Compete
Page 17
And he puts his fingers on the red corner, calling up the Propulsion Grid, then sings a brief major key sequence.
The vibration in the hull of the shuttle around us increases. I watch the window and see the view outside shifting. We start to move, drifting off the platform to the side and into the concave drive tunnel.
At the same time I see that Gennio puts his fingers on the blue corner and calls up the Adjustment Grid. He sings a minor key sequence, and starts manipulating the blue circle that represents our shuttle, to keep it centered along a perforated line that must be a vertical guide.
Anu taps twice to take his Propulsion Grid 3D. And then he sings again.
The shuttle suddenly blasts forward along the launch tunnel.
I grit my teeth and hold back a scream.
We burst outside past the violet plasma shield and into empty space. Black vacuum fills the flight windows. The shuttle makes a turnabout—while Gennio is busy manipulating the Blue grid. Once again, as that first time with Pilot Keruvat Ruo, we end up in an “alley” between two formations, two vast rows of ships stretching in both directions to the invisible horizon.
Now thinking back, I remember all of it—all the things that Keruvat Ruo was doing on that flight—the swift flashes of color grids popping up above his console, the sequences he was singing. Neither I, nor the other three Earth refugees on that shuttle were paying any attention to what the Pilot was doing back then, completely occupied by the view of the black cosmos.
But now—oh, it all comes rushing back. Now that I have an actual perspective, a basic understanding of sorts, now I remember and care. Pilot Keruvat Ruo was brilliant! But no, it suddenly sinks in—not just brilliant, he was a virtuoso. That’s how good he was, how amazingly coordinated and fast on the controls. He needed no co-pilot. . . .
“Ready, Gennio?” Anu says, throwing me a sideways glance. “I am about to fly us out of here, fast!”
Gennio merely nods. I realize they are talking mostly for my own benefit.
“Watch, Earth girl, this is how you increase speed and go forward.”
Anu continues holding down the red corner. In addition he now places his other hand on the center of the console touch surface, right above the ignition button. He slowly swipes his finger outward—away from himself and out to the console upper edge.
As he does so, I hear the shuttle hull vibrate at a higher pitch. At the same time the view outside starts to blur with motion—we are speeding up, as we coast through the corridor between formations. Faster and faster we fly. . . . Soon, ships on both sides flash past us, appearing as stationary road markers while we seem to be the only thing in motion.
I have no idea how all of it works. But it must be the nature of the Quantum Stream—apparently it creates some kind of space-time bubble around the Fleet. The term I’ve heard used is a different “phase-space.” We’re basically contained within our own unique mini-universe of velocity and relativity. I expect they’ll be teaching us more about it in classes at some point.
“We will fly all the way to the front of the Fleet,” Gennio says without taking his eyes off his Blue grid, which he is watching like a hawk, making sure the blue circle ship marker remains lined up against the guide.
“How long do we fly like this?” I say a few minutes later, trying to keep my breath even.
“One third of the length of the Fleet. The Imperial Command Ships are spaced out evenly, dividing the formation into three segments,” Anu says. “We’re now probably about halfway between ICS-2 and ICS-1, so, almost there.”
“How do you know? How do you know when to stop?”
Anu snorts. “I don’t. That’s your job to tell me. Watch your own Yellow Nav grid and tell me if we are close.”
“What?” My mouth falls open.
“Oh and if we don’t stop in time, we will overshoot, and pass the flagship,” Anu adds almost gleefully. “Which will kick us out of the Quantum Stream and into standard interstellar space—in the middle of nowhere, uncharted, with no way of getting back. There we will coast for days until our life support runs out—or, if we’re lucky, we run into something potentially incendiary, like the gravity well of a nearby star, which will instantly take us out of our misery. In either case we die a horrible death while cursing you.”
“What?” A wave of panic engulfs me. I feel my hands trembling while my temples pound. I stare helplessly at the Yellow grid before me. “What do I do? What? What? What am I looking at here? Quickly! Please, Gennio, help me!”
“It’s okay, Gwen,” Gennio glances at me calmly. “Technically, Anu, we’re still within the solar system confines so we’re not interstellar, but it is still deadly. If we fell out of the Quantum Stream we would be lost, completely on our own, and yes, eventually die. But anyway, Gwen, there is plenty of time. See the two yellow circles, how the bottom one—our shuttle—is slowly nearing the top one?”
“Yes!”
“Okay, now see those little notches on the vertical guide? When there’s only one notch gap left between the two circles, that’s the optimal Braking distance.”
I stare like crazy at the Yellow grid projection, and count the notches silently. “Okay, I think there are two?”
Gennio quickly releases the blue corner of his console and taps yellow, making different color holo grids replace each other in the blink of an eye. He glances at Yellow and tells me, “Yes, you are correct.” Then he instantaneously flips back to Blue and continues his own task.
“So what do I do?” I mutter, while we continue rushing onward and the windows show endless formation ships flashing by. “Hello! Gennio!”
“Oh,” he says. “Sorry. Just tap the shuttle circle twice. That will signal the Brake system. At that point Anu will initiate the Braking process.”
“Okay, got it!” I forget everything else in the world around me and stare at the two yellow circles of light as they slowly converge in the air grid before me.
Seconds tick away. . . . At last the shuttle circle touches the last notch closest to the circle representing ICS-1. “Now!” I say and double-tap the shuttle circle.
In that moment the circle on my Yellow grid starts blinking. At the same time Anu’s Red grid flashes once, then his circle flares really bright and stays that way.
“Engaging Brake!” Anu releases the Red grid and pulls up Green. Holding the green corner with one hand, he slowly swipes the center of the touch surface, this time down, toward himself and closer to the rainbow ignition key on the very bottom.
The nature of the hum in the walls immediately changes. The motion outside the windows slows down, and we coast softer and finally come to a smooth floating stop before an ark-ship at the tip of the formation, beyond which there is nothing—no more ships, only black space and distant on-rushing stars.
It is Imperial Command Ship One.
I remember to breathe, as Anu switches back over to Red, and sings a turnabout sequence while swiping his fingers in a circular motion along the middle of the console. At the same time Gennio on his Blue grid continues to fine-tune our position relative to the linear vertical guide.
As the shuttle approaches ICS-1, the great hull of the ship grows to fill the entirety of the view. Next, we plummet toward a violet plasma-cloaked opening, pass the shield energy barrier and enter the long tube of the shuttle bay.
A few seconds of violent motion while the tunnel blurs with speed around us—and this time I note how Anu switches rapid-fire from Red to Green in order to engage Thrust then Brake—and then we coast over to a platform.
We have arrived.
I release a long-held breath and sit back in the chair. No, really I collapse. I think there’s a sheen of sweat on my forehead. . . .
“Hey, not done yet!” Anu glances at me and points to the console, which remains lit.
“Now,” Gennio says, “we need to disengage the shuttle drive and park it, turn the power off, then un-key ourselves individually from the console. Like this—”
“And now the power off.” Gennio sweeps his fingers along the underside of the panel. His console goes dark.
Finally, Gennio sings a sequence to levitate the panel back over to the wall and un-key it.
Anu performs similar steps with his own console, except that, being primary, it remains hovering before his seat. And then he looks at me.
I do what Gennio did, and watch my console return to the wall.
“Now we’re done.”
As soon as we emerge from the shuttle and into the ICS-1 shuttle bay, we are met by guards wearing prominent Imperial insignias on their uniforms, and holstered weapons at their belts. Similar insignias decorate the walls.
Before we take any more steps inside the ship, they scan us again. I realize it’s likely normal routine, and security is probably extra-tight on the Commander’s own ship.
While Gennio and Anu talk to the guards in Atlantean, I just stand there, looking around.
Okay, now that my unexpected Piloting ordeal is over, time to get my brain back in gear—Logan. I wonder how to find him, and start making plans to slip away from the guys temporarily.
But they’re done talking. Gennio turns back to me. “We are clear to proceed. Come along, Gwen, we need to find Consul Denu’s chambers, on Command Deck Three. The guards called ahead to let him know we’re coming, so he will be waiting for us.”
“Just follow the scent of too much perfume, essential oils, slaughtered flowers, musk . . .” Anu says. “Directly to his door.”
“Okay . . .” I say, not knowing what to think.
Gennio winces, then wrinkles his forehead. “Yeah. The Consul is a little . . . extravagant.”
Anu makes a tremendous snort of sarcasm. “A little.”
We start walking.
Ten minutes later, after moving through the usual network of corridors, from deck to deck, we reach the Green Quadrant Command Deck in the interior hub.
The hallways here seem to be filled with more people, more Atlantean guards, more protocol in general. Apparently it’s not too far from the Commander’s own private chambers, since he embraces the Green Quadrant as his base of command.
The greater corridor that runs between the flagship Central Command Office and the Resonance Chamber is decorated with Imperial insignias every few feet. At the doors of the CCO itself, not two but four guards stand on duty.
We pass this VIP area carefully, staring at the impassive guards with a variety of holstered guns and blade weapons at their belts, who pay no attention to us. And then we turn into a lesser corridor and into the Command Deck hallway filled with officers’ cabins, a section similar to my own cabin hallway.
“What’s his number again?” Anu asks.
In reply Gennio pauses before a door. “Here, I think. Number eleven.”
“Okay. . . . Ready?” Anu slaps his hands against his sides, which I am beginning to recognize as his nervous tic. And then he steps up to the door and passes his hand over the square button on the wall. It must also function as a kind of doorbell, or maybe an intercom.
“Consul Suval Denu, may we come in?” he says loudly.
After a moment the door opens.
When Anu mentioned perfume and flowers, he was not too far off. . . . I’ve long since stopped noticing the clean but slightly sterile nature of the air inside the Atlantean ships, but now a blast of aromatic perfume greets us, like walking into a cosmetics store in a mall back on Earth—but much worse.
The cabin quarters are large, similar to the CCO office space back on our own ship, but the décor is frilly splendor, in delicate shades of lavender, mauve, rich plum and burgundy, interspersed with underlying earth tones of cinnamon brown, coral, and carnelian. Everywhere I see fabrics cascading from the walls, gold embellishments, and vanity mirrors on side tables. In the center of the room is a large bed covered in pillows of all shapes and strewn with layers of sheets and embroidered coverlets.
A slim, slight, middle-aged Atlantean man in a grand gold wig and a long sage-yellow robe stands haughtily near the doors, next to a packed trunk, also covered with gold embellishments and upholstered with rich deep red fabric.
I admit my jaw must have dropped, and I am staring at him, unblinking. Good lord, the wig! It is a strange Ancient Egyptian-looking or Mesopotamian hybrid—something that maybe King Hammurabi wore, or an Egyptian pharaoh—but made of pure golden hair, tightly braided and coiled and woven in rows of micro-pleats.
His skin is warm suntan, similar to Aeson Kassiopei’s coloration. His face is oval, lean, elegant, and his dark brown eyes are outlined in kohl, while his brows bear the sheen of lapis lazuli, all artfully precise, perfect. He is even wearing some kind of softly glittering dark henna gloss on his austere lips.
Around his neck is a wide Egyptian-style collar, lying heavy like an aegis over his chest, and made of gold and precious inlay. The rich sage robe is delicately embroidered, with a golden hem that falls to his ankles, where I can see sandal-like woven boots, also trimmed with gold and precious stones.
It’s as if a being of ancient royalty has come to life and stepped forth from a pyramid or temple wall painting. He is unreal!
I continue to stare, while both Anu and Gennio quickly incline their heads and do the formal salute with their left hand touching lips and forehead.
And then comes his voice—a musical delicate tenor, cultured and refined and absolutely regal.
“Anu Vei and Gennio Rukkat. You are late,” Consul Suval Denu says in perfect English, enunciating every word. “Come and take my travel wardrobe and we will proceed.” And then he motions with one manicured hand to the large trunk.
“Our apologies for the delay.” Anu and Gennio both step inside and take the trunk, picking it up by the handle on each side. Apparently it’s heavy, because both boys make an effort to lift.
Consul Denu barely glances behind him. “Kem will carry my Scents and Personal Art boxes, so you will not touch them.”
Only now do I see, in the corner of the room, a young dark-haired boy, barely older than Gracie, quietly perched on a low footstool. He too wears a tunic robe, but much shorter and simpler, rich brown, over dark blue pants. Immediately the boy scrambles up and goes to the side table to pick up four large ornate boxes that he carefully stacks on top of each other until his face is no longer visible. I have no idea how the boy can see past them and still walk. The contents of the boxes make clanking and clinking noises.
It occurs to me that these are the first true civilian Atlanteans I’ve seen who are not wearing the Fleet uniforms. Furthermore, the Consul himself has to be a citizen.
In that moment Consul Denu notices me. His gaze stops upon me, cool and serpentine.
“Who is this?” he inquires.
“Hi, I am Gwen Lark,” I say as politely as possible. “I am also an Aide to the CCO.”
For a moment the Atlantean says nothing, only examines me, looking me up and down with critical disapproval.
And then he says, “Ah, yes. You must be the new student. Very well, girl, you may approach and carry one of my boxes. Kem, give her something to carry. Something least consequential.”
Before I can say anything, the boy Kem—apparently some kind of assistant of the Consul—comes up to me and gently hands me off the topmost box, so that at least now the pile of boxes precariously balanced in his arms only goes up to his chin. I receive the box with a kind of minor dread.
“Do be careful, all of you,” Consul Denu remarks in a bland voice. “Now, let us go, we must not keep the Imperial Lord waiting. Lead me to your transport ship.”
And Consul Suval Denu motion
s for us to go before him.
Minutes later, walking as quickly as we can with our various clanking burdens, we make it back to the same shuttle bay.
Consul Denu moves gracefully behind us, his posture upright, and his light pace that of a swan—a very annoying pompous swan in a golden wig. Periodically he makes snide yet perfectly dignified observations about the ship, the tedious corridors, the sad lack of decorum in the members of the crew passing around us. And, oh yes, he constantly reminds us to be careful with his things.
“Kem, keep the Scents upright. Always upright! Gwen Lark, both hands must be in firm contact with the lid and the box for proper closure and balance. And as for balance, Anu Vei, do not walk ahead of Gennio Rukkat, or the delicate handles of the wardrobe will be warped. Walk side by side—the corridor is rather narrow but still sufficient to accommodate you both. . . .”
Another minute of this and I have a feeling either Anu or Gennio will turn around and strangle this man. Their faces are drawn, lips held tight, and they are both huffing with the exertion of carrying the heavy trunk. Meanwhile Kem is patiently walking next to me, as we carry the boxes filled with unknown bottles, cosmetics or other trinkets. What in heaven’s name is Personal Art?
As we enter the shuttle bay, the two Aides increase speed, so that they are almost running with the trunk. We stride quickly after them, past Atlantean crew and guards and their tedious scanners.
Just as we reach our shuttle, I hear a familiar voice call out my name.
“Gwen! Gwen Lark!”
I turn around, and it’s Logan.
Chapter Fourteen
Logan Sangre strides quickly in our direction from the end of the platform where apparently he’s been waiting for us.
At the sight of Logan’s striking tall figure, and his familiar handsome features, my pulse starts to race with excitement, while pleasant warmth floods my cheeks. Logan looks so damn good in the Fleet uniform!
“Thanks for coming, Gwen,” he says, with a casual light smile, but a very intense look in his eyes. And then he bends close to plant a kiss on the side of my mouth, grazing my cheek and trailing up, and simultaneously whispers in my ear, “Perfect timing.”