“Now what?” Blayne asks.
“Now I am going to show you limited mobility Er-Du Forms. Knowing the LM Forms might mean the difference between life and death for you during the Semi-Finals and hopefully Finals, if you advance.”
Saying this, Aeson comes around Blayne’s front, and faces the board, while I stand holding it and slightly off to the side. His body leans in, and he takes a variation of the Floating Swan, but intimately up-close to the board and Blayne.
“Look at me,” Aeson says to Blayne, and I watch the super-focused expression on the Atlantean’s face that has now become hard and merciless. “I am going to strike at you from both directions, and also from below and above. Your first lesson is to observe and memorize the possible moves that can be made in this position.”
“Okay,” Blayne whispers, with a frown of concentration.
Aeson’s dark blue eyes flash at me. “Lark—get ready, hold the board tight, and do not move unless instructed, or you will get hurt.”
And then he moves, throwing abbreviated controlled punches like lightning.
Chapter 22
Half an hour later, we are done. Blayne has learned several sparring counter-moves, and I have learned that standing immobile while holding in place a hovering object is hard work, especially when two opponents rain blows at each other inches away from me.
The hoverboard is “springy” when activated, and keeping it still and upright is not too different from trying to keep a highly buoyant object angled oddly while submerged underwater—it fights you every second and requires force and effort to keep it under.
“Good work, both of you,” Aeson says, stepping back, and I see the finest sheen of sweat on his forehead. So, I think, Command Pilot Kass is human after all.
For some reason, my gaze unconsciously slides to the side of his head that I remember being hurt during the shuttle incident, the place where so much blood covered his golden hair. I glance away quickly, but not before he notices me looking there. Or, at least, I think he does?
Oh, crap. . . . No one is supposed to know the exact location of his injury. No one would know unless they witnessed it. What if he now suspects me?
I try not to think in that direction. Instead I pretend to look around at the computer center consoles while I wait for what comes next.
Blayne is pouring sweat and his arms are trembling from the effort of alternately gripping the board and using his arms for sparring. He makes it to his wheelchair with the help of the hoverboard and sits down, hard.
There’s a brief pause.
Then I ruin things and open my big mouth. “Why don’t you let Blayne borrow the hoverboard all the time? He could get around so much easier if he had it—”
My words fade into silence.
Aeson is using a small towel to wipe his forehead, and now he turns to me with a hard look. “Your suggestion is noted. Unfortunately it is out of the question.”
“But why? It would be such a good thing!”
“Candidate Lark, are you questioning me?”
I gulp. And then, yeah, lord help me, I say it. “Yes . . . because there’s just no good reason why you should say no! I mean, it makes no sense why it shouldn’t be allowed, just a single hoverboard—”
Aeson stares at me, drops the towel on the nearest surface, then takes a step toward me. “Are you always like this?”
“Oh, yeah, she is,” Blayne says, shaking his head in mild disgust. He pushes hair from his face and looks down wearily.
I whirl around, to stare at him with a sudden rise of anger. “Oh, yeah? Well, considering I’m doing this for you, the least thing you could do is shut up!”
“Oh, jeez. . . .” Blayne puts his head down and passes his hand through his hair. “Please don’t do me any favors!”
“I am sorry,” I say. I take a deep breath and let the sudden “stupid” deflate out of me. I don’t know what it is about this whole Blayne situation that makes me crazy-stupid impulsive and makes me want to meddle and fix things that are not my business and that are beyond my control anyway.
“Look,” I add, “I really am sorry, and I know it is not my business to press, but it seems to me the logical thing to do, a perfect solution to a logistics problem, and maybe that’s why it drives me nuts to see a perfectly good tool not being used in a capacity where it can truly help—”
As I speak, Aeson looks at me in what can only be mild amazement. It occurs to me, he is not used to anyone contradicting him often, if ever.
Finally he cranes his neck to the side slightly and interrupts my tirade. “Enough. You have expressed yourself, and because you are a civilian and don’t know better, I have allowed it. And now, you will no longer speak on this subject unless you would like to be disciplined again. Is that understood, Candidate?”
I nod. “Yes.”
Aeson’s lips curve into a shadow-smile. It is dark, sarcastic, confident, and very scary. “Good. Now, because you are in an unusual position of not knowing better, and you’ve indeed asked me a logical question, I am going to answer you. But only this once.” He pauses, examining me, my minute reaction.
I remain still, not giving him any excuse.
“The main reason I cannot permit hoverboard use outside the classrooms and training halls is because we cannot afford to let even one orichalcum-based piece of technology to go missing and fall into the wrong hands, and potentially be stolen from this compound. Yes, I know Candidate Dubois is responsible and would never intentionally misplace or misuse the hoverboard. However, he sleeps at night, and cannot be vigilant around the clock.”
I glance at Blayne and he is listening carefully.
“The second reason,” Aeson says, “is that there can be no favoritism displayed in the process of Qualification. If I let Dubois fly around on this thing, even with his legitimate need-based reason, I would set a precedent. Other Candidates would make rightful demands to be allowed equal use of hoverboards, and that’s something we cannot do. There are other reasons, but these are the main ones, and I hope—Candidate Lark—that I have satisfied your need for a logical explanation.”
He grows silent, and watches me again.
“Yes, thank you,” I say in a subdued voice.
“Good. Now, you are both dismissed for today, and I will see you both back here tomorrow night, at the beginning of your Homework Hour. We’ll work from eight to eight thirty. In the meantime, you are not to speak of the nature of this activity to anyone, because again, I want no Candidate speculation about preferential treatment. If asked, you may say you are meeting with Instructors to get help with your homework.”
Blayne nods, and starts pushing his wheelchair to the door. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Kass,” he says.
“Command Pilot Kass is the proper address,” Aeson tells Blayne, but without reproach.
“Sorry, Command Pilot Kass,” Blayne mutters. “Thank you for all the work you put in with me. I am sorry to be taking up your time—”
“No problem.” And Aeson nods at him curtly with what is nearly a smile.
I see that brief fleeting smile and it is remarkable what a difference it makes to the hard angular lines of Aeson’s face. No sarcasm, no provocation, just openness. Like a burst of sunlight, just as quickly hidden by the usual cloud-mass. . . .
“If it’s permitted to ask,” I say, lingering at the door after holding it open for Blayne despite his raised brows. “Why am I here? Why not someone else more suitable to help him train? There are plenty of big strong guys in our dorm who would do a better job.”
Aeson turns to me once, before returning to his observation consoles and plural surveillance screens. He is tall, pale, reserved, and there are definite signs of exhaustion on his face. It’s the only hint that he’d been seriously injured just recently, and may still be unwell—or at least not one hundred percent, healthwise.
“I could tell you it’s to keep an eye on you, Lark,” he says in a bland voice. “But really, there isn’t a particularly
exciting explanation. Don’t flatter yourself, you’re not that interesting. The simple fact is, you happened to be here already, and you are sufficiently up to the task. As your Instructors say, you might have something—some quirk, some potential. So now, by all means, show me you are not merely an unremarkable teenager with an inability to keep her mouth shut, and with poor impulse control. Prove me wrong. Now—dismissed.”
And he turns away, leaving me to stare in outrage.
Stunned at his put-down, I exit silently and close the office door behind me. Blayne is nowhere in sight on the walkway. I suspect he found the elevator.
It’s getting late, about an hour before final curfew, and I still need to run a few laps for homework.
Numb and beyond exhausted, I frown and think, and mull over what has just happened, as I walk down to the arena level. Crazy events of the last few days, one after another, have taken their toll on me.
And now—now I am so angry. . . .
He thinks I am unremarkable, with poor impulse control.
I am not that interesting.
For some weird reason, this, more than anything, really stings. I take it so personally that it becomes the worst thing anyone has ever told me. Worse than being bullied and persecuted by the alpha crowd, called disparaging names, being kicked and pinched and having my belongings damaged. Worse—because deep inside, my self-worth hinges on being considered smart and capable and outstanding. I can endure being a clumsy laughingstock, but not having my mental achievements put into question.
Let me confess—teachers, adults who know me, have always gushed over my intelligence, my aptitude for learning, my level of knowledge and critical thinking skills.
I’m an honor student, for the love of Pete! No one, no one has ever called me unremarkable.
I seethe, as I get to the running track, and the anger acts as the perfect seasoning to my bitter running mood.
I take off in one of the lanes, and hardly anyone else is there. Maybe two guys and a straggler girl finish up their jogging laps.
Breathing hard in just a few seconds, I pound the floor of the track, feeling my blisters sting with each awkward step.
Another minute and I am lightheaded, as I stop and walk periodically, then run again, dragging myself forcibly forward and forward.
If only I could escape the thing inside me, the new sense of insecurity, of sudden disorientation.
But all I can do is run.
And then I get back to Yellow Dorm Eight, a few minutes before 10:00 PM curfew, and barely manage to crawl into bed, before lights out.
At least I get to avoid everyone’s questions.
The next morning I am so sickly-tired and emotionally wrung-out, I can barely get out of bed. The 7:00 AM claxon alarm pounds in my head, and I just lie there while the girls’ dormitory comes awake.
“Hey, are you okay there, Gwen?” Laronda leans over me, still in her sleeping shirt, holding her dried-overnight underwear and clothes in a bunch. “What happened yesterday? That awful punishment, what was it? Did you get hurt? What did he do to you?”
I squint and blink up at her and at the overhead light that’s shining directly in my eyes. How stupid was that, picking a bed right underneath the overhead light? Did I really think I’d have time for reading in bed?
Disgusted at myself, I moan and mutter something.
“Hey, seriously, girl, are you unwell?” Laronda bends forward over me and puts the back of her hand over my forehead to check for temperature.
“Nah, thanks, I’m okay, just seriously dead after yesterday.”
“What happened?”
I turn my head and there’s Hasmik, sitting on her bed next to me. She looks tired and unwell, but at least she’s not green.
“Gwen,” Hasmik says. “Gwen, akhchik jan, thank you so much for trying to help me yesterday. I am so sorry you got in trouble. So sorry!” And she leans forward and takes my arm and squeezes it gently.
I smile weakly at her, then make the effort to sit up.
“So, tell us! What happened?” Laronda is relentless.
“I had to stand balanced on one foot and then the other for about half an hour, like an idiot. It was painful hell. And then I had to go up to their offices, was chewed out, and dismissed. Then I stopped by an Instructor’s office for help with homework. That’s about it. It just seems like it took forever and I did my running homework at the arena track.”
“Wow.” Laronda shakes her head at me in a motherly fashion. “Poor baby. So how was he? The evil Atlantean prick, whassisname?”
“Aeson Kass.” I shrug, and feel a rush of anger return at the thought of him. “Pardon me—Command Pilot Aeson Kass,” I mock.
“Did he say anything about Disqualification?”
I consider what I should or should not say at this point. “He basically told me to keep my mouth shut and behave in the future. And you’re right, he is a jerk.”
“He’s kind of good looking . . .” Hasmik says suddenly. “A cute jerk.”
I look up. “Oh, please. He’s just full of himself.”
And on that note I pick up my clothes and head to the bathroom.
This is day five of Qualification, and first period Agility class finds me in a rotten mood, a combination of exhaustion, muddled anger, and general nerves. Blayne Dubois ignores me completely as he does his usual hoverboard maneuvers away from the rest of us. It’s as if last night never happened.
I climb the different levels of scaffolding and barely make it across a few rungs of the parallel bars before slipping off, and yeah, yet another stinking demerit is mine.
However, a minor moment of triumph happens during our running laps. Oalla increases the number of our laps yet again, from eleven to thirteen. And for the first time, as I stumble to the finish line, I am not last. Somehow I manage to pass both Janice Quinn and Jack Carell, and frankly I don’t know which one of them gets the demerit.
Wow! It’s a strange and amazing small victory. I think Oalla gives me an interesting look as for once she passes me by to scan another person’s token.
As a result I feel somewhat better as I head to the next period.
Which is Atlantis Tech, and it starts out really boring. Mr. Warrenson goes on and on about the importance of being in tune when making the musical tone commands. He also tests us for pitch perception, using a larger version of the Atlantean sound gadget that was used during Preliminary Qualification back at school to make us repeat the “eeee” sounds. This thing takes up half the desk, and looks like a strange malformed lump of silvery rock on the surface of which occasional colored lights come to life.
“One at a time, please,” Mr. Warrenson says. “Come up here and place your fingers on the surface, right here. Then you will sing a scale exactly like the sound unit does. Listen, then repeat!”
We go up there, one by one, and when it’s done, Mr. Warrenson tells us that although we can all replicate the sounds very well, only three of us in this class have perfect pitch, according to the device.
“Candidates whose names I call, have earned a credit today. Come up here and I will scan your tokens—Antwon Marks, Claudia Grito, and Gwenevere Lark.”
Okay, I admit I did not see that one coming. Especially considering that when it was my turn up there, I barely squeaked out the notes. . . .
But it makes me feel good! Yet another good thing today, to partially make up for all the yuck of the previous days. Not only did I not get a demerit, but a credit—my first one!
I am also majorly psyched on Antwon’s behalf—he totally deserves it with his amazing honey voice, not to mention he’s a great guy. On the other hand, seeing Claudia swagger up there to get her token scanned with a credit puts a minor damper on things. . . .
Soon, it’s lunch hour, and as I walk through the Common Area lounge, my confidence almost back, I see Claudia, Olivia, and Ashley watching me. They balance sitting on sofa backs, legs dangling, and Claudia’s piercings glitter metallic as she taps the sofa wit
h the fingers of one hand. Her upper arms are sleek and well-toned and her shoulders look tough in that black tank top she’s wearing.
“So, Gwen-baby. Perfect pitch, eh?” she drawls mockingly, craning her neck slightly to cut me down with her tough street look. “How about you and me sing it out, later tonight, to see who’s really perfect?”
I stop and look at her. “What?”
“What? What? Hard of hearing? I thought you had perfect pitch.”
I shake my head, not sure how to respond.
“Cat’s got your tongue too?” Claudia is really laughing now, and Ashley and Olivia have their hands up over their mouths in hard, mean giggles.
“She’s obviously deaf and dumb, chicas. That stupid Atlantis audio device really screwed up when it picked her. I bet she mewls when she sings.”
And Claudia makes cat meowing noises at me. Ashley and Olivia pick it up and echo her.
I stand there, genuinely dumbstruck and the cold sickness is back in my gut, twisting like a knife.
A few other hashtaggers show up, including Wade and Derek. “What’s up, what’s happening here?” Derek says, walking up from behind me. He’s sweaty from class and his sharp scent mixed up with aftershave seems to surround me. I cringe away involuntarily, and he notices it and moves in even closer with his big muscular arms, so that I have to step away, which brings me unfortunately closer to Claudia.
“What’s happening,” Claudia says, “is that our girlfriend Gwen here doesn’t want to sing with me tonight. See, we have perfect pitch, both of us, and we’re gonna have us a sing-off.”
“No, we aren’t . . .” I mutter.
“Oh, yeah?” Derek says. “You’re going to sing, Gwen-baby. Because our Claudia says so. And because I say so. You got that?” And he leans in my face with his hard unblinking glare.
“I’m not doing anything,” I say softly. “Get away from me.”
They exchange glances, and then Derek grins at me, baring his teeth. “You’re going to sing, or else. Seven o’clock, outside this dorm, in the back. Be there.”
[Atlantis Grail 01.0] Qualify Page 29
