As we’ve been told earlier, our performance over the past four weeks has been evaluated by all of our Instructors. Various achievement factors—some that we might guess, such as “voice,” “agility,” “weapons combat,” and others that we probably can’t even imagine—are all added up into an overall combined Achievement Total for each Candidate. These Achievement Totals are then ranked in order. And this is what determines each Candidate’s standing in the whole RQC—the Standing Score.
Since there are 6,023 Candidates in the Pennsylvania RQC-3, the highest possible Standing Score is #1 and the lowest Standing Score is #6,023.
What does that mean?
Let’s just say that if you are the Candidate whose Standing Score is #1, then you are probably going to Qualify (and most of the rest of us are going to hate your guts).
And if you’re that pathetic last-place Candidate #6,023 with the really lousy overall combined AT score, then there is very little chance that you will get through the Semi-Finals unscathed.
However—we are also told—these Standing Scores are only valid before the Semi-Finals.
They determine the entry order, not the final outcome.
So, yeah, there’s still hope, even for that poor Candidate who is ranked dead last.
Only—what the heck is this entry order, and why it matters so much, we still don’t know.
But we’re about to find out.
Chapter 29
When we get downstairs to the Yellow Dorm Eight lounge, there’s already a crowd. A line of anxious Candidates has formed before a smart-board that has been set up on one wall.
The board touch-screen displays all our names alphabetically in an endless scroll on the bottom strip. Apparently it’s not only the people in our Dorm but the whole RQC.
Each name is followed by a number, like this: Doe, Jane – #123. In case of duplicate names, the Dorm is also listed.
Meanwhile, the upper portion of the board lists our own Dorm residents only, in vertical columns of five, and three across.
If you don’t see your name, you swipe the screen for more, and keep going until you find it. Then, press your name, and it displays your Standing Score in a large font. Below it is another smaller number that represents the Achievement Total. Press the AT, and you get the detailed breakdown of all the achievement factors that went into that sum.
“Oh, great,” Laronda says. “Just what we need, public humiliation. Now everyone can see each of my ultra-lousy scores.”
“Wonder why they didn’t just scan our tokens and tell us privately?” I say.
“Too much hassle, I bet,” Dawn says. “I imagine they don’t want to read off every single detail to six thousand people. Besides, this is public knowledge anyway, might as well know our competition.”
We get in line. Good thing today is not a full day of classes, otherwise we’d be late. Each Candidate at the board takes their sweet time, it seems, jotting down their scores and taking notes, and probably looking up other people they know in other dorms. Good thing they don’t give you the whole RQC’s detailed breakdown data, else we’d be here forever.
“Please don’t take up too much time, Candidates! Look up your own info only, and stand aside—be considerate of others. You can come back later in the day to see it again, this board is not going away anytime soon. Talk to us if you have any questions,” John Nicolard says. The Dorm Leaders are standing off to the side watching this zoo.
About twenty minutes later, I finally get my turn at the board. I swipe, and there’s Lark, Gwenevere – #4,796. And below it is the AT score: 77.
I press the AT score and the screen reforms to show me the breakdown. Fifteen achievement factors are displayed in three columns of five items:
Agility – 3
Voice – 10
Forms – 6
Weapons – 5
Culture – 7
Creativity – 7
Intelligence – 7
Strength – 3
Speed – 4
Flexibility – 4
Balance – 4
Cooperation – 6
Assertion – 5
Endurance – 3
Leadership – 3
Below it also lists the Average of all the fifteen items, which for me is: 5.13. And considering what that means . . . it means I’m pretty much just barely squeaking above average even in my Average—if that makes any sense, sorry about the bad attempt at pathetic verbal humor. Furthermore, if not for my one single stratospheric Voice score, I’d be way below average.
I quickly jot down the numbers into my notebook, and get out of the way for the next person in line—who happens to be Laronda.
As I stand waiting for the others, I ponder my kind-of-not-so-hot Standing Score.
By now, the Dorm Leaders are surrounded by Candidates who have picky specific questions about their scores, and it gets so crazy that Mark Foster puts his hands up. “Whoa!” he says loudly. “Okay, I’m kind of getting tired of saying ‘I don’t know’ so listen up, everyone! All the rest of your detailed questions will be answered today at the 1:00 PM assembly over at the Arena Commons Building. Be there on time and everything will be explained!”
“What about the fifteen achievement factors?” an older boy asks. He’s one of the alpha crowd jocks, a friend of Wade and Olivia. “Can’t you at least say what those little numbers mean? I got ‘Strength – 6’ so what does that mean? Is ‘6’ good or bad?”
“Higher numbers are better,” Gina Curtis says. “It’s 1 to 10, with 10 being best. Okay? Are we clear now?”
“Yeah, but is ‘6’ a good score? It’s kind of in the middle, and I am way strong, I’m telling you! I mean—”
“Safe bet—that boy did not get anything above a ‘5’ in Intelligence,” Laronda whispers, rolling her eyes.
We get out of the dorm lounge eventually, after getting our daily schedules scanned by a very harassed looking officer at the info desk. Everyone’s classes are short today, due to the assembly.
“So what Standing Score did you guys get?” Hasmik says. “I get #5,023. Not really good . . . I think?”
“Mine’s not that far off,” I say, and I tell them my own score.
Laronda shrugs. “These things are really stupid and sad. I got #3,704, which is nonsense, because I suck at everything.”
“Hey, I suck more.” I grin.
“It’s okay, you all suck,” Dawn says.
Laronda punches Dawn in the arm. “Okay, so then what did you get?”
Dawn shrugs. “Nothing. Same suckage as everyone.”
“No, tell us!”
But Dawn just turns around and waves, as she heads to her first period class.
“Wow, wonder what she got. . . .” Laronda frowns with concern. “Hope it’s not too awful. Poor thing.”
There’s not that much time to blab, so I make my way to my first period, which is Atlantis Culture. This is the last Culture class before Semi-Finals, since tomorrow is actually a free day.
Yeah, imagine that, insane, I know. . . . The Atlanteans actually allocated us a whole free personal day, a sort of mini-vacation before we get to fry in the unholy purgatory that is Semi-Finals. It’s supposed to be a day of rest, a day for us to recuperate . . . pray maybe . . . or party . . . or maybe just sleep in. Tomorrow we get to do whatever it is that will help each one of us prepare for the ordeal.
But first, this class.
Nefir Mekei comes into the classroom and we all stare at him, expecting some last-minute words of wisdom. But all he says is, “Good luck to all of you, Candidates. It has been a pleasure having you in my class and sharing my native world with you.”
He stands before the desk that is filled with scrolls and old books—things he never once referred to or even acknowledged, for all of the last four weeks.
That’s when I raise my hand and just have to ask. “Is there anything in those books we should know? What are they? And the scrolls too, how ancient they must be!”
Nefir glances at me with a blooming smile. It changes his stark, somewhat off-putting usual expression to that of animated welcome.
“Thanks for asking, Gwen. I was wondering how long it would be until any one of you would say something about these old treasures from Atlantis. . . .”
“Oh,” I mumble. “I was wondering from day one, but didn’t think to ask, for some reason.”
“These are copies of copies of copies . . . of some of the original written records that we have brought with us from old Earth. We rescued them from destruction when we first escaped Earth and headed for the precious new habitable world in the constellation of Pegasus that later became known as the planet Atlantis. They are some of the oldest written things known to the homo sapiens race, older than the cuneiform tablets and most of the cave paintings.”
“Oh, wow!” I exclaim, and so do many of the other Candidates in the room.
“For the rest of this class,” Nefir says, “feel free to come up here and look. I hope they might inspire you for the Semi-Finals.”
I spring up from my seat to approach the desk, and I’m the first person there.
Next up is Agility. We gather downstairs in the Training Hall gym, and Oalla Keigeri greets us with a blast of her whistle.
We line up, ready to run laps, but instead it looks like this class is going to be different too.
“Attention, Candidates!” Oalla says, pointing to a large box that sits on the floor near the weights training area. “Since you’ve trained for all these four weeks under the color of the Yellow Quadrant, it’s time you showed your allegiance properly—not only by the color of your token but as a traditional armband worn proudly on your sleeve, as we do in Atlantis.”
We stare at the box and apparently it is full of fabric swatches of yellow.
“Candidates, line up and get your armband! Once you pick up the material, I will show you how to wrap it around your sleeve. Go!”
I follow the rest of the class in line, and when my turn comes, I reach in and select a piece of bright yellow fabric that looks like all the rest of them, a wide ribbon.
We line up again, this time holding our armbands in our fingers.
“This is how you do it—watch!” And Oalla removes her own yellow armband that she always wears, so it collapses into a wide ribbon. She then again wraps it around her left upper arm sleeve twice, then tucks in the ends underneath so that they stick against each other—apparently they have some kind of special bonding edges.
“Remember, left arm! Wrap loosely so as not to cut off your circulation! Make sure that the ends are hidden away and neatly connected underneath! This is how you will wear it over your uniform on the day of Semi-Finals!”
I attach my own armband, feeling a strange sense of suddenly belonging, of being grounded and real. I know it’s a false feeling, and nothing is certain, especially now. But it really brings everything home suddenly. . . .
I am either going to die, or I will be a space-faring Atlantean.
Agility Class is also dismissed early and we go to Atlantis Tech while it’s still over an hour before lunch. Apparently they are compressing the day so that we have the long assembly only remaining to us after the last class ends at noon.
Mr. Warrenson is already waiting for us in the classroom as we come in, and before all the seats are even taken he begins talking.
“All right, folks, this is it, last class before Semi-Finals!” he says in an even more rushed and nervously excited voice than usual. “There are still so many other things I could teach you, to give each and every one of you a decent advantage, but this is all the time we have. This was a crash course in Atlantis sound technology, a practical hands-on approach was all we could do, naturally—”
Mr. Warrenson goes on and on for about five minutes, trying to summarize dozens of sound command sequences, as though he expects to cram them firmly and permanently into our heads at the last minute, yes, if only he just repeats them one more time.
The class begins to space out very soon, but I try to listen very closely to pick up any last minute information.
“Now, you need to understand,” Mr. Warrenson says. “The keying sequence is one of your strongest tools in this. You need to be precise in each note you sing, remember the correct intervals, and do not hesitate! The first person to key an orichalcum object claims it!”
Antwon Marks raises his hand. “What can we expect at the Semi-Finals? Will we be keying hoverboards or anything else, um . . . larger?” And he throws a glance at me.
Yeah, at this point everyone is aware of my so-called shuttle levitation demo. They may not know about my role in saving Aeson Kass and landing his damaged shuttle during the sabotage incident, but they know this. I’m the girl with the “super voice.” Poor Antwon probably wonders if that kind of thing might be on our test.
“I wish I could tell you.” Mr. Warrenson sighs, wiping his balding forehead. “I really, really do. But I am not allowed, and to be honest, I don’t even know the full extent of what’s been scheduled. Common sense should tell you to expect hoverboard use and some keying of orichalcum objects. Anything we learned in our class is fair game for the Semi-Finals.”
There isn’t much more we get out of Mr. Warrenson. Class is over while he still fusses with last minute advice and nervously repeats things we already know as we exit the room.
I turn and notice the look in his eyes as he finally trails off into silence and watches us. It is sad, sympathetic, and gentle. . . .
Mr. Warrenson knows most of us are going to die.
Last class is Combat.
I make it downstairs to the Training Hall early, and I’m one of the first ones there. I look around and there’s Keruvat Ruo and Oalla Keigeri, standing off to the side talking quietly. Their expressions are solemn and serious—even more so than usual.
As the rest of the Candidates arrive, the Atlantean Instructors finally acknowledge us.
“Candidates, line up!” Oalla blows her whistle.
We rush to stand in the two familiar double rows. By now it’s second nature to assume our still, orderly stances, ready to begin Forms with the Floating Swan.
But once again, something out of the ordinary happens in this last class.
“Today we will go through the Forms drill and then the weapons—the whole thing, only once,” Keruvat tells us. “But first you will learn a new and final Form for your level that is an ancient Salute in Er-Du. The Salute is done as a sign of respect to your equal or your superior.”
“This means,” Oalla says, “that at your stage of Er-Du training, all of you Candidates for Qualification salute only your Instructors and each other. And before Combat, you salute your honorable opponent. However—you do not salute if your opponent has exhibited a lack of honor. And you do not salute your inferiors.”
I take a deep breath and raise my hand. “Who are our inferiors?”
Oalla and Keruvat turn to look at me. “Candidate Gwen Lark, do you really want an answer or are you just being your usual self?” Oalla says.
“I really want an answer,” I say, wondering what in the world is that supposed to mean, “being your usual self,” and why the sudden barb from the Atlantean girl.
“Your inferiors are those who have no training to match yours. That goes for any field, not only Er-Du.” Oalla pauses, as though considering if she should speak any more. But then she decides to continue. “Your inferiors on Atlantis will be most native non-citizens, even though all of you too are immigrating under a non-citizen status. Is that clear?”
I nod—even as she turns away, already ignoring me—even though a dark feeling is gathering in the pit of my stomach. . . . Once more I am reminded of the strange non-equal status of citizens and non-citizens in Atlantis society.
And I am reminded of the Games of the Atlantis Grail. . . .
“Now I will show you the Salute.” Keruvat’s deep voice brings me out of my dark reverie.
The tall dark Atlantean demonstrates
the brief Form of the Salute. It consists of four elements.
First, he steps to the side with his right foot, widening his stance, and at the same time brings two fists together, knuckles touching, arms bent at chest-level. Second, he opens the fists, palm out, and touches the tips of the thumbs and index fingers to each other so that the empty space between the two hands forms a triangle.
Third, he closes the two palms together, thumbs still pointing away from the other fingers at a right angle, and draws the “praying” hands closer so that only the thumbs touch the middle of the chest. At the same time he bends his head down so that the tips of the fingers touch the forehead, while bending the knees into a semi-bow.
Fourth, he separates the hands, lifting them outward into a sweeping arc, and returns them palms down at his sides, at the same time as he straightens and brings the right leg back in, feet together.
“This is the Salute of Atlantis! Now, repeat, with me!”
Keruvat and Oalla both do the Salute, facing each other, and all of us attempt to copy their motions.
“Again!”
And we stomp our feet and mimic the Salute, better this time.
“Again!” Third time is the charm.
“You will make the Salute perfectly on the day of the Semi-Finals.” Oalla says curtly. “Now, practice!”
Lunch is an abbreviated affair also, and we only get forty minutes.
We all stampede to the cafeteria. I see Dawn and Tremaine and Hasmik at a table in the back, and join them with my own tray piled with burgers and fries.
This habit of chowing down on huge meals seems to be with us now, because of the amount of calories we apparently burn on a daily basis. No one has gained an ounce of weight even though we’re eating twice our normal amounts, and in some cases more.
Instead, after a month of this boot camp lifestyle, there’s a buildup of muscle. Even I feel the small new muscles in my previously wimpy, skinny arms. And my calves and thighs have new strength and some definition.
[Atlantis Grail 01.0] Qualify Page 38
