After that meeting, no one’s in the mood to do anything, including sleep, even though it’s near curfew. I remember running over to briefly see Gracie and my brothers, just to give them final squeezes and hugs, and possibly to be in the same room with them for the last time. I remember asking them about their points and then repeating their numbers in my head like a mantra, all evening. Gracie has over 70 points at this moment, which is good and hopeful. . . .
At some point, yes, there was Logan. I know we kissed, hard and desperate, in the shadow of a doorway, just before I went upstairs to my sleeping floor. Logan has decent points, 204 as of last tally, so I tell myself I needn’t be worried about him.
And now—now it’s Finals morning.
My head is spinning with queasiness and lack of sleep after an almost sleepless night, as I get dressed, adjust my Yellow Quadrant armband over my uniform sleeve, and then come down to the ground floor to get scanned and learn part of my fate.
I see Laronda and Dawn and Hasmik running down the stairs, and we all go together.
On the ground floor “airport terminal” lobby, the crowds are thick. Sections are getting processed simultaneously, as far as the eye can see in both directions, for the next two miles of floor space. Our Section Leaders stand grimly, scanning everyone and announcing our status and rank.
When it’s my turn, Section Leader Shontae Smith passes the handheld over my token and tells me I have 185 Final Points, and I am assigned to Team USA Fourteen-C.
I stand aside to let Dawn get her turn, and meanwhile there’s Laronda who apparently has 189 points and is on my team, Fourteen-C.
“What does that mean, I wonder?” I mutter. “What’s Fourteen-C?”
“I got Fourteen-D,” Hasmik says. “And I have 106 points.”
We all turn to Dawn. “Okay, girlfriend, what did you get?” Laronda says, poking her arm. “And no hiding your numbers this time!”
Dawn shrugs. “You asked for it. 201 points, Team USA Fourteen-A.”
“Okay,” I say. “Sounds like A is the highest points scorers. Then probably come the B’s, which none of us are, then the C’s, that’s two of us, and finally D.”
“I am the lousy D, I know, I not too good,” Hasmik mutters, as we all hurry to get food in the cafeteria.
“Hey, you guys all better chow down,” a Candidate we don’t even know says in the food line to everyone in general. “This could very well be our last meal, like ever.”
“Great,” Dawn says.
But hey, he’s right and we all eat, because it makes good sense to do that, and really, we never know.
Fifteen minutes later, after scarfing down breakfast eggs, orange juice, and who knows what other stuff—and mostly gagging on the food since no one is really hungry—we rush outside. There, in the dawn light we jog in the direction of the distant airfield two miles away.
“Wow, chicas, look up!” Dawn says, as we move quickly down the street. We look at the sky and it’s full of Atlantean shuttles. They are like dark floating marbles, balloons and circles, polka-dotting the sky in the direction of the airfield. I know that up-close many of them are huge, and that these are oversized freight transport shuttles, not the small passenger personal flyers like the ones the VIPs use. But it still looks surreal to see them like that, all gathered here in the same general five-mile radius in the skies above the NQC.
“So, any ideas where we might be getting shipped out?” Laronda says, breathing quickly as we run.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Dawn replies.
Hasmik just runs silently next to me. I give her a sympathetic look, because neither one of us can run all that well, even now after two months of training. But, at least we can manage to keep up without falling apart completely.
When we get to the airfield, we are overwhelmed.
The crowds of Candidates here are amazing. Everyone is here. And I mean, everyone—Candidates, guards, news vans and media people running around taking image feeds and photos and setting up last-minute projection anchors. Up-tempo music is playing through network studio speakers, and holograms announce the events in artificially bright voices.
The closest transport shuttles hover three feet off the ground, while other shuttles wait their own turn, hovering about fifty feet directly above. Candidates are already boarding them. . . .
We glance around, lost momentarily, overwhelmed by the ocean of teens, adults, general humanity.
And then we see the large fluorescent orange signs. They show the Section number followed by letter designations. We are all Team USA here at the NQC, but there are at least a hundred Sections, likely more, and we wade through the crowds looking for ours.
Toward the back, we finally find Section Fourteen, with four shuttles, one for each letter designation.
Here we say an unreal, numb goodbye to each other. . . . Dawn and Hasmik proceed to A and D, while Laronda and I go together to the hanging staircase leading up to the hatch for shuttle C.
As I start to go up the rung stairs, I sigh. . . . At least I have Laronda with me on this one. As far as I can guess, Gordie is probably somewhere on shuttle A with Dawn and Logan, George is on B, and Gracie is on D with Hasmik.
May luck be with all of them . . . with all of us.
“Candidate Gwen Lark!”
Through the noise of the crowds, I hear my name called and I turn around, even as I’m about to enter the shuttle.
Oalla Keigeri is standing on the ground near the ladder. The wind stirs her metallic strands of hair, and in the morning light it seems to glow like a halo of pale fire around her composed face.
I pause, in surprise.
Oalla motions with her head. “Come down for a moment. I have something to say to you.”
My gut feels a stab of worry. Other Candidates are jostling behind me, but I back up and return to the ground.
I stop before Oalla, and we are evenly matched in height. “Yes? What is it?”
“Candidate Lark,” she says, as we stand aside somewhat, to let other Candidates pass on their way to the shuttle. “I’ve been considering whether or not to say anything at all, but I feel, after all, I must.”
I look at her in expectancy, and my blood pressure is rising.
“I am not doing this for you,” Oalla says quietly, so I can barely hear her above the din. “I am doing this for him . . . Command Pilot Aeson Kass.”
“What? What do you mean?” Now my turmoil is indescribable.
Oalla pauses, looking away from me, and gathering herself—for something, I don’t know what. “Look, there’s little time, and this is not something that is said easily. And the only reason I do say it, is because it is only fair. If you Qualify, you will learn it soon enough anyway. But if you don’t—if you don’t make it—I think it would be right for you to know . . . he would want you to know.”
“Please, just tell me!” I say, as the numbing cold rises inside me.
“Remember that time, weeks ago at the pool, when it was very hot, and we were all swimming? It was then that you said something very loudly as we were walking by—Command Pilot Aeson Kass was walking past you. . . . You said some cruel things about ‘eyeliner’ and ‘hair dye’ and something about ‘vanity.’”
I start to frown. “What?”
“You raised your voice and made damn well sure he heard you. . . . Well, he did. And it affected him—it hurt him, deeply.”
Now I’m reeling. “What? Oh! But—I didn’t think it would—I mean, I am sorry! They were just words, silly words, I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, I think you meant it, precisely. You meant for him to hear it. Or you wouldn’t have spoken.” Oalla shakes her head at me in cold, implacable disapproval. “And now, Candidate, you might wonder why any of this matters, why I bother to tell you this trivial thing as you’re about to go to your possible death.”
I stare at her as she points to her own golden hair.
“See this?” Oalla says. “Yes, you are absolutely correct t
o guess. It is gold metal dye, and I wear it proudly to show my respect and loyalty to Kassiopei, the Imperial Family of Atlantida. It is my choice, and I make it willingly. And so is this—”
She pauses and points to her eyes, an unusual shade of turquoise blue, outlined in dark kohl. “This is my mark of respect also, as I wear our traditional colors in solidarity with the Imperator.”
“Okay . . .” I mutter. “So it is true then, that the hair color and eye makeup are traditionally and culturally important to you, not just for looks. . . . I am truly sorry to have offended—I feel awful now. I did not think . . . I was in a strange stupid mood and I really did not think—”
“I am not done,” Oalla interrupts me in a hard voice. “As I said, it is my choice. The hair color, the eye decoration—vanity or tradition, it is my choice. Command Pilot Kass does not have that choice. His hair—did you maybe notice it looks a little different from the rest of ours? Just a tiny microscopic difference in lightness, a purer, more fragile gold? Well, because it is not hair dye. It’s his natural hair color.”
I listen, and suddenly my breath stills. . . .
“And his so-called eyeliner?” Oalla continues. “The dark ‘line’ that runs around his eyelids? You think it’s vanity? Have you any idea that Kass is the most humble, self-negating individual I know? No, it is not paint, and neither is it a permanent tattoo. It is natural also—he was born with it. It’s a part of his DNA, a unique ancient physical trait that runs in his family, was there for ages, long before Atlantis the Earth continent sank and we left for the stars.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that Kass—which is merely short for Kassiopei—is a great ancient royal line, and Aeson Kassiopei is not only my commanding Fleet officer, not only my fellow astra daimon and heart-brother, but he is also the son of the Imperator of Atlantis, and the heir to the Imperial Throne.”
I look at her, and I no longer hear the noise of the crowd. There is no sound left in the world around me.
“I have told you all this because you matter to him, Lark. And every action, every word of yours makes a difference. If you do not survive the Finals, you will carry this secret with you. And if you Qualify, then you will be all the wiser for it. And now—go on in, your shuttle is waiting.”
“But—I—” I open my mouth and . . . not sure what’s coming out now.
But Oalla Keigeri nods to me. She then reaches out with her hand and shakes mine in a firm grip—it’s a greeting used on Earth and not Atlantis. Her fingers are warm and strong.
“Best of luck, Gwen Lark,” she tells me. “I sincerely hope you Qualify—for everyone’s sake.”
And then the Atlantean girl disappears in the crowd.
Chapter 51
I feel like I’ve been dealt a hard blow to the head as I climb back aboard the stair rungs and enter the shuttle.
. . . You matter to him, Lark . . .
The words go round and round, ringing inside my mind. Even now, I don’t dare understand what it means.
I am so numb that the unfamiliar Atlantean standing at the doors has to repeat himself as he scans my ID token. “Move along, Candidate, take a seat! No stalling!”
I stagger inside, and the interior looks familiar, a transport shuttle identical to the kind that we rode to L.A. during the Semi-Finals.
Candidates are filling the seats fast, and I see Laronda a few rows to the back. She hurriedly waves to me.
“Hey! What was that about, girlfriend?” Laronda says, as soon as I reach her and take the seat next to her that she’s saved for me.
“Oh,” I mutter. “Nothing. Just spoke with Instructor Oalla Keigeri. She came to say goodbye—or whatever.”
“Oh, really?” Laronda can see my strange, dazed expression. “Wait, she actually showed up just to see you? How come? What’s wrong? Did she say something?”
Quickly, I try to get a grip. Laronda is too perceptive for her own good. I need to tone my emotions down, and fast. “Oh, no biggie! And yeah, no, of course she isn’t here for me, she’s just seeing all of us off. She happened to see me. . . .” I trail off, hoping the line of vague bull is sufficient.
Because there is simply no way I can say anything about what just happened—to Laronda, or to anyone.
Instead I try to put my mind in a calming zen state. Focus, focus, Gwen!
I need to concentrate on the here and now, because this is Finals. This is life and death. So I need to get a grip and push everything else out of my mind and pay attention.
And somehow, after several deep breaths, during which I and everyone else fiddles with our seats and our individual safety harnesses, I am sufficiently calm and clear-headed that I can think once again.
. . . You matter to him, Lark . . .
No, just stop it.
About five more minutes pass, and our shuttle fills with Candidates. Every available seat is taken.
There are two Atlantean pilots on board. The one at the hatch entrance introduces himself as Pilot Ekit Jei. He is metallic haired, compact and muscular, and his skin is river-clay-red, which reminds me of Nefir Mekei.
As soon as we are in our seats, Pilot Ekit tells us to make sure we are buckled in, and then proceeds to check us, walking our rows.
The other pilot, a female Atlantean, sits in one of the four command chairs up in the back control and navigation center. “I am Pilot Radra Vilai,” she announces over a voice amplifier in a rich alto. I glance back and can only see her profile and the back of her gilded head.
“Good morning, Team USA Fourteen-C,” Pilot Radra tells us, as a familiar resonant hum begins to rise in the hull of the shuttle. “This is your Final Test for Qualification. Your instructions will be given to you as soon as we take off. You are going to be taken to the site where you will begin the task that will Qualify you. And now, Pilot Ekit, please, lift-off on your count—”
Ekit quickly moves to the back of the shuttle to take the adjacent pilot seat next to Radra. At the same time, the razor-fine lines of golden light that slither throughout the hull start racing with motion. . . .
And then the walls—or the Pilots—or the shuttle itself—begin to sing.
“Here we go, baby. . . .” Laronda grips her chair armrests and glances at me with a nervous toothy smile.
“Oh, yeah,” I mutter, then look straight ahead and momentarily close my eyes. . . .
And the next instant, I am being pulled back into my resilient chair by the forces of gravity. . . . Candidates’ voices, soft muffled exclamations and other sounds come from all around, as we are pressed, squeezed, flattened by g-forces.
A few gruesome moments, and you can even hear someone retching in the back.
And then it all recedes and gravity is back to normal.
“Are we—are we in space now?” someone asks pitifully.
“Yes, we have successfully achieved orbit,” Radra replies in an up-beat manner. “Next up, your destination.”
“So what is it? When do we finally find out where we’re going, already?” a boy asks.
But the question is ignored. Instead, Ekit’s deeper voice now comes through the amplifier.
“Attention, Candidates! First, a quick explanation: thousands of years ago during the time of the original Atlantis here on Earth, we—that is, our Atlantean ancestors—built a major transportation network between the continent of Atlantis and the other continents bordering the Atlantic Ocean. A complex system of subterranean caves and tunnels was designed to allow secret travel underneath the ocean from Atlantis to other lands.
“The tunnels connect a series of sunken chambers that get flooded and drained by means of locks and floodgates. This is necessary for tunnel integrity, in order to avoid cave-ins—this way, only a few chambers are filled with air at a time. The mass of water in all the rest keeps the tunnels and caverns intact under the immense weight of the earth and the ocean.
“Now, the entry points to these tunnels are located at numerous places all aro
und the shores of the Atlantic. And they all connect in the center, right underneath Ancient Atlantis itself—the modern-day area spanning Bermuda and the Bahamas.”
There is a brief pause, letting it sink in. We sit petrified in our seats, as things begin to coalesce in our minds.
“Uh-oh . . .” Laronda whispers next to me. “I don’t like the sound of this.”
And now Pilot Radra picks up where Ekit left off.
“These are your instructions for the Finals,” Radra says. “Today you will be taken to one of these entry points along the shores of the Atlantic. We will dive underneath the ocean and emerge in a subterranean cavern that will be drained of water and filled with air, initiating the ancient transport system of locks and floodgates—”
“Oh, man, this is bad,” a boy mutters behind me, while more whispers start in nervous waves all around the shuttle.
“Once inside the first cavern, you will exit the shuttle. Each Candidate will be provided with a hoverboard, a single weapon of your Quadrant, a flashlight, two flares, and a small pack containing food and water for one day. Control of your final points will also be released to you, to be used at your own discretion. From that moment on, you will act both as an individual and as a team. To transfer points, you initiate the transfer—press and hold your token and the other person’s, and speak the number of points to be moved. It is one-way only, you cannot take points from others, only receive them if they are given.
“Your task for the Finals is simple. You have approximately 33.3 hours to cross the distance of 1,000 miles underneath the ocean floor, on hoverboards, which is achievable if you are going at the minimum rate of 30 miles an hour—”
“Oh, good grief!” a Candidate exclaims. “That’s insane!”
But Radra continues, ignoring the outburst. “Every half hour, the locks and floodgates activate, starting a new ‘lockout wave’—removing water from the next chamber in the sequence and flooding the chamber you are presently in. At that time the gates between the two adjacent chambers are open, allowing passage from one to the other, while the water drains. You must time your movement so that you are always ahead of the floodgates, because if they close with you inside, the chamber will flood and you will drown—”
[Atlantis Grail 01.0] Qualify Page 60
