[Atlantis Grail 01.0] Qualify

by Vera Nazarian

  “I felt heat coming through my shoes,” Zoe says thoughtfully. “And through my clothing, the sleeves, pant legs, everything. . . .”

  Meanwhile, Candidates are climbing out of the basin all around us. Faces are flushed, and some look like they’ve been running for miles. They wave their hands to cool off, stomp their feet. Those who have come from deepest in the river basin, look the worst. They have what looks like sunburn or first degree burns on their neck and around their sleeves. For some, their skin is starting to blister.

  Everyone stares at the half a dozen bodies left in the basin, now charred and smoking.

  “Okay, this is bad,” a boy says. “Whatever’s down there—a force field or reactive chemicals or something—there’s no way to cross.”

  And so we stand, looking over the basin, as minutes tick. More of us arrive, and the news of the danger below gets passed on.

  As others mill about, I put my fingertips on the railing. It feels warm to the touch, hot even, but in a way indistinguishable from being the usual sun-heated metal and concrete stuck outside on a hot L.A. day.

  I think. . . . Or I try to think through the fog and sluggish nausea that fills my mind.

  “What time is it?” someone behind me asks.

  “Close to two o’clock.”

  “That really blows,” a Candidate mumbles. “Is there any way to go around this, maybe climb the barricade wall on the bridge?”

  I stand and stare out at the river basin expanse. Sterile concrete rises for endless miles in both directions, interrupted only by thick bridge supports. A few birds circle occasionally, then land briefly to drink from the trickle running in the gully.

  I glance to one side and see a pale moving spot that draws near and resolves into the shape of a stray dog running along the incline of the basin. My heart immediately feels a twinge of painful pity for the poor stray. The animal appears unharmed, and it has definitely been in the basin long enough to be affected by whatever forces that generate the killer heat.

  Except, it is not.

  Neither the dog nor the birds are in any way experiencing the warming effect.

  I touch Zoe’s arm and point at the dog. “Look, it’s been running for some time and is not getting burned.”

  Zoe stares at the dog.

  Meanwhile I take a deep breath, put my hands on the railing, and with some effort climb over.

  “Wait! What are you doing?” Ethan says.

  I stand on the other side, a couple of feet down the incline, and take off my yellow ID token.

  “Hold this for a moment, Zoe,” I say, handing it to her.

  For just a few seconds I feel nothing different.

  And then there’s a warmth. It is definitely there, gathering around me, as though a gust of hot air has risen to sweep along my skin, underneath my clothing, inside my shoes.

  And it is growing warmer.

  “Okay . . .” I mutter. “So it’s not the token.”

  I take another deep breath, as the warmth rises around me, becoming unpleasant. And then I begin to strip.

  First, I ask Jared to lend me his knife, and I use it to cut off the length of cord that’s been tied around my arm to stop the bleeding. As soon as the pressure of the cord is gone, my arm pulses with a sudden agony of restored circulation.

  I grit my teeth to hold back the moan of pain. . . . And then I hand the knife back to Jared, and use my good hand to untie the Atlantean yellow armband.

  The heat continues to rise around me as I drop the armband on the concrete floor of the L.A. River. Then I carefully set down the automatic rifle.

  Candidates on the other side of the railing are gathering, staring at me, voices are raised in curious discussion.

  I untie my uniform belt and drop it on the ground, together with the lasso cord weapon still attached. Then off comes my shirt that I unbutton with numb fingers, too tired to be embarrassed about being seen in my underwear by millions of people. Good thing I wear a tank top, and a bra underneath. The shirt falls on the ground. Then I pull down my uniform pants and remain only in my practical cotton briefs. Down go the pants, to lie on top of my shirt.

  As soon as the uniform is off I feel an immediate relief from the stifling heat. It dissipates immediately. I don’t even have to pull my socks off, or my shoes.

  So, it’s definitely the uniform, then, I think. And that makes sense—the uniform has to be made from some kind of Atlantean specially treated fabric, possibly orichalcum-based. After all, it “magically” displayed those Standing Scores, so it is definitely reactive to things.

  Candidates stare at me as I stand in my underwear, holding my numb arm and watching the trickle of blood resume from the bullet wound.

  I glance at all of them and say through my teeth, “It’s the uniform that’s causing the burn. You guys might want to strip. Zoe, can I get my token back?”

  Zoe nods, watching me intently, and tosses me my token ID.

  I catch it. Then I pick up my cord lasso, unravel it and tie up my uniform clothes in one bunch, handling them as quickly as possible before my fingers start to burn. Making sure that none of it comes in direct contact with my body, I carry my uniform bundle swinging from the cord attached to the end of the rifle and walk across the river basin.

  I step over the gully at the halfway spot, glancing at the tiny bit of running water. I try to ignore the charred bodies lying every few feet. . . . At one point I turn to see if the poor lonely dog is still there, but he’s gone far along the riverbank.

  And then I keep walking coolly to the other side and up the incline.

  At the end, I slowly climb over the railing and pause, looking back.

  Behind me, Candidates in their underwear, some carrying their uniforms at the ends of swords and rifles, others suspended on cords just like me, are beginning to cross the river basin.

  Chapter 39

  “I did mention previously that you’re absolutely nuts, didn’t I, Gwen?” Jared says, walking up to the railing on my side of the river. His uniform is swinging from the end of his knife blade, and he’s in nothing but his baggy boxers.

  “Yeah, you did.” I give him a pained smile as I start putting my clothes back on.

  “Well, let me repeat it. You’re way more cray cray than anyone I know.”

  “Thanks, I think. . . .”

  “It’s a compliment.”

  I smile again, weakly.

  A few minutes later I am dressed, with my armband once more around my sleeve, tied awkwardly with one shaking hand. And then I cannibalize another piece of my cord weapon to tie my arm off again, using my good hand and my teeth. This time I nearly pass out from the pain.

  Zoe, who’s gotten dressed while I am still fumbling, watches my slow and difficult movements. “How are you hanging in?”

  “Okay.” Because, really, what else can I say?

  But Zoe steps closer to me and looks into my eyes, so that I am staring down at her very young face with its angular jaw and fierce blue eyes framed by the brown bangs.

  “No, you’re not, I can tell.”

  I shrug.

  Zoe takes my arm—the good one that’s not hurt. And then we begin walking together, with Zoe supporting me lightly.

  I admit, it does help, a little.

  By now, we’re pretty much nearly there.

  We walk a couple of blocks, heading slightly north toward the Arts District section of downtown. Why? Because that’s the general direction of the spot over which the Atlantean shuttles seem to be hovering in the skies. At this point, I admit, my mind is a muddy mess, and I am only thinking about putting one foot ahead of the other.

  Other Candidates soon overtake us, and I watch the more athletic ones again take off at a light run. But Jared and Ethan continue walking next to Zoe and me.

  “Why don’t you guys go on?” I say, nodding tiredly at the way ahead. “I am only slowing you down.”

  “Are you kidding?” Ethan flashes me a slightly crooked smile. “Without you
we wouldn’t have made it even half as far. I’m not dumb enough to go off on my own when I’ve got a good thing going here. Right, man?” And he glances at Jared.

  Jared just nods tiredly. “Oh, yeah. Gwen’s the man.”

  “Besides, we have plenty of time.” Ethan checks his gadget for the zillionth time. “Looks like it’s only two-thirty PM. We’ve only got a few blocks.”

  At the corner of South Alameda and East Sixth Street, we see familiar four-color beacons and only a light, short picket-height concrete divider fence that runs just a couple of feet off the ground. It serves more as a marker boundary than a way to keep us out. And the red stripe that indicates a hot zone is drawn on our side.

  Candidates ahead of us race up to the fence, and easily step or jump over it. Everyone’s unharmed, and apparently they’re out of the hot zone.

  When it’s our turn, I put my foot over the concrete line and my yellow token flashes as soon as I scale the boundary.

  I glance back, and this side is not painted red.

  So, a safe zone.

  Zoe exhales with relief. “Good. We definitely could use a break.”

  I look up, squinting from the sun, and the Atlantean shuttles are hovering there, a dozen silvery disks, not too far off the ground, just about the height of the venerable Westin Bonaventure Hotel with its cylinder towers looming in the vicinity and out of our way.

  “The pool must be thataway,” Jared mutters. He then almost gets knocked over by a big bulky runner with a red armband who passes us.

  “Hey, watch it!”

  But the hulking teen gives him a hard glance. He’s got a heavy, mean-looking blade attached at his belt.

  On the other hand, I’ve got an automatic rifle hanging over my shoulder.

  The Candidate sees my rifle. And he wisely keeps going.

  He has no idea I can barely stand upright, much less fire.

  A few more blocks, and we’re in an area that used to be Skid Row.

  This is where the city homeless had their own makeshift city-within-a-city, and there were several missions and other charitable organizations located within these blocks.

  Now, it’s still Skid Row. But it’s also something else. And in some ways it’s even more desolate, hoary, trash-filled. Even more run-down. . . . A place of despair. Even the once-vibrant graffiti murals have faded, and it has grown neglected, now that the taggers no longer bother to ply their art here.

  Instead, the homeless residents shelter here like shades, stooped human figures sitting in alleyways, watching us pass with dull hopeless eyes.

  And the Atlanteans chose this forsaken area to uproot, and built a giant multi-block water reservoir.

  The pool—I should stop calling it that and just say an artificial urban lake—begins at what used to be Towne Avenue and spans two blocks to South San Pedro Street—so that what used to be a block of Crocker Street is now underwater—and is bordered by Sixth and Fifth streets, forming a great urban rectangle.

  The waters of the lake sparkle like razors, white fire in the blazing sun. It sits like a strange watery mirror in the middle of a concrete forest of urban high rises and decay. Its calm surface does not ripple, since there is little wind here, so it reflects the remote oval disks of the shuttles directly overhead, as they levitate a hundred feet in the sky above.

  We stop at the shore of this lake and stare.

  The lake basin is yet one more thing made of concrete. It is deep, but not so deep that we cannot look down and see the strange almost luminescent shapes sunken on the floor. The water is translucent, with a greenish tint.

  Piles of batons rest underwater, and if I didn’t think I was hallucinating, I’d say they were glowing . . . or maybe just weirdly reflecting the sunlight.

  “Holy lord! We have to dive in that?” Zoe whispers, letting go of my arm. “I can barely swim!”

  I stand there, and watch as the first of the Candidates take brave running leaps and splash downward into the lake. A few decide to take their shoes off, and some again strip down to their underwear.

  The mirror water of the reservoir is now broken, a mess of splashing and white spray churned by swimmers.

  We watch them, to see if there are any surprises to be had at this point in the Semi-Finals.

  The first boy to emerge with the baton makes a hard splash and then pulls himself up from the water to stand at the street-level shoreline. The baton is about two feet long and three inches thick, a smooth, slightly oval shaped rod, its orichalcum surface the usual gold-flecked charcoal grey. He holds it up proudly and makes a “woot” sound, pumping his fist.

  And then he shouts out again, this time almost in surprise. . . .

  And drops the baton on the ground.

  The baton is definitely glowing. It is obvious now, as with every passing second it is becoming dull incandescent pink, like a branding iron that has been just removed from the flames. Except it is glowing hotter, not cooling down.

  Soon it begins to smoke, charring the asphalt underneath it.

  The Candidate who retrieved the baton stands over it, with a dropped jaw, and begins to cuss loudly.

  The baton is burning. It is a wicked red-hot thing that is impossible to handle.

  “Oh, crap, crap, crap!” Teens everywhere are exclaiming and gathering to look.

  Meanwhile, more of the divers are returning from the bottom with batons, splashing forth from the water triumphantly. . . . And in moments their triumph turns to pain and horror.

  Because everyone’s batons begin to grow hot and incandescent the moment they are out of the water.

  Some people immediately drop theirs back in the pool, screaming in pain as their hands are scalded. Others manage to throw their batons down on the street, and then stand around watching them inflame more and more, and burn like live torches on the asphalt.

  “What did the Goldilocks sadists want us to do with these things?” a boy cries, watching his baton roll and scorch the ground. “This is hopeless! How are we supposed to hold them and levitate up to the shuttle?”

  “Hey, dude,” Jared asks the closest person who drops their baton near his feet. “When you were underwater, did you feel this thing being hot or something?”

  “No,” the teen replies. “I didn’t even notice anything. It felt cool, just like the water around it.”

  “Okay,” Zoe muses. “So when submerged, the baton is not burning. Does that mean it has to be kept in water in order not to burn your fingers? And it reacts with the air to burn?”

  Meanwhile I stand and watch a tough Latino boy who remains in the pool, treading water, and holding his retrieved baton submerged. “Hey,” I say. “Does it feel hot now, when you hold it like that underwater?”

  The boy spits, shakes his head negatively. He then looks up at the shuttle that’s hovering overhead.

  And then he starts to sing the keying sequence in a tenor voice.

  Nothing happens.

  The orichalcum is underwater, it occurs to me. The sound waves cannot reach it the same way.

  “Damn . . .” the boy says.

  “I guess you’ll have to take it out of the water.”

  He nods then takes a big breath, quickly lifts up his hand with the baton. And again he sings.

  This time the baton begins to react. The boy follows up the keying sequence with the rise command, sweeping up an octave.

  And then I watch him grimace in pain, as the baton starts to hover and rise, at the same time as it begins to grow hot and glow.

  The boy keeps singing and stoically holding the baton as he is lifted out of the pool, and then continues gaining altitude.

  Ten feet, twenty feet, thirty. . . .

  The boy stops singing and screams.

  He continues screaming and yet holding on, and the baton is still lifting him higher and higher, and from my vantage point it is red-hot now.

  About halfway up to the shuttle, the boy either lets go—or maybe his hand is simply too damaged, burned off and he ca
n no longer maintain the hold—and he plummets down.

  The boy’s body strikes the surface of the pool from a distance of nearly sixty feet, and he goes under like a rock.

  Then, a few moments later his body floats back up, limp and motionless.

  People around me scream, or gasp. Zoe puts her hands over her mouth.

  “Wow,” Ethan says. “Damn. I think that guy is dead.”

  “It’s official,” a girl says behind me. “We’re all screwed.”

  About a half hour later, there’s a sizeable crowd of Candidates gathered around the water reservoir. Teens sit on the ground, some dangle their feet in the cool water. A few pace nervously. Several retrieved batons are lying on the shore, scorching and burning still, burning non-stop. . . . They are now not merely pinkish red but white-hot.

  Jared stops his pacing and turns to me, as I sit on the ground, cross-legged, holding the barrel of the rifle with my good hand. My fingers pass lightly over the black metal, stroking it absently, as I think.

  “Okay, Gwen,” Jared says. “What do you think? You’re the smart and clever one. What solutions are there? What options do we have? Let’s do it, man!”

  “Yeah, Gwen, what should we do? C’mon, don’t clam up now. Open your brain-pan up for us.” Ethan joins in, plopping down next to me.

  Right now I’m too weak, numb, and out of sorts, to even roll my eyes at them.

  “There’s always the one option,” Zoe says, sitting a few feet away from me at the edge of the reservoir, with her feet cooling in the water. “Instead of dying a horrible burning death today, we can simply turn over our ID token and press that recessed button to Self-Disqualify. Then we can die a horrible burning death a few months from now when the asteroid hits. And today we can just go out for pizza.”

  I frown and turn in her direction. “Don’t, Zoe. Don’t think that way, don’t give up. There has to be a solution. We’ll find it.”