The two Atlanteans look different today. Their faces are hard and impassive, and Oalla, especially, is cold as ice.
Without any preliminaries, the Atlantean girl blows her whistle and we line up in two opposing rows without needing to be told.
Oalla and Keruvat stand in the middle of the room, looking at us.
It’s as if they are trying to see through us, to read our thoughts and minds, and learn our deepest secrets.
“Attention, Candidates!” Keruvat says in his deep voice, and it carries in echoes through the very silent gym hall. “Before we exercise or train today, we will observe a Moment of Honor for those who died a senseless death yesterday. In Atlantis, we sing farewells to our dead. Now, listen, and follow us.”
And then he sings. It is a simple base note sequence, forming a low D Minor, and he repeats it, while Oalla sings the same note sequence, only an octave higher.
One by one we echo them, singing the same chord in different octaves, our voices naturally choosing whatever frequency is most comfortable, until the room is filled with one great big sound of harmonic grief.
It is said, D Minor is one of the saddest chords of all, and I agree.
It is also my favorite.
I open my mouth and pretend to make a sound, but today, nothing comes out.
I should be more exhausted than I am after Combat class—but I’m not—as I head upstairs from the basement floor to the first floor Common Area. Maybe all that endless exercise is having a positive endurance effect at last on my untrained wimpy muscles. After all, this is the third day here at the RQC. Or maybe it’s the fact that I am still reeling after what happened last night, and what I did. . . .
I walk through the lobby wiping my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand and think. I could try to go look for Gracie and the other Gees. Somehow the emo tantrum that Gracie threw last night got completely overshadowed by the incident that followed. Normally I would follow up with my kid sister, especially considering I have no idea what happened to her after she took off and left us in the Arena building.
But apparently there are other more pressing concerns. As I glance around the lobby and note quite a few Candidates from my dorm hanging around the sofas—which constitutes half the alpha crowd, including that jerk with the tats, Derek—the outside doors open and I see Logan.
He sees me also and immediately heads toward me.
Logan looks sleek and confident as he walks, and in the first instant my heart constricts painfully at how well built and fine he truly is. Every muscle in his lean powerful body moves like music, and he casually turns his head to glance around the room, before his hazel eyes connect with mine.
I feel my breath catch, but I pause and stand stiffly, waiting for him to approach.
With my peripheral vision I see Olivia and Ashley pause their chatter to glance at me. Then they notice Logan, and immediately stare at him in appreciation. And they’re not alone. One by one, other girls look in his direction. Yeah, Logan has that effect on females—all females. And quite a few guys, I might add.
But then Derek with his wide neck and scary tattoo turns around and stares also, and his expression goes stone hard when he notices Logan moving my way.
“Hey, Gwen,” Logan says. Almost regretfully I notice his serious expression and the fact that he no longer calls me “Yellow Candy.”
“Hi.” I look up at him and hastily wipe my sweaty fingers over the front of my T-shirt. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” he says.
“Oh?”
“How are you?” His face is composed, but there is something new there, a repressed anxious expression hiding underneath the casual facade.
“I’m good,” I say. “Just had Combat class. And you?”
It’s becoming obvious that this is not a simple social call. And when he’s asking, “How are you?” I think he means, “Are you okay after last night?”
“You want to go grab something to eat now?” Logan nods in the direction of our Yellow Dorm Eight cafeteria.
I nod woodenly, and we go inside the noisy food hall with the overpowering smell of chili and hot dogs in the air.
As we stand in line getting our trays, Logan leans down close to my ear and says, “This is probably the easiest place to talk, with the solid noise cover.”
I glance up, and our faces end up barely inches away.
“I wanted to make sure you really are okay after yesterday,” he says softly, putting a plate with two chili-dripping hotdogs on his tray.
“Thanks.” My hand holding my own plate is a little unsteady. “I am fine, really. And I appreciate you asking, but you really didn’t have to go out of your way like this—”
“I’m not.” He frowns lightly. “This is not me ‘going out of my way’ bullshit. This is the least I can do, after what you went through. I needed to make sure you are dealing with it.”
“Yeah. Well, I am. I mean, what is there to deal with, really? I woke up and my voice is a little hoarse with the smoke inhalation, but that’s about it.”
We move through the line, loading up foodstuff on our plates, then find an empty table.
“Okay, and you haven’t mentioned anything to anyone, right?” He takes the seat next to me.
“Um, no, of course not. . . .” I stiffen up. Seriously, what kind of dork does he think I am? “Remember, I was the one who asked you to keep it quiet.”
He nods. “I know. But under the circumstances, it helps to have someone else to remind you, gently, because this is tough, if you have to bear it all alone.”
“Okay, what am I bearing, exactly? I didn’t do anything wrong!” I hiss at him through the large bite of hotdog that I’ve put in my mouth and forgot to chew.
“Sh-h-h-h . . .” he says, with a shadow smile coming to his lips. “Keep it down.”
I guess that could refer both to the noise level and to the heaping amount of food that’s presently sitting motionless in my mouth. I seriously need to get over this nerd habit already and remember to chew and swallow before speaking when I am nervous. At least I didn’t spray his face with chunks of hotdog and spittle. Eeeew, me! So very attractive of you, Gwen Lark. . . .
But he seems unfazed. “Yeah, you did nothing wrong—in fact, the complete opposite, you did something amazing. But remember what I said, you don’t want them to associate you with any of it at all, good or bad. It’s just as this morning all our Dorm Leaders warned us—there will be witch-hunts. And if we’re not careful, they may come for us, for whatever unfounded reason.”
I chew and swallow, then hurriedly wipe my mouth with a napkin. I stare at Logan, and find it hard to respond. “So what should I do—or not do?”
He pauses, looks at me intently. “First, we need to get our story straight.”
“What story?”
“The story about what we were doing at the time it happened—where we were, etc.”
“Okay. Well, I already told a couple of people here that we just got back to my dorm after using the Arena track, and that we only saw the explosion from the window.”
Logan nods thoughtfully. “Okay, that should work. The other thing is, we need to say we walked a different route, without even passing the airfield. Here—I drew this on the map, where we walked.” He pulls out a folded sheet that has the familiar map of the RQC campus. Pushing his tray aside, he sets it out on the table and shows me the literal path we took in reality, and then the alternate path we will tell people we took—one that bypasses the airfield by three buildings.
I look at the map. “Wow, you really are thorough. And—is this really necessary?”
“Yes, if we want to keep our stories aligned. The key is always in the details. I recommend you memorize this—just in case.”
“What about all the surveillance cameras everywhere? Won’t they show us . . . not being where we say we were?”
Logan exhales, pausing. “Yeah, that’s one possible problem. . . . However, if we stick to the ba
sic story with most people, it may never come to it. So let’s not give them any reason to be suspicious in the first place. The good thing is, the alternate route we are going to say we took is packed with pedestrian traffic, with tons of Candidates walking there. So, even if they check their footage, it would be hard to be sure if we were there or not. Of course if they check the footage for our actual route, that might be a problem.”
“Okay, but what about those guards yesterday?” I whisper. “They will remember me, and probably you too—and what about the surveillance cameras around the airfield?”
He shakes his head. “I doubt the guards will have a solid recollection of us, especially considering your face was a bloody mess, and I came to the scene moments later, so it may not look like we necessarily were together. And as for the cameras there, I’ve thought of it, yeah—but the super great news for us is, supposedly the first shuttle explosion blast caused a shock wave that took out a lot of electronic equipment nearby, so nothing was being recorded from that point on!”
“Wow,” I say. “If it’s true, that’s really good. But—this is still kind of nuts. And you are more than a little paranoid. But, okay.”
Logan gives me a crooked and awfully charming smile that does not really disguise his serious eyes.
In that moment, for some reason, the image of the unconscious Atlantean from last night comes to me. . . . The lean face of Aeson Kass, eyes closed, soot and blood everywhere.
“I wonder if he is okay,” I say.
Logan knows exactly whom I mean.
“Supposedly he is. But—we should soon find out.”
“Find out what?”
Both of us look up, and Laronda is here, and so is Dawn Williams.
How much have they overheard?
The girls put their trays down next to ours, and pull up chairs. So long, private conversation.
“Find out what’s going on at that assembly after lunch,” I say, and casually stick the campus map in my pocket. I then immediately regret doing it, because Laronda, perceptive girl, gives me a meaningful look and raises one brow. Now she probably thinks we’re passing cutesy love notes or something.
I sigh, thinking it’s better than the alternative.
Belatedly it occurs to me, I just had lunch with Logan Sangre, and it doesn’t even count as a date.
After lunch, we all walk en masse to the Arena Commons building. Logan is still with us, so Laronda gives me cute stares, and then exchanges glances with Dawn. Fine, let them think we’re turning into a “thing,” Logan and I. Yeah, right. . . . Sigh.
It’s a bright, sunny March day, with the definite signs of spring thaw in the air.
Endless groups and bunches of Candidates converge from all directions, and for once their tokens are all mixed up, red, yellow, blue, green.
Just as we approach the Arena Commons super structure, four specks of radiance burst down from the sky, like falling meteors. A few stifled gasps of fear sound all around us. Everyone stares up, mostly in nervous expectation, and watches the Atlantean shuttles decelerate smoothly and then hover down and disappear in the general area of the landing airfield. Fortunately, there is no mishap this time.
“Look at them!” Dawn says. “Coming down in force, I bet. Wonder who it is.”
“Probably more VIPs.” Laronda shields her eyes from the sun glare, as she stares over the roofs of the buildings.
“Wonder if they have police forces?” I mutter. “Law enforcement. Military or otherwise.”
Logan gives me a look. “Considering that human nature is the same screwed up mess on Earth as it is on Atlantis, yeah, they do—or so I hear. Their cops are called Correctors.”
“Creepy,” Dawn notes.
“Absolutely.” Logan glances at her briefly. “I also hear they are far more scary and ruthless than our own homegrown equivalent.”
“Great. . . .” Laronda shudders. “Just what we need on this planet, more cops. And not just any cops, but scary alien cops.”
“We didn’t get around to study their legal system yet in Atlantis Culture class,” I mutter. “What untold pleasures await us. . . .”
Logan again gives me a brief look.
We enter the Arena Commons and it is packed. Every walkway on all the upper levels, and every square inch of the floor below, including the several sections of bleachers, track, and the areas around the equipment in the middle of the great stadium space, is taken up with Candidates from all the twelve dorms of the RQC.
The crowd is huge, and in many places people in grey uniforms and various colored armbands are seen keeping order—Dorm Leaders, security guards, and various adults who are officials. We are jostled closer inward by the stream of incoming teens, as more and more people arrive in the Arena building.
For the first time, it occurs to me, we are, all of us from this particular region, gathered in one place. Candidates for Qualification, together we can fill an ocean . . . or at least a sizeable lake.
And just to think, this is just one RQC out of thousands across the country and around the world.
Talk about fierce competition for each spot!
Everyone’s eyes are eventually drawn to one raised platform near the end of the stadium. On it, a group of Earth officials stands, looking serious, like a bunch of school principals. Someone tests a powerful stadium microphone, and then a man steps forward and speaks, after clearing his throat. The sound of his voice hits the space powerfully and creates a reverb.
“Your attention, please.”
Waves of noise pass around the stadium, then quiet down.
“Candidates for Qualification at Pennsylvania Regional Qualification Center Three. You have been asked to gather here upon the request of the Atlantis Central Agency, which has been notified of yesterday’s tragic incident. As many of you know already, three Atlanteans lost their lives yesterday, and one was injured. After the investigation conducted immediately following the incident, the ACA has strong reasons to believe the shuttle explosion was not an accident but was in fact an act of sabotage, and hence an act of terrorism against this institution, and indeed against all of you, potential Candidates for Qualification.”
Noise rises again in the stadium.
“Oh, crap,” Laronda whispers next to me.
The speaker continues. “The ACA will therefore initiate a full high-level investigation starting immediately, and has sent down a special team to that effect.” He pauses, and in that moment a group of nine Atlanteans is seen, ascending the stage. Their hair gleams metallic gold from the distance so it is easy to tell them apart from the Earth officials.
I stare intently, watching for familiar faces, and can barely make out maybe one or two Instructors, but mostly these are Atlanteans I have not seen before.
I watch their armbands, an even mixture of yellow, green, blue, and red.
One of them is black.
My insides do a kind of painful summersault, and something grips me with an unbelievable wrenching force. . . .
Aeson Kass stands among them, and he is upright, appearing absolutely healthy and unharmed—oh my lord, he is entirely unhurt. Indeed, his figure is confident, straight-backed and full of that same familiar leashed power that I’ve come to associate with him. And his face—from this distance it is hard to tell his expression, but I am willing to bet it is as cold and hard as stone.
My jaws literally fall open. Or is it figuratively? Whatever—in this moment even grammar fails me.
Seems, I am not the only one. . . . Everywhere around me, furiously nervous whispers sound, and I can hear the mutterings of “Phoebos” and “Aeson Kass” and “wait—isn’t he the one who was injured?”
I feel a squeeze at my arm, and it’s Logan. He is holding me, and pressing my arm meaningfully, and his expression is intense.
I nod barely to indicate I get it. Show no unusual emotion, no response.
And yet, even Logan cannot keep his face completely straight. A frown and stunned shock is there, somewhere.<
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While we speculate and stand there, staring in confusion, Aeson Kass steps forward on the platform and takes the microphone.
“Candidates,” he says—and his voice is exactly as cold and powerful as I somehow expected it to be. Gone is the soft calm timbre that I first heard during our brief exchange in my very first Combat Class, which he graced with his presence and in which he explained to me why Atlanteans must learn fighting and self-defense. Now he is all hardness and force, and for a moment I wonder if he is using a power voice.
“You are here because in the coming days not only will you continue your Qualification training, but you will be observed closely for evidence of criminal activity. Yesterday, three brave and remarkable human beings lost their lives. Three of our finest Fleet Pilots. Three of my beloved friends and brothers. They lost their lives, and I regretfully, once again—lived. Had I not piloted the second shuttle separately, I too would now be dust in your atmosphere.”
Aeson pauses. His words that have been ringing out like falling hammer blows, cease. If I did not know better, I might guess he is having trouble speaking. . . .
The stadium is in silence.
“Their names—their names are Chiar Nuridat . . . Felekamen Gori . . . Tiliar Vahad. Remember them well, for they died serving the Atlantis Fleet and serving you. Pilot First Rank, Chiar Nuridat, Allegiance to Red Quadrant, nineteen years old, seven years in the Fleet . . . Pilot Second Rank, Felekamen Gori, Allegiance to Yellow Quadrant, sixteen years old, five years in the Fleet . . . Pilot First Rank, Tiliar Vahad, Allegiance to Blue Quadrant, nineteen years old, seven years in the Fleet, astra daimon—my brother, not by blood but by heart.”
He pauses again. His voice never breaks but he stands up on the platform so motionless he could be an effigy. His face is blank—only his body is frozen in grief.
I glance away and see Logan’s face, which shows a wealth of emotion in that instant. It occurs to me, he must be thinking of his own brother Jeff, a real brother by blood, who is soon going to die in the service of his country.
[Atlantis Grail 01.0] Qualify Page 24
