[Atlantis Grail 01.0] Qualify

by Vera Nazarian

I turn over to my side, pull the covers over my head, and fall back asleep.

  When I wake up again it is late afternoon. This time half the beds are empty, though I admit that there are still people sleeping or lounging around. I get dressed and go wander the dorm downstairs. It’s close to 3:00 PM. I suppose I should go look for my siblings. But I am in a strange, lazy, “relaxed” zone where everything is moving at a crawl, including time.

  It’s like, at this rate, if I tarry and move slow enough, tomorrow will never happen.

  Because tomorrow is it—Semi-Finals Day.

  I am hungry and thirsty but I’ve slept through the first two meals, and it’s still more than a couple of hours until dinner. So I decide to go walk outside.

  No one I know seems to be about—Laronda, Hasmik, Dawn, the guys. Wonder where they all are? A few lazing Candidates in the lounge give me uncurious glances as I pass by. A couple of teens stand before the smart-board wall with stressed looks, looking up Standing Scores for the umpteenth time. The alpha crowd is nowhere to be seen either.

  Outside is a crisp afternoon, slightly windy, and my ponytail immediately becomes a mess of loose airborne tendrils. Candidates are walking past me, tokens lit up in all four colors, and no one’s in a hurry today. A stream of humanity seems to be moving in the vague direction of the Arena Commons super structure and the airfield.

  “What’s going on?” I ask a girl Candidate with a green token.

  She stares at me as if I’ve crawled out from under a rock. “They’re setting up the media feeds for tomorrow,” she says. “All the journalists and media people have been let in to the compound for the first time, and they’re mostly over at the AC Building.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Okay. . . .”

  “I’m heading to the airfield to see the other half of them setting up the huge smart walls and hologram projection stations for TV interviews.”

  “What interviews?”

  The girl really wants to roll her eyes at me at this point. “Our interviews! Who do you think? They’re going to be interviewing random Candidates, and probably those who make it. Whatever, go see for yourself.” And she hurries past me.

  I pause, standing with the wind tearing at my hair.

  And then I start walking in the direction of the airfield.

  Before I even get there, I can see the skyline near the Arena Commons Building has a different look. There are tall rectangles of stadium smart screens looming up in places where they hadn’t been previously, and more are being put in position around the airfield perimeter. Helicopters are circling. The distant barbed wire fence that demarcates the compound is silhouetted against large semis and trucks and smaller vans outside, and it all looks like an ant hive out there, beyond the boundary.

  I recall hearing that there are parents of Candidates supposedly camped out around the perimeter, in addition to the media, and everyone is staring at us, and waiting . . . waiting for the big event to start. Who knows how long they’ve been there, but now it’s less than twenty-four hours remaining. . . .

  As I walk together with many other curious Candidates, there are guards everywhere, in the usual grey uniforms, and they are not interfering, but definitely observing the newcomers who are now on the inside of the fence.

  I stare at the harried looking news crews—journalists and cameramen, gofers and various technicians, as they move about, carrying equipment and network workstations, setting up hubs for their own network broadcasts.

  Off to the side, near the edge of the airfield, there’s a new platform that has been set up, and a small group of Candidates is being recorded and photographed by several different networks. A very tall, very fit and athletic Asian girl and boy, probably seniors, who might be related, stand in the center of a major network logo backdrop while camera lights flash around them. They appear almost bored, and have a definite cool, kick-ass attitude about them. Both are beautiful and muscular, so alike they could be twins, and both have short spiked blue-black hair and glinting smart jewelry that sparkles in the bright lights. Their ID tokens shine blue.

  “Who are they?” someone asks behind me. “How come they are getting special treatment?”

  “That’s Erin and Roy Tsai,” a guy I don’t know mutters. “They have the two top Standing Scores in the RQC. She’s #1, and he’s #2. Brother and sister.”

  “So they’re our main competition?”

  “Yeah. And those others are also all top ten or something.”

  I look closer, and recognize only one Candidate from my own Yellow Dorm Eight, a smart-looking dark-haired boy my age with a street-tough stare. I think his name is Ken Fisher. Apparently he has a Standing Score of #6.

  Several others are notable. A petite girl with bright red hair down to her waist seems to pose for the cameras, her brilliant smile flashing white teeth, as she tosses flirtatious looks in all directions. Her name is Isabella Saltwater, her token is as flaming red as her hair, and her Standing Score is #9.

  Next to her is a tall burly older teen, Samuel Duarte, with huge muscular arms and wide shoulders, and a sharp attitude. His token is green, and his Standing Score is #8.

  I pause to stare, among the crowds of Candidates, as these select top Candidates are getting all the attention. Turns out, there are more platforms behind this one, one for each of the major networks, and on each a few elite Candidates are getting interviewed or filmed.

  After a few more minutes of this, it really gets to be depressing. It turns out, although I really should be getting to know my competition, I really don’t want to hear them brilliantly answer personal questions on national TV in over-confident and sometimes-snotty voices. And I really don’t want to see them with their perfectly toned bodies and cocky grins. Honestly, I just want to get as far away from here as I can and just shut off my gloom-riddled mind. . . .

  So I turn away and start walking back to my own dorm, wondering where my siblings are. I’m also starving, and dinner can’t come soon enough.

  In fact, I am ready for this whole day to just be over, and for the nightmare of Semi-Finals to begin. Maybe because there are no other obligations on this day, the dark doom thoughts and eternal stress simmering in the background takes the opportunity to rise to the surface now, with nothing to take my mind off it.

  Back home, Mom and Dad are probably in our living room right now. Dinner is already cooking. Mom has just taken her meds and is quietly resting on the sofa and Dad is in his deep chair, leafing through his reference books and lesson notes. . . .

  Lost in my thoughts, I wander back, and stop by Gracie’s dorm. I would really like to see my sister and the other Gees before the day is over, but I am told she’s gone to the AC Building.

  Next I try Gordie’s and he’s nowhere to be found.

  I return to my dorm and consider if maybe I should go look for Logan or my brother George. . . .

  Where the heck is everyone?

  In the Yellow Dorm Eight lounge I see maybe three people. One of them is Blayne Dubois. Blayne is sitting in his wheelchair in the corner, a few feet from the smart-board with all the scores. He appears to be reading an ebook on his tablet, and occasionally glances up to see who walks by and who checks the Standing Scores marquee.

  “Hey, Lark,” he says to me, as I pause near the outside doors. And then he returns to his book.

  There are so few people around that Blayne does not bother to hide the fact that he and I interact—or at least that we hang out together every night for practice. Everyone knows that I go to see the Atlantean VIP in his office on a regular basis because of my weird power voice—even though nobody knows for sure what that means and what I actually do there—but no one knows about Blayne.

  I approach him, and mutter something in reply. For once I sound more like Blayne, and he sounds like me. We’ve traded our social moods apparently.

  “Ready for tomorrow?” I say softly.

  “I guess.” He briefly looks up from his tablet again. His expression is bland but not off-put
ting. “And you?”

  I roll my eyes. “It can’t come soon enough. Just wish it was over already.”

  “With your voice, you have a decent chance,” he says, without looking up.

  “You too.” I stand there, staring at him.

  “I’m not the one with the Logos voice.” He still does not look up at me.

  “But you’ve got the LM Forms down,” I say, lowering my voice to a near whisper. “The way you can ride that hoverboard is—”

  “Yeah, I know, I’m amazing.” His voice drips with sarcasm. He finally puts down his tablet and stops pretending to read. He looks up at me seriously with his blue eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter again. “I think I am—I don’t know—having a bad day. Quietly freaking out. . . . I know it sounds weird, and it’s actually supposed to be a good day for everyone since we get to rest, et cetera, but I think it makes it worse, all this waiting, and the endless buildup.”

  “Agreed. Waiting can psych you out.”

  “The worst part is just seeing all those media people out there, and the top Candies getting interviewed and treated as if they’ve Qualified already.”

  He glances at the smart wall scoreboard. “Whatever. I didn’t even bother to go and look at the media circus. Why should I? Why should you? It’s just a distraction. Nothing changed. Just because some network exec decided it’s a good idea, and now some hotshot Candy is getting interviewed on TV, means nothing. For that matter, why aren’t you getting interviewed up there? You’re the one with the crazy outlier power voice that can bring down shuttles. That kind of wildcard stuff makes for great reality TV—exactly what they’re looking for—hey, should be worth at least a thirty second newsbyte.”

  I shrug. “I don’t think they know about it. And even if they did, I don’t think it matters that much to them. The media knows squat about nuances like Atlantean power voices. What they get is numbers and stats. And my Standing Score kind of sucks, at #4796. What’s yours?”

  “A shocking #1,692. Have no idea how I managed that.”

  My mouth falls open and I smile at him with sincere enthusiasm. “Wow! That’s crazy good!”

  “You mean, crazy good for a wheelie boy.”

  “No, I mean, crazy good, period! That’s better than most of the people I know!”

  “You must know a whole lot of losers.” But he smiles faintly as he says this.

  “Blayne,” I say. “Cut it out, okay? You are good, and it has nothing to do with anything.”

  “Nothing to do with anything? Way eloquent of you, Lark. Just say it already—disabled.”

  “Okay, disabled—differently abled? I am sorry, I know I have no idea how to say it correctly without coming across like a rude a-hole. . . .”

  He rolls his eyes. “Too late on that account. But I’m used to you and your big ’ole foot-in-mouth.”

  I take a deep breath. “In that case, why do you keep being like that? I get it, things are tough, but you don’t need to put yourself down all the time, especially since you are really strong and talented and—”

  “You don’t get it. You just don’t.”

  I feel my face flush then grow cold, as a wave of emotion comes and recedes. “Okay, yes, I don’t. So, then, help me get it! Tell me! Please! I want to be your friend! But you’ve got to let me—”

  “Actually,” he says, beginning to frown, “I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to explain myself to you or anyone.”

  “I know! But, please! Just give me a chance to understand—”

  Blayne’s frown grows. He turns away from me, letting his hair fall into his eyes. Long seconds pass as I just stand there, staring at him as he slouches in his wheelchair, breathing fast in sudden agitation. “You really want to know why?” he mutters. “Why I am like this?”

  “Yes . . . I really do!”

  “Because I’m here. I’m here at the RQC, and I made it this far,” he snarls suddenly. “I made it as far as Preliminary Qualification, and my brother and my sister didn’t. They’re just the right age, falling within the Qualification range. They’re a thousand times more deserving and talented than me. I’m just a screw-up, and here I am, given a freak chance, while Laurie and Jake are back home, waiting for death by asteroid.”

  I stare at him, and yeah, I finally get it.

  It’s not a self-esteem issue; it’s guilt.

  He continues: “Laurie was dreaming of going to medical school. Was gonna be a doctor, save people. Jake is really good at all kinds of things. He could’ve been anyone—engineer, lawyer, architect, scientist, teacher. He was going to change the world! He was going to—”

  Blayne goes quiet.

  My breathing has grown so faint that I cannot even hear my own pulse in my temples.

  “I am so sorry,” I say. “I had no idea.”

  “Well, now you do.”

  “Then for their sake, Dubois, you’d better Qualify!”

  At some point later, it’s dinner hour, and Blayne and I’ve been hanging out in the lounge, not particularly caring any more that anyone might see us talking. Some of the alpha crowd is now here and they’ve occupied most of the seating and the nice sofas. The noise level has risen. They’re gossiping about the media circus and about the Qualification frontrunners, discussing everyone’s chances tomorrow, and what can be expected. Everyone’s hating on Erin Tsai and her brother Roy who got #1 and #2 and are all-around amazing athletes and achievers, and on some guy from Red Dorm Nine whose name is Kadeem Cantrell and who’s supposed to be an amazing parkour or urban freerunner, and who got #3.

  Olivia and Ashley give me and Blayne occasional dirty looks. Then Claudia walks up to the smart wall and starts looking up people’s Standing Scores and making snide loud comments about everyone. She is only a few steps away from where I stand near Blayne. She tosses her long, silky black mane of hair and glances occasionally at the alpha girls and sometimes at us. Her piercings glitter with silver under the overhead lights.

  “So, Gwen-baby, too bad about your crummy score,” she says suddenly, and I have to glance in her direction. “Looks like your fancy Atlantis voice isn’t enough to pull you out of the four thousands dump.”

  I stare, and see that Claudia’s brought up my own Standing Score for all the world to see, and she’s brought up the AT score breakdown too, in all its low-numbered glory.

  “Hey, look everyone! Our Gwen’s got a 3 for Agility, Strength, Endurance, and Leadership. Way to go!”

  Olivia and Ashley put their hands over their mouths and bust out in nasty giggles.

  “So?” I say. “How is that any concern of yours?”

  “Awww, but we’re so concerned about you, Gwen. Concerned about you, you know—making it!” Olivia drawls loudly from her spot on the sofa, with her legs dangling down from the seat’s back as usual.

  “Why don’t you worry about yourself,” I say.

  “I would, except my Standing Score’s #2315.”

  “And mine’s #942,” Claudia says with a cruel sneer. “You’re gonna eat my dust tomorrow.”

  I shrug. “Whatever. So I eat dust.” And then I simply turn around and ignore whatever else they’re saying.

  Blayne watches our exchange with a slightly craned neck. He then meets my look and smiles. It’s a very fine, light smile . . . just a hint, just barely there. But for the first time it reaches his eyes, and it makes everything easier for some reason. Easier to stand there. Easier to ignore the stupid comments and the bullies.

  “I hear, dust tastes pretty good with a little mustard and ketchup,” he mutters with a slight sarcastic twist of his lips. It’s a typical dry Blayne thing to say.

  Soon, more Candidates come in from the outside, and I see Dawn and Hasmik.

  Hasmik waves to me, and they approach.

  “So, had a good long sleep, Sleeping Beauty?” Dawn says. “You and Laronda were both still out cold, close to two PM when we got up.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I smile. “For once, got enough slee
p to make up for the whole month.”

  “Long scary day tomorrow!” Hasmik says. “We come from Arena Commons Building, it’s crazy there! Many, many people from the outside!”

  “Yeah, have you seen?” Dawn adds. “They’ve got these mega-screens and holo-projection stations all over the stadium, now. Annoying TV people everywhere you turn. They all got their media event passes, so they’ve overrun the place like sewer rats with high-end electronics. I’m kind of amazed the Atlanteans are letting them in here.”

  “This is their only way to reassure the general Earth population about what’s happening with us,” I say. “So I don’t see how they wouldn’t let them.”

  “Okay, ‘reassure’ is not a word I’d use to describe it,” Blayne says. “Whatever they’ll be live-streaming tomorrow during Semi-Finals is probably going to make our poor parents and the rest of the global audience crap their pants.”

  “Ah, sweet.” Dawn glances at Blayne. “Now I feel even better about tomorrow. Thanks, dude.”

  “Any time.”

  The cafeteria eventually opens for dinner and they begin serving what smells like pizza, and let us in.

  By then I am so starved I’m ready to eat three giant pizzas all by myself.

  After we eat and exit the cafeteria, there’s Gracie, waiting for me in my dorm lounge. She waves as soon as she sees me.

  In these last few weeks Gracie has toughened up somewhat, and I might even say, almost grown up—almost. At least she’s gotten this strange hard look in her eyes, and she walks taller now, with a tiny swagger. There’s some new muscle tone and definition in places where there used to be none. Plus she carries all these knives and sharp bladed objects constantly. I realize it’s part of her Red Quadrant “thing,” but it has added a fine layer of self-reliance to her previously anxious personality.

  “Hey, Gee Four,” I say with a smile, as a bunch of us walk lazily from the cafeteria doors. “Have you rested up? Hope you slept in!”

  “Oh yeah,” she says. “I totally did. Then I went to see all the setup happening for tomorrow. Can you believe the big deal they’re making about those top ten Standing Score people? There’s that jerk guy from my dorm who’s at #4, Craig Beller, who knows kickboxing and karate, so he’s all hotshot at Er-Du too, and weapons—”