It’s one thing to Qualify…
But do you have what it takes to Compete?
With Earth about to be destroyed by an extinction level asteroid, teenage nerd, geek, and awkward smart girl Gwen Lark, and a few of her friends and loved ones, barely Qualified for rescue onboard one of the thousands of ark-ships headed to the ancient colony planet Atlantis.
Now faced with a year-long journey in space, life in a wondrously alien environment, and many tough life choices, Gwen must decide who or what she will become. Fleet Cadet or Civilian? Friend or lover? Average or extraordinary?
Can she make new friends? Can she trust the old ones, such as Logan Sangre, her sexy high school crush and an Earth special operative?
Time and time again, Gwen’s uncanny ability to come up with the best answer in a crisis saves her life and others. And now, her unique Logos voice makes her an extremely valuable commodity to the Atlanteans—so much so that her enigmatic commanding officer Aeson Kassiopei, who is also the Imperial Prince of Atlantis, has taken an increasingly personal interest in her.
Before the end of the journey, Gwen must convince him that she has what it takes to compete in the deadly Games of the Atlantis Grail.
It’s becoming apparent—the life of her family and all of Earth depends on it.
COMPETE is the second book in The Atlantis Grail series.
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COMPETE
The Atlantis Grail, Book Two
Vera Nazarian
Published by Norilana Books at Smashwords
Copyright © 2015 by Vera Nazarian
Cover Design Copyright © 2015 by James, GoOnWrite.com
August 15, 2015
Discover other titles by Vera Nazarian at
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Norilana
Epub Format ISBN:
ISBN-13: 978-1-60762-141-6
ISBN-10: 1-60762-141-X
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictional or used in an imaginary manner to entertain, and any resemblance to any real people, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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COMPETE
The Atlantis Grail
Book Two
Vera Nazarian
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Other Books by Vera Nazarian
About the Author
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
June, 2047.
Today is a day unlike any other, in a whole sequence of unbelievable days.
Today we pass the solar orbit of Mars.
And today, five days after Qualifying for rescue and being admitted onboard the giant interplanetary Atlantean starships, we—all ten million of us, teenagers from the doomed planet Earth—have to make a decision that will determine the rest of our lives.
Fleet Cadet or Civilian.
The choice looms before us, inevitable and irrevocable. We’ve been given five days to think, to consider carefully, to mull it over, while for the first two days the great ships of Atlantis prepare for the immense journey back to the Constellation of Pegasus—loading supplies and resources, cultural and natural treasures of Earth, and taking the measures necessary for transporting all of us safely to the colony planet Atlantis that will now be our new, permanent home.
On the evening of Qualification, and the day immediately after, the Fleet of Atlantis stayed in Earth orbit. For me that time remains a strange, dead blur. . . .
While the transport shuttles ferried supplies and our belongings, we had the chance to contact our families for the last time and say goodbye to our parents and loved ones—to all those who must now remain on Earth, and die from the impact of the extinction-level asteroid . . . while we, the lucky ones, fly onward to the stars.
The asteroid is going to hit Earth seventeen months from now, on November 18, 2048, and there is nothing anyone can do to prevent the destruction of all life on Earth.
I admit, I have a very poor recollection of these past five days. I am still in a stupor, even as I struggle to hide it for the sake of my younger siblings, Gracie and Gordie. It’s an awful, mind-numbing combination of despair and grief that started from the moment my older brother George did not Qualify and was denied admittance onto the Atlantean transport shuttle with the rest of us. By now, George is back at home in Highgate Waters, Vermont, with Mom and Dad. I know, because I talked to them, on that same night after passing the Qualification Finals. . . .
I talked to them.
It’s a numb blur. Events mixing, memories out of order. I remember being packed into a small, closet-sized cubicle with the softly rounded walls of pale off-white, everything etched with hair-fine intricate designs in lines of gold that all the Atlantean interiors have, bathed in soothing light. . . . Yes, I was still somewhere onboard that same transport shuttle that had taken us up through the miles of atmosphere and docked with a great ship in Earth orbit.
For whatever reason, they didn’t let us off the shuttles immediately. Instead we had to wait, and meanwhile take turns in the communication cubicle chamber. At some point I remember being in line . . . glimpses of stressed serious faces of other Qualified Candidates . . . hushed teen
voices speaking in foreign languages . . . and Logan Sangre standing at my side, his serious hazel eyes never leaving me, his strong arms coming around from the back as abruptly he pushes me forward, ahead of his own turn. And suddenly there I am, sitting next to Gracie and Gordie and an Atlantean technician who, I vaguely recall, touches a strange, asymmetrical and lumpy silvery surface, “dials” Earth, and connects us via a video console. The display screen loads and suddenly there’s our living room. . . .
I remember thinking how crazy it was to see our old sofa from outer space . . . Mom’s familiar brown-and-beige plaid throw blanket draping the back of it . . . and Mom and Dad themselves perched nervously and awkwardly on the edge of that same sofa, staring back at all of us—actually at the smart wall in our living room that now acted like a trans-orbital video conference device.
How weird and horrible we must have looked to them—my pinched, pale, exhausted face, Gracie’s tear-streaked, red-nosed mess, Gordie’s non-typically serious stare from behind smudged glasses—all of us still covered in mud and filth from the Finals, our heads three feet tall, and taking up the whole living room wall, looking out at our parents from the outdated smart-surface, badly in need of an upgrade, and dotted with bad pixels on the bottom. . . .
I don’t know why I keep thinking of that dratted old smart wall even now. Maybe it’s just another example of unfinished business back on Earth, calling me. I am so not done with Earth. . . .
Because there’s Mom and Dad and George.
All three of them are waiting to die, together with the rest of the population of Earth who did not Qualify or simply were not eligible for Qualification.
I do not accept it.
It has been my mantra, running through the back of my mind every waking moment, like an earworm song stuck in my brain. Except, unlike an earworm, this is never going to go away.
But—back to that initial time in the shuttle. . . . After Gracie had wept her heart out and cried some incomprehensible stuff, after Gordie mumbled, I remember saying, “Mom . . . Dad,” in a blank voice that did not—still does not seem to belong to me. It isn’t me speaking but another seventeen-year-old girl whose arms are no longer skinny and weak sticks, but have some muscle definition, whose face is leaner, older somehow, with sunken cheeks and dead eyes, framed by dark, stringy, dirt-covered hair that hasn’t been washed since before the 34-hour insane Qualification Finals ride through the subterranean tunnels underneath the Atlantic Ocean. . . .
I remember seeing Mom’s lips quivering as she tried so hard to maintain that artificial empowering smile for our sake, while tears pooled in her eyes, then started sliding down her cheeks in long glistening trails, while she smiled, smiled, smiled at us. . . .
“Gwen, honey,” Mom had said at some point in a voice hardly above a whisper, and then put her hand over her mouth at last, to stop the quivering.
I can see it now, branded into my memory. Dad putting his arm around Mom’s shoulder in that moment, fingers squeezing her gently, while he speaks to me—is speaking now, and will be always.
“We love you, Gwen, sweetheart, and we are absolutely proud of you and Gracie and Gordon, and . . .” Here is where Dad’s voice also cracks, as he is about to say, “George,” and he can’t.
“Take care of each other, sweethearts. Gwen, take care of your sister and brother, you just keep doing what you can, being strong and wonderful, and the best sister to them, as you have always been, as you are! Gordie, you stay strong and take care of your sisters! Gracie, you keep growing and don’t let Gwen do everything, okay, sweetie?”
“Stay smart! So, smart, my boy, my girls!” Dad adds, finding his voice again. “And Gwen—we watched you during the—what did they call them, ‘Semi-Finals’ in Los Angeles, and you were amazing! My goodness—Shoelace Girl!” And Dad laughs, shaking his head in wonder.
“Oh, God . . . you saw that . . .” I mumble. And in that moment my frozen mask of a face breaks down and I am a gusher, as I too begin to shudder with deep sobs like Gracie, wiping my face with the back of my hands . . . sharp motions, angry shaking hands.
The Atlantean sitting silently next to us uses the moment to say very gently and quietly, “Five more minutes.”
I nod at him—because I know our fifteen minutes are almost up, and the next teenager needs to call their loved ones on Earth. Everyone in the transport shuttle gets five minutes per call, and we lucked out—since we’re all calling the same place, and there’s three of us, we get fifteen.
I think of these stupid incidental things. . . . And then I return to the video display. My hungry gaze tries to absorb everything, every tiny beloved detail, my parents, my living room in my home, the sofa, the wooden bookshelf I can barely see behind Dad, the big potted plant in the corner. . . .
“How are you feeling, Mom? How is the weather?” I say stupidly, with a forced smile that’s even more fake looking than the one Mom tried to maintain for our sakes.
“Weather’s warm, and getting hot, lots of green coming up, soon your Dad will be riding the lawnmower every weekend—”
Gracie makes a little noise, desperately stifled. I smile and sniffle. “Mom, how are you feeling?”
“Oh, I’m fine!” Mom says, eyes blinking wide, making another huge effort. “The pain is much less these few days, and I think the new meds are working, keeping things under control—”
She speaks and I listen, and my mind just whirls like a dumb thing, not registering her words.
“Mom!” I blurt suddenly. “The Atlanteans have this amazing medical technology—it can fix whatever is wrong with you, with anyone—”
And then I go silent and close up. Gordie and Gracie are both staring at me. I cannot raise false hopes, even now, it would not be fair. And yet—
“Is—is George—is he going to be home soon?” I say instead.
Dad’s face darkens. “Last we heard when he called, he’ll be home in less than six hours. The rioting and civil unrest is quite serious in the larger populated areas, not exactly safe to travel, so he is taking the long and careful roundabout route. He is either taking a connecting flight to New York, or—”
“Time is up,” the Atlantean interrupts softly.
“Mom! Dad! Oh God! Oh God! I love you! Gracie and Gordie and I, we’ll be okay! Both of you, and George, you must stay alive!” I chatter uselessly, making every second count, while Gracie does the same thing, and Gordie whispers sullenly, “Bye, Dad, bye Mom . . .” so that we end up speaking in a muddled Lark family chorus.
“Love you always! Love you!” Mom and Dad say almost in unison, and I see the way Mom collapses with weeping against Dad’s chest, just as the screen goes dark and the video connection with our home in Vermont is severed.
That was five days ago.
I know that later that same night my brother and sister and I, Logan, and a whole bunch of Qualified Candidates were finally allowed to exit our shuttle and emerge into a great, brightly lit space within the starship hull interior that had to be the docking bay—an endlessly long round tunnel expanse split in the center by a concave channel tube running along the floor and ceiling, like a subway track between two platforms, through which I assume we had flown in. The oval cutaway shape of the channel tube easily accommodates the largest of the freight shuttles.
Neutral lukewarm air hits us with a blast. . . . No smell, all is clean, sterile. And yet, somehow I know beyond doubt I am breathing alien air onboard a spaceship—in its nothingness there’s a hint of otherness, a scent of the stars.
There is however nothing unusual about the gravity, and it feels just as though we are back on Earth, inside a vast depot.
Except, this place is all pristine cream and off-white, the gleaming hull lined with occasional panels of grey material with gold flecks that must be orichalcum.
It is then that, for the first time since setting foot on the Atlantean mothership, I suddenly think of Command Pilot Aeson Kass.
No—I need to think of him from now on as Ae
son Kassiopei, son of the Imperator.
An Imperial Crown Prince of Atlantis.
. . . You matter to him, Lark . . .
Great ovoid shapes of transport shuttles fill the bay, parked at even intervals along the channel tube on both sides, as far as the eye can see, and crowds of Qualified Candidates and Atlanteans among them, take up most of the area on the floor. . . .
I guess I also need to stop using the designation “Candidates” at this point. We’ve all Qualified, so officially we’re no longer mere Candidates.
So then, what are we? What other word should be used to describe us? Immigrants? Intergalactic refugees? Homeless?
Urgent speech and desperate stressed chatter comes from all directions, in all the languages and dialects of Earth—strange foreign vocal inflections, rising and falling tones, harsh gutturals and soft sibilants. . . . Momentarily I am reminded of the Tower of Babel.
There are so many of us! Young people are everywhere, moving or idling, some exiting into smaller tunnels and doorways leading out into the deeper portion of the immense starship around us. Robot vehicles move silently past us, hovering a few feet above the floor, carrying loads of cargo.
Occasionally a great gust of turbulent air comes tearing through the long channel tube section, as from the distance we see another freight shuttle approach at great speed, moving silently and only preceded by the wind tunnel that it generates, cutting the air ahead of itself. The shuttle comes to a smooth hover stop, then rises from the channel and parks itself on either platform side. This happens again and again periodically as more shuttles continue to arrive, while others depart, rising suddenly from their parked spot along the platform, entering the recessed channel and shooting off into the boundless receding distance where I assume somewhere in the end is the exit.
Compete Page 1
