And then Aeson Kass speaks again. “These brave Pilots lost their lives because a tiny crucial part was removed from the flight navigation console on their shuttle. This part is a program chip, smaller than the tip of my finger. We know this because all our vehicles transmit their operational status during flight—and so we knew exactly what was wrong. It was removed, and the shuttle was effectively disabled once it had reached a certain altitude and level of thrust. There were no means of recovery once the critical parameters were reached. A cascade reaction was initiated as a result, and the shuttle exploded.
“The same part was removed from my own shuttle. The only thing that saved it—and me—from a similar cascade and explosion was that I had not yet reached that specific altitude and thrust. And while I tried to regain control of the shuttle, it went into an unrecoverable spin that ended with me unconscious on the ground. I have no recollection, and no explanation, short of a miracle, as to why and how my shuttle landed without me. But in the process of this investigation, I fully intend to find out.”
As I listen to him say this, I find I am trembling with suppressed emotion. What that emotion is, I am unsure. But it makes me want to jump out of my own skin. . . .
Logan notices my state—he can probably feel me shaking, because his hand is still tightened around my arm. And he watches me with concern.
Meanwhile, Aeson Kass continues speaking.
“Know, that whoever is responsible for this coward act of sabotage and blatant murder, will be apprehended. If the persons responsible are present in this room—know that you will be found, and you will have to answer to me.” His final words fall like blades slicing. Aeson glances behind him and nods to the other Atlanteans standing on the platform. They step forward in unison while he moves aside.
“We are the Correctors assigned to this investigation,” one of them says, approaching the microphone. “You will get used to our presence on this campus. If you are stopped and questioned, you may not refuse or resist, on pain of Disqualification and incarceration. If you cooperate and are not found guilty, you will have nothing to worry about. As of this moment, we assume control of this Regional Qualification Center, under the supreme authority of Command Pilot Aeson Kass. He will have final say and final judgment. All else falls within our individual jurisdiction.”
The Corrector falls silent and retreats a step from the microphone.
Aeson Kass, who has been watching impassively, moves forward again. He speaks in conclusion—and is ruthless: “Candidates, you are now dismissed.”
“Okay, that was terrifying.” Laronda turns to me as we exit the Arena Commons super structure. “One thing I don’t get—how come he looks so strong and healthy?”
“Who?” I glance at her and avoid direct eye contact with Logan.
“He! That scary hottie VIP guy—Aeson Kass, ‘Phoebos,’ or whatever his nickname is.”
“Call sign.”
“Whatever.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I don’t know.”
“He should be beat up or something, don’t you think? Walking on crutches maybe. Bandages, scratches, anything!” Laronda muses out loud. “They say they carried him on a stretcher yesterday, all bloodied up. So how come he’s all recovered like that? Is that even human?”
I’m wondering the same thing. But then I think of what I know of Atlantean high-end medicine. The kind that’s available for their citizens only. . . .
“If they took him up to their starship and treated him with their high-tech medical equipment overnight, then it probably explains it. They must be able to work miracles!”
“You’re telling me!” Laronda continues to make her eye-popping face.
Logan takes the opportunity to interrupt. “Well, ladies,” he says, with a glance at the crowds of Candidates moving past us. “Have to apologize but I need to run. I see some people from my dorm walking right over there who I need to see, and then, my next class—so I will see you all later. All right?”
He looks at me as he ends speaking, and I nod silently.
“Bye, Logan!” Laronda drawls with a smile and a glance from me to him and back again.
I bite my lip. “Sure, see you later.”
Dawn just waves at him.
And Logan disappears in the crowd.
I wistfully stare in his wake and wonder what’s up.
Chapter 18
Everyone is super high-strung in Agility Training. The only consolation is, because of the assembly time cutting in we get an abbreviated version of the class.
But first, true to her drill sergeant form, Oalla Keigeri makes us run nine laps, which is two laps more than the previous day. We all struggle, and by lap seven hardly anyone is actually running—more like dragging ourselves in a slow walking “jog” around the perimeter of the gym hall.
I come in dead last once again. But at least I make Jack Carell, the heavy kid, really work for his second-to-last spot, locked in a dead heat with Janice Quinn, who manages to beat him at the last minute and comes in barely ahead of both of us.
Oalla approaches me to scan my token for the last-place demerit. For once her face is unreadable, and she barely registers my presence.
She is still grieving. . . .
For some reason I find it more frightening than having her wrath directed at me head-on.
Later, we get out the hoverboards and practice making sharp turns on a flat and level plane, sticking to six inches above the floor—no going up and down, thank goodness, so that my fear of heights gets to take the day off.
I notice Blayne Dubois, riding his hoverboard and generally keeping away from the rest of us, as he is practicing rather advanced maneuvers from his lying-flat position. His form is sleek and he looks focused and confident on that board.
At the end of the class, he once again pushes himself up by his hands and arms into the wheelchair, sends the hoverboard away and instantly becomes the same withdrawn and angry guy who slouches with his hair in his face, and who does not talk to anyone.
Once again I get the crazy impulse to approach him, but think better of it.
Instead I head upstairs to Atlantis Tech.
Mr. Warrenson starts out the class by teaching us a few more musical note sequences to orient and move levitating objects.
Laronda is not in my class today, so I am partnered with an older teen boy, Antwon Marks. Antwon has super dark skin and wears a smart earring in his left pierced nostril that has a gold chain running from it to the one in his ear.
It does not seem to interfere with his ability to make rich tenor notes that sound like honey.
We face each other across our desks, with pieces of orichalcum hovering at eye-level before us.
“ . . . Just think of it as playing ping-pong,” Mr. Warrenson tells the class. “See if you can attempt an avoidance exchange so that your pieces do not collide head-on as they approach, but go around each other smoothly. Remember, three quick staccato notes, followed by one long one, sustained . . . Minor note sequences if you want to maneuver below, Major note sequences to pass above. . . . Half-step up for a sharp note to go around and pass on the right. Half-step down for a flat note to go around and pass on the left.”
I face Antwon and try to sing the sequence, while gripping my hands in fists underneath the desk to mentally steady myself. Except, my lungs and throat are still sore from yesterday’s smoke inhalation, and I am unable to sing cleanly without breaking out into small fits of coughing after every few notes.
“Are you okay?” Antwon says, as I turn bright red from the effort to suppress the cough, then still end up coughing for yet another time in the span of five minutes.
“Yeah, sorry . . .” I choke out. “I think I might be getting a minor cold.”
“Yow, sounds more than minor to me. . . . Get some water.” Antwon’s expression is sympathetic. He then saves me by taking an extra turn to move his own levitating piece smoothly around the hovering obstacle of mine. His singing voice is beautiful and sends s
hivers down my back.
Next, Mr. Warrenson starts getting deeper into the physics and theory of it, so the class begins to wilt with boredom.
“The ability to hover its own weight plus carry additional weight is dependent on the mass of orichalcum present. For example, one cubic inch of pure orichalcum can support up to twenty pounds of weight in Earth’s gravity—”
I force myself to focus on what he is saying, because this is suddenly very important.
“Just imagine those hoverboards for a moment,” Mr. Warrenson says. “They are approximately seventy-two inches long, twelve inches across and two inches thick. How many pounds can each board support?”
“Oh, no . . . math . . . eeeew . . .” Someone moans from behind me.
I scribble some numbers in my notebook then raise my hand. “That would be 72 times 12 times 2, which is 1,728 cubic inches per hoverboard. And multiply that by 20 pounds, which makes it 34,560 pounds of weight! Oh, wow! One ton is 2,000 pounds so that makes it—”
“Yes, Ms. Lark, it makes it just over seventeen tons! One hoverboard can carry seventeen tons of freight,” Mr. Warrenson says with satisfied emphasis.
Next to me, Antwon Marks whistles.
Another boy raises his hand. I glance around and it’s Derek. He looks at me briefly with a light smirk then addresses Mr. Warrenson. “Wouldn’t that be overkill? Are these hoverboards pure orichalcum or do they make them part orichalcum part something else, to save money and resources?”
“Good question,” Mr. Warrenson says. “What is your name, Candidate?”
“Derek Sunder.”
“All right, Mr. Sunder, our assumption so far is that hoverboards are pure orichalcum. But as far as I know, no one has tested the specific seventeen-ton weight limit in the lab—at least not when I was on the original Atlantis tech research team. We know for a fact that a hoverboard can easily support several full-grown adults and stacked boxes of heavy equipment. But this is definitely something to consider and to verify. Hoverboards could just as well be made of only thin veneer layers of orichalcum applied over other inert materials.”
I raise my hand.
“Yes, Ms. Lark?”
“So, would it be possible to levitate an object with orichalcum that is just a minor part of its overall material, such as a lid on a box, or a piece of rope or something? Or, what about a person? How about an orichalcum belt—or even a belt buckle? Maybe, wrist bracelets or armbands? An orichalcum vest or harness?”
“Sure, and why not orichalcum underwear?” Someone snickers, and the whole class bursts out in nervous laughter.
I stare straight ahead and feel my cheeks begin to burn.
But Mr. Warrenson raises his hand to hush us. “Actually that is one of its experimental uses that we are trying to achieve. Orichalcum, in properly measured weight amounts, strategically worn on the body can theoretically create a commercial flying suit.”
“Yeah!” a girl says, clapping. “I could definitely use that kind of outfit!”
“We all can.” Mr. Warrenson turns to her. “Unfortunately there is one small problem, something I’ve mentioned before—the Atlanteans are just not willing to part with sufficient amounts of it for us to experiment on a large scale and actually make useful things. Plus, we’re unable to properly break down orichalcum under lab conditions. The only way we know of using it ‘raw’ is as the building-block material in their special type of 3D printers. In fact, we have a couple of these 3D printers here in the RQC, in the Arena Commons building, upstairs in the offices. . . .”
I listen with fascination—even managing to ignore Derek’s relentless stares in my direction—and now all kinds of weird idea gears are turning in my mind.
As soon as class ends, I decide I am going to go look for Gracie. I head downstairs, first stopping by the girls’ dorm floor to grab a sweatshirt for the evening chill. Yeah, I’ve learned my lesson about walking around in nothing but a sweaty T-shirt at night, and my throat is still sore from breathing in all that smoke yesterday—whatever it is, I cannot risk getting sick, not now, especially since I am expected to sing those dratted notes in class. . . .
On the first floor, Candidates are heading into the cafeteria to eat dinner. I see Laronda and Dawn, and wave to them as I hurry by. “I’m just going to see my sister,” I say.
“You go, girl!” Laronda winks at me meaningfully. Dawn, a girl of few words, gives me an amused silent look. I bet they think I’m off to meet up with Logan.
I roll my eyes at them then walk through the lobby and outside.
When I get to Red Dorm Five, and look around their Common Area lounge, Gracie’s not there. Neither is she upstairs on the third floor, when I head there. Girls with red tokens stare at me and my yellow token as I wander around past their beds, asking if “Grace Lark is here.”
“Her bed’s over there,” one girl tells me, pointing to an empty bed near the back of the hall. “But I think she’s gone to dinner.”
I glance at the made-up cot, see a familiar duffel bag of Gracie’s then look around the large dormitory hall, which looks exactly like my own dorm floor. “Thanks,” I say, and head back downstairs.
I peek inside the noisy cafeteria, and again, no sign of Gracie.
At this point I wonder if she’s gone to look for me, or our brothers. Okay, I think, she might be over at George’s Green Dorm Eleven which is way in the back of the compound. But Gordie’s Blue Dorm Two is closer, so I head there first.
As I walk between buildings in the brightly lit areas filled with other walking Candidates, I see more guards out on patrol tonight. The evening sky is deepening indigo. And from the direction of the airfield I hear the noise of helicopter blades cutting the air. With a sinking feeling, I wonder if those are military or police helicopters, and what they’re doing. . . . Are they working with the Atlantean Correctors on the investigation?
Blue Dorm Two has a large blue square logo up above the entrance. I go in, and once again, it looks identical to all the other dorms I’ve seen so far, down to the furniture and bland floor carpeting in the lobby. The lounge area is half-empty, since most people have gone in to eat. The Blue cafeteria is just as noisy, and I smell meatloaf, the same thing that they’re serving to us today in Yellow and Red.
I mill around, thinking. . . . To be honest, I am getting more and more uneasy. Where is Gracie, is she okay? It’s my bad that I didn’t immediately go after her when she ran off last night. And yeah, George could’ve been a teeny-tiny bit more helpful too. Really, what would Mom and Dad think of us, if they knew?
I take a big breath and peek inside the Blue cafeteria, and again, no sign of my sis. And no sign of Gordie either.
So I trudge upstairs to the second floor, boys’ dorm. I don’t feel comfortable going inside a dormitory possibly full of half-naked teen boys—nor, now that I think about it, am I even allowed to, according to the rules of conduct. So, at the doors, I ask some kid if Gordon Lark’s inside.
“Who?” the kid says, squinting at me.
“He goes by ‘Gordie,’”
“Okay, let me check.” The boy goes back inside while I wait. Then I hear him yelling out, “Yo! Gordie Lark! Hey, loser, some girl’s here to see you. Oooh!” And then I hear a few rude hoots and laughter.
Moments later, my younger brother peeks around the door sheepishly, adjusting his glasses over his nose, as usual. He’s in his jeans and dingy sweatshirt, with sweat stains around the neck and armpits.
“Gordie!”
“Oh,” he says, in some relief, seeing it’s just me. “Hey, Gee Two. What are you doing here?”
“Have you seen Gracie?”
“No. . . . Why?”
I exhale. Suddenly I feel a weird cold knot building in my stomach.
“I don’t know where she is. And I’m worried. She’s not at her dorm.”
“So? She’s probably just walking around. Have you tried the big Arena building?”
“No, should I?”
Gordie s
hrugs. He looks exhausted, and his face with its fading bruise on the upper cheek near the eye is extremely pale, except for the bruise itself, which is now turning purple-green. Ugh! Not to mention, he also slightly reeks. Oh, Gordie. . . .
I put my hands on my hips. “Gordon Lark, you look like a disaster. Have you had dinner yet? And a shower wouldn’t hurt either.”
“Heh? No . . . I’ve got homework to do. I’m not really hungry.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re always hungry! Okay, that’s it, we’re going downstairs right now and eating in your cafeteria.”
Gordie frowns . . . kind of freezes for a moment.
I stand at the doors, giving him my meanest older sibling look. “Let’s go, Gee Three, don’t make me drag your sorry butt,” I add. “You know I could, I’ve been working out!”
“Okay . . .” he mumbles, but he doesn’t look all that happy.
“Move it!” I say, and he finally starts walking.
Downstairs in the Blue cafeteria, there’s pretty much nobody I know. It’s packed and eventually I see a few faces that might be kids from our school back in Vermont, but I’m not one hundred percent sure.
Gordie looks sullen as he pushes his tray along the counter shelf stretching before the food bar. He gets his plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes from the server and I notice he’s keeping his head down and not looking around him at all. I’m right behind him, and finally we make it past the desserts, with cherry pie slices on our tray, and pour our drinks from the dispensers.
“See anyone you’d like to sit with?” I ask.
“No,” he replies, without even looking around to check who’s in the room.
Okay, now I’m really starting to wonder what’s going on.
We find an empty table off to the side and sit down. Without much ado, Gordie digs in hungrily, being entirely his usual, normal, pig-out self. So what was the problem?
“Gordie,” I say, lifting a forkful of meatloaf up to my face. “What’s up, now? Are you okay? Is everything okay?”
[Atlantis Grail 01.0] Qualify Page 25
