned yesterday. Can you do that?”
Blayne looks up, nodding. His expression shows a keen interest.
Everyone else in the class stares in amazement as he begins to lift himself out of the chair. But Oalla does not allow any one of us to gawk. She claps her hands together, and turns away, saying, “All right, everyone! Your attention! Eyes here! First you’re going to run five laps around the room—”
Ten minutes later, I am running in the back of a line of students snaking around the perimeter of the Training Hall. I’m gasping for air, my sides are in stitches, my breath ragged, and my shins hurting.
This is bad, seriously bad. I am the last person in line. Even Jack Carell, the heavy boy with curly blond hair, is ahead of me—red-faced and breathing like a locomotive, but still ahead of me. . . .
Oalla blows the whistle, and we stop in place, and I’m sort of staggering there, seeing spots before my eyes. The
Atlantean girl walks our line, making comments here and there. When she comes to the very end and looks at me, seeing what a mess I am, she says with a frown, “You don’t know how to run, do you?”
“Not really. . .” I barely gasp out an answer.
She continues her scrutiny. “There’s no reason for you to be so out of shape. You simply need to practice. Gwenevere Lark, right?”
“Just Gwen.”
“Okay, from this day on, I want you to run every day, Gwen. Ten minutes at least, during your homework hours. You can come down here. The Training Hall will be open from seven in the morning until ten each night. Or you can run outside. You can even go to the Arena Commons building and run there along the large track. Either way, you will run.”
“Okay . . .” I mumble, while the cold terror is back.
I am going to die.
Oalla must be reading my mind because she gives me a pitying look that’s more than a little disdain. She then passes her scan gadget over my ID token. The yellow light pulses once. “That’s a demerit,” she says. “The person who finishes last each day will get a demerit. Don’t let it be you again.”
I nod, but she has already turned away.
We spend the next half an hour doing horrible things with our bodies. We line up and climb the first level of the scaffolding, holding on for dear life, and then we stand there on a three-foot narrow strip that is the ledge that hugs the wall, many of us shaking from a combination of terror and the abuse of previously unused muscle groups.
The climb was relatively simple, just rungs and stairs, but the result puts us ten feet above the floor, and my fear of heights kicks in.
Oalla climbs up after us, stepping onto each rung easily with her heavy boots, and amazingly using only a grip of one hand to keep herself anchored on each next rung above. I have no idea how that’s even possible, but she must be doing it on purpose to mess with our minds. “Look up,” she tells us, once she’s up there with us. “These are parallel bars.”
[Atlantis Grail 01.0] Qualify Page 9
