“So, what you ladies think of the Standing Score situation?” Tremaine says, with a mouth full of burger. “Any ideas how they’re gonna implement this for the Semi-Finals? Heard any good rumors, at least?”
Dawn shrugs her usual. “Not really.”
“Well,” I say, swallowing my own mouthful of fries. “There’s probably going to be some kind of advantage given to people with the best scores.”
“Keep in mind, they are going to live-stream the whole thing.” Tremaine shakes his head. “So it’s what, death match reality TV? Will we be fighting each other or something, like gladiators in the arena?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Otherwise, why teach us Combat?”
“There are hoverboards too,” Hasmik says.
“So we fight on hoverboards?”
“I hope not,” I mutter. “But hope’s such a bitch.”
“I got a #2,985 Standing Score,” Tremaine says. “It can swing in either direction for me. What about you?”
“You don’t wanna know,” Hasmik and I both say together. Dawn just stares into her plate and chews something.
Claxons indicate five minutes before 1:00 PM, so off we go to the assembly.
It’s a bright sunny day, and the sky is clear, as we pour outside from our dorms, an endless stream of Candidates mingling, our tokens lit up in all four colors.
As I walk, I feel a familiar touch on my shoulder from behind. I turn around, and Logan is smiling at me. He’s wearing his black jeans and T-shirt and no jacket, so the first thing I see are his olive-tanned muscular arms, beautiful and powerful. Immediately I remember the hard feel of them around me during our stolen moments together. . . . His dark hair picks up reddish glints in the sun, which gather into a nimbus of rare secret color. I stare into his warm hazel eyes, and jolts of electricity pass through me. . . . He is so handsome it kills me every time, just to look at him, just to think that we are together.
“Hey, you,” he says, leaning close in to my ear, and suddenly his expression is intense and serious. “I missed you.”
“Hey, you . . . me too,” I whisper. And then his hand briefly slips into mine, pressing my fingers, then releases with a sweeping caress up my wrist—that sends more sweet electric currents coursing through me—and we continue walking, jostled by the crowd.
“What Standing Score did you get?” he asks me.
I tell him my pitiful score and he reaches out and squeezes my fingers again.
“And you?” I am almost afraid to ask this question. I really, really hope Logan’s score is a good one. I couldn’t bear it he got a low score.
Logan takes a deep breath before telling me, and seems embarrassed. “I got #143.”
“What?” I am so excited I momentarily stop walking, and people run into me. “OMG, Logan!” I exclaim, and I’m beaming. “That’s such a great score! That’s amazing! You’ll qualify for sure! You’re like the top—the top whatever!”
I put my hand on his upper arm, feeling his warm hard muscles, and I press my fingers against his skin. . . .
He shrugs, but there’s a tiny smile on his lips. “It’s good, I guess, but again, it doesn’t mean much. These scores are no guarantee of anything, only some kind of an advantage going into the Semi-Finals, that’s it.”
But I am grinning at him, and I am so crazy-happy that he cannot help but stare back at me with his warm regard that turns his eyes to sweet honey. . . .
The Arena Commons super structure is packed with over six thousand people, the whole arena floor, the track, the sidelines, everything. As we arrive, there is standing room only, and I am reminded of the assembly during the first week right after the shuttle explosion incident, when we were called in here and addressed by Command Pilot Aeson Kass.
I wonder briefly where Aeson is now, and whether he will be up there again on that platform addressing us today. And then I wonder why I should even be thinking about him. . . .
Logan and I attempt to squeeze in closer to the center of the stadium floor. I see my brother George standing with some of his dorm-mates whose names I don’t know, except for one older girl, Amy Calver, a pretty curvaceous redhead with whom George’s been hanging around lately. Their tokens are all blazing green.
“George!” I wave, and he turns and beckons us with his hand. Amy waves also.
“Have you seen Gracie or Gordie?” I ask nervously, pushing past people to reach him. “What Standing Scores did you all get? Mine’s a crappy #4,796.”
“Hey, that’s not so bad,” George says, while his expression is forcibly calm, and I can tell he is trying hard to make me feel better. “Mine is #3,298. Middle of the road, I guess. What about you, Sangre?”
I start to tell him Logan’s amazing score, but Logan gives me a modest and quick “no” look and a meaningful brow raise. He then mutters something about getting by and skillfully changes the subject.
We chat nervously, while the crowd of Candidates grows, and we watch the elevated platform that remains empty. Finally, several Earth officials ascend the platform stairs. There are no Atlanteans among them. Moments later a microphone sounds with reverb in the great stadium space, as one of the officials speaks to address the crowd.
“Candidates for Qualification at Pennsylvania Regional Qualification Center Three. You are gathered here after four weeks of arduous training that has prepared you for the Qualification Semi-Finals. We trust you are in good spirits and good health, because the day after tomorrow will require all your effort, focus and strength. There are some things you need to know in advance of Semi-Finals.”
The man pauses, as whispers pass in waves through the crowd.
“First, you need to know your odds. There are 6,023 Candidates in this Regional Qualification Center. Only two hundred of you will pass Semi-Finals to advance to the Finals. Let me repeat that. Only two hundred Candidates out of six thousand and twenty-three.”
Anxious voices swell in the stadium. . . .
“These are the same odds for all the RQCs across the country and around the world. That’s how many Candidates will compete in the Finals from each of the RQCs. And of those two hundred, only one half—that’s just one hundred of you per RQC—will actually win the final spots on the ships heading for Atlantis.”
There is a pause. The speaker lets it sink in, and we are stunned. For some reason, although we knew the competition was going to be tough, we had no idea how tough.
“Oh, well then, we’re screwed,” says one of George’s dorm-mates.
Everyone’s looking around, looking at each other, and everyone’s got the same evaluating nervous stare. Will the person next to me make it? Will I make it?
“All right,” I say suddenly. Not sure what it is, but something weird prompts me to open my usual big mouth. “We knew the odds were sucky going in. So, nothing has changed. We are still going to try as hard as we can! All of us. . . . Right?” And I look around at my brother, at Logan, the others nearest to me, at their faces full of depression.
Yeah, great going, idiot cheerleader Gwen.
Meanwhile the official on the podium is telling us more unpleasant stuff.
“I was instructed by the Atlantis Central Agency to inform you that you have one day, tomorrow, to rest and prepare for the Semi-Finals. As you know, there are no classes tomorrow, and your time is yours, up to the 10:00 PM curfew. However you will be ready at 8:00 AM sharp the following morning, which is Semi-Finals day.
“Your instructions for that morning are the following. You must wear the standard grey uniform that you were issued on your first night here. You must wear the armband with the color of your Quadrant, and your ID token. You must line up, in order of your Standing Score number, at the doors of this building at 8:00 AM. Further instructions will be given on the day of Semi-Finals, and no earlier. Do not attempt to find out ahead of time, and do not attempt to circumvent or cheat the process in any way, or you will be Disqualified.”
As the official speaks, the sea of Candidates is fil
led with turbulent whispers.
“The Semi-Finals will begin at 8:00 AM local time and end at 5:00 PM local time, in every time zone. You will also need to know that the entire Semi-Finals process will be televised and fed to the various media, for the whole nine hours from start to finish. Every moment of your progress will be recorded and transmitted via live-feed. For obvious reasons—since there are about one hundred sixty-seven thousand Regional Qualification Centers worldwide—not every RQC will be shown on the main prime time broadcast, with the exception of special highlights, although every site will have a dedicated pay-per-view channel and net feed available for the general public. However—and this is where it becomes important for all of you here present—Pennsylvania Regional Qualification Center Three has been selected for prime time feed, together with ten others. Which means that the eyes of the nation and the world will be on you even more so than on other sites.”
The noise in the stadium swells up another notch.
“Interesting,” George says. “I wonder why they chose us out of so many thousand others?”
“I have a pretty good idea.” Amy Calver glances at George. I notice how she seems to stare directly into his eyes, and her own eyes open really wide every time she looks at my brother.
“What?” George looks back at her. His expression when he meets her eyes is pretty interesting too, I note.
“It’s because of that Atlantean big shot Command Pilot, whassisname,” she says. “He’s always here, every day, apparently. We appear to be his special project. Plus there’s that awful shuttle investigation. . . . So yeah, I bet the Atlantis Central Agency has its eye on us for all these reasons.”
“You’re likely right,” George muses.
I say nothing, but again the image comes to me, of Aeson Kass, as he’s speaking in sorrow and leashed fury from the platform, surrounded by the terrifying stone-like Correctors. . . .
“Gwen . . .” Logan is telling me something and I realize I’ve spaced out.
“Yeah, sorry,” I say, blinking.
“Let’s go for a walk tonight after dinner,” he says. And his eyes get the momentary intense focus that I know very well by now . . . and it sends pleasant shivers through me.
“Okay,” I reply, starting to smile because I know what this is leading up to—our favorite hidden nook in the alley, and the two of us alone.
“Do you still have to see Kass at eight tonight?” Logan says.
“Yeah. Though, I think this might be the last time.”
Logan nods. “In that case, pay special attention to what he might tell you this last time. It might be especially useful.”
I nod, thinking of what to expect. As usual I get a feeling of minor shame for partially lying to Logan about what happens with me at those training sessions. But I’ve been asked to not talk about it, and for the sake of Blayne and his special training, I don’t. And even so, keeping a minor secret from Logan, even one that’s not entirely my own, feels wrong somehow. . . .
The official up on the platform is talking about the Standing Scores and the Achievement Score breakdown. This is all super important, and yet for some reason I’ve stopped paying attention.
Instead, I am thinking about what will happen tonight.
Chapter 30
The assembly is let out after a surprisingly long time. We have been made to listen to so much mind-boggling detail of numbers, scores and standings, and general protocol, that none of it seems to matter. Most important takeaway—a 10 breakdown score is almost never given out, and even the best scores Candidates received only range from 6 to 8. Which means that my Voice score of 10 is an outlier.
Dinner goes by quickly, as I eat in a hurry with Laronda and then go to see Gracie briefly over at her dorm. Turns out, Gracie has received a Standing Score of #4,482, slightly better than my own, thank goodness. And, she tells me with relief that Gordie has received a #1,941, which is the best of all of us Gees.
“I looked his up on the dorm smart-board,” she says, pointing to the wall, as we sit in the Red Dorm Five lounge.
“Wow, it never occurred to me to just look you guys up on my own dorm board,” I say sheepishly. “Okay, I am officially a total dork.”
“Yeah, you are,” Gracie says with a silly grin. Nearby, Charlie Venice is being extra loud with a few other guys, and Gracie looks at him occasionally with a roll of her eyes whenever their noise level goes way up.
We glance around and, even this late in the day, the smart-board is surrounded by a bunch of Candidates who are gawking at it, looking up their own and other people’s Standing Scores and their own AT breakdowns.
“They’re trying to figure out who got the top 200 scores,” Gracie says sullenly. “Cause those people are going to make it. I know at least one guy, he got a #106—”
“Hey!” I put my hand on her arm. “Don’t think that way. These crappy numbers, good or bad, don’t mean a thing when it comes to your determination. You and I and all of us will Qualify,” I tell her, even though I’m unsure I believe any of it myself.
“Yeah, whatever.” And Gracie looks away from me. “I wonder what Mom and Dad are having for dinner tonight. . . .”
I shut that thought out of my head by force. Then I check the time. “Okay, I need to head out. Logan’s waiting for me and then I have to go over to my training appointment.”
“Whatever. Go. Your two dates are waiting.”
“Dates? What are you talking about, Gracie?”
But she only shrugs stubbornly and I have no time to argue.
I meet Logan at seven-forty near our usual spot. The moment I step into the place of shadow between two buildings where the bright lights of the compound and the surveillance cameras are blocked by a small portion of wall, Logan is there, and his hands close around me, tight.
“Gwen. . . .” His words come muffled, as he buries his face in my neck, and I feel the heat of his mouth travel against my skin, as he devours me.
Yeah, I know, we are both crazy to be risking getting caught like this.
Because it would mean instant Disqualification.
And yet, it’s like a compulsion. . . . I know it is for me—the strange head-spinning visceral need to be always touching him, to feel him holding me, to get as close as possible, skin against skin. . . . And it must be the same for him, because he keeps on coming back to this.
Minutes later we come apart, breathless and panting. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and he is shaking. “Gwen,” he says. “I need—I need to tell you something.”
I watch him, as I work to slow down my own breathing. Should I be worried? “What?”
“Okay. . . .” He pauses. “This is not easy. . . . I am going to tell you something very important and I need you to listen and trust me. And, I need you to promise me that you will not speak a word of this to anyone. And I mean anyone—not your brothers or sister, not any of your friends.”
“Okay,” I say, my parted lips hovering near a smile. “Now you’re scaring me. . . .”
But his eyes, dark in the shadow, are glinting with intensity. “Promise me!”
“All right! I promise.”
He puts his hands on my arms just below the shoulders, and I feel the grip of his strong fingers biting into me. He then leans closer, as if he is about to kiss me again, but instead speaks near my ear. “Gwen, I am not who you think I am.”
“What do you mean—” A cold fear has entered my gut, and everything is suddenly very numb.
He continues. “This is going to sound very strange, but please bear with me. I am not merely a Candidate. I am working on behalf of a government-sanctioned special operations group—”
My pulse begins to race in my temples and I am suddenly drowning in cold. “What are you saying?”
But he continues, speaking hurriedly and firmly in a strange cold voice. “I have been trained and planted as a high-probability Candidate who is most likely to Qualify—
“What?”
He
grips my shoulders and shakes me slightly. “Gwen! Listen, please. Remember what I said, this is very important, and I need you to trust me. Now, I was recruited months ago, as soon as the asteroid situation started and we were informed of the Atlantean terms of Qualification.”
I am staring at him, my lips parted, in absolute stunned confusion. But he continues, and his hands go up to gently smoothe back a lock of my hair that has fallen across my face. “I told you my brother is in the military. Well, there’s more. . . . He’s a member of clandestine special forces, a special division that was formed to deal specifically with the Atlantis situation. Earth Union was specifically formed to observe and infiltrate on behalf of the United States government and allied forces of the United Nations. I was one of the first trainees my brother Jeff brought in.”
“You told me your brother was deployed overseas,” I mutter, as my mind has suddenly lost much of its focus.
“It was all I could tell you,” Logan speaks quickly. “In fact, I would not be saying anything at all now, and none of this would even matter, if not for my new orders.”
“Your orders? Wait, are you a terrorist? Were you behind the sabotage and the shuttle explosion? Oh my G—”
“No, Gwen, no!” He speaks in a rush, and his hands clench my shoulders painfully. “I am far from a terrorist, believe me, we had nothing to do with the tampering! In fact, Earth Union operatives have been put at a serious disadvantage by the half-assed disaster that some idiots created here at the RQC. We were ready to intercept those stolen navigation chips—”
“Disadvantage? Innocent people died, it was a tragedy!” I am panting with emotion.
“I know! And it was awful and regrettable, and again, we had nothing to do with it! We do not operate like that. But you must know that ‘innocence’ is a relative thing. I am not saying those Atlanteans deserved it, but no one is innocent in this, no one—trust me when I tell you this—”
I stare at Logan as though he’s an alien being. “Trust you?”
[Atlantis Grail 01.0] Qualify Page 39
