Dominy pointed at the ceiling lamp. “Where’d you learn that from?”
“My task assignment back on P2. I painted barracks and got bored just standing on the scaffolding. Started hanging around.” She swept her hair to the side and turned to Nalton. “I have my own reasons to save the Meritocracy. Our family was forced into servitude, mostly painting but also…” She bowed her head. “Not something I really want to talk about … Cal, listen to me, Dominy’s new plan is actually solid. Shocking, I know.”
Dominy gathered the WAR members around the wobbly table. He tilted one of the chairs forward. His heart told him that Pandor was still on P1. His brain said otherwise. The outsiders grabbed hands, forming the chain. “We shall search for the truth.”
He pulled out an old-fashioned white board and placed it on the table. “From now on, everyone reports their results to me. Test scores might not be displayed publically, but they will be down here. We’re down to one chance for success. I’ve developed a plan, a model actually, to guide us. I haven’t quite finished it and there are so many assumptions, so many variables to calculate, but…”
Cal squinted. “But?”
One of the overhead lamps flickered. “But, and I hate saying this, our chance is based on one statistical circumstance.” Dominy eyed his notepad and sighed. “It’s based on numbers.”
Genna rocked back and forth on her chair. “Spill the beaker, already.”
Sorry, Grandfather. “Everlen’s time of death.”
Cal laughed. “He’s not already?”
Heat flushed Dominy’s face. He bit his lip and bowed his head. “Let’s examine my methodology. While Everlen ceded some of his responsibilities to the head of council, he’s still the official guardian. That only changes with the Grand Debate. A Grand Debate is triggered by a vacancy in the guardianship. One of us has to become a master before Everlen dies.” Dominy forced himself to talk unemotionally, as though he were adding one plus one plus one. His mother, the Auto-matron, would be proud. “And then, in the Grand Debate preliminaries, defeat all challengers and then, finally, defeat the top challenger, presumably the current head of council, one on one.”
“Sergian,” Genna whispered.
Nalton coughed. “This is kind of sick.”
Dominy nodded. “Now, regarding Everlen’s life expectancy, if you hold the unknown variables constant and extrapolate based on his genetic makeup and current health condition, he has 1.95 years, statistically, to live.”
Cal thumped the table with his fist. “1.95 years?”
“Statistically. I accessed the Data and Simulation Center, of course. Therefore, one of us has to become a master in less than two years, or it’ll be too late to stop Sergian.”
“Two years? Mastership? Is that even possible.” Nalton dropped a couple of pebbles in his mouth. “Marika took twice that time.”
Genna laughed. “Sure it’s not 1.96 years?”
“I said it may be. Statistics. A confidence level of sixty-seven percent suggests a fairly tight range. Could be longer. Or shorter.” Dominy laughed nervously. They all did. It was a ridiculous prediction. Despite the fact that they had ongoing access to Everlen’s medical information, including the sequencing map of his genome. Despite their access to the Aspirian Simulator and the aging database of other Aspirians broken down to the molecular level. And despite the advances in genomics, too many random contributing factors remained for any foretelling to be accurate. At least the prediction will keep our minds focused.
“Of course, this presupposes we find something in the Media Vault…” Dominy eyed Cal. “After one of us becomes a master. Something that proves Aspirians are being deceived by Sergian just like the ancient Academics were deceived by Lucean and her reforms. Otherwise, no master could defeat him in the Grand Debate, not with his control over the council. So there’s the plan. To save the Meritocracy, one of us outsiders has to become a master in less than two years.” Dominy checked his timepiece and held out his hand to Genna. “Everybody, meet our new programmer!”
Genna bowed.
Dominy smiled. “So what’s the quickest way to achieve mastership?”
“I was able to reverse engineer the algorithm. It’s complicated, but it can be parsed so certain correlated variables can be ignored. That leaves three primary variables leading to mastership: classroom test scores, success in the Games and committee-approved research. “I won’t bore you with the details.” She shot a wry smile at Dominy. “Just know that the algorithm assigns point thresholds based on the first two variables: test scores and Games results.”
Dominy smiled at Genna in awe. “For your model, assume one-hundred percent on test scores.”
Nalton spit out a pebble. “What? Hundred percent?”
Cal sneered. “C’mon, Nalton.”
“Okay then, plug ninety-five percent for test scores. I’m working with Talia on her brain research and I hope to improve our study methods. And after we’re done preparing, everyone will achieve at least ninety-five. And—until we become Thirds—committee-approved research is not a factor. That leaves one key variable to advancement: the Games.”
“Uh, I forgot to mention the Retreat.” Genna twisted her hair tightly around her finger.
Cal shrugged. “Three days outside the academy boundaries? That’s nothing.”
“I’ve heard stories.” Genna leaned in and whispered. “Students drowning at Falling River. Disappearing on Starry Mountain.”
“No, no, all rumors.” Nalton slammed his frail fist on the table. “My master came up with the idea. It’s an exercise in isolation to promote creativity and new research.”
“Garin’s weird.” Cal twirled his finger next to his ear. “Anyway, this all assumes we don’t get shipped out like Shalene. Any word on what happened to Pandor?”
They all shook their heads.
Dominy turned to Cal. “So, are you with us? I need you to design a program that enters every Alliance member in their best subjects of the Games. And avoids, for as long as possible, us competing against each other. Can you do it?”
Cal gazed around the basement. He took several steps toward the door, turned around and nodded. “Seems like we have a plan.”
“And a leader.” Genna looked at Dominy, her lips a thin line of worry.
Stand tall. “I’m not concerned. I mean I have a chance to make the Music Composition finals. If I survive the semis, I’ll be up against Vernan and eight others.” He pulled up the file of his musical score on his notepad and scrolled through the pages of each movement. His notepad froze for several moments. He shrugged and found the specific page and specific measure of the third movement he was searching for. He erased a note, replaced it, thought about it and retyped the original. He, a worm, could neither add anything to nor subtract anything from his composition.
Dominy hummed the melody. “Tah-tee-tah-tah-tee…”
Chapter Fifteen
Dominy settled into his seat at Symphony Hall. The auditorium was packed. From the upper tier, which seemed to reach to the stars, to the ground level, every seat was filled. The stage gleamed under bright lights and the reflections from the polished instruments of Aspiria’s finest musicians.
The significance of the event finally sank into his consciousness. A first place, given his current point total, meant he’d advance closer to becoming a Second. A loss would set him back months and the Alliance would fall hopelessly behind. Alliance. Where are they? Dominy stretched his neck and bobbed his head until he spotted their blurred faces sequestered far up in the Firsts’ section.
Dominy stood and greeted Talia. She sat in front of him in special box seating, cordoned off for masters.
Talia rose from her seat and introduced another master. “This is Garin, he wanted to meet you.”
Garin was Nalton’s master. Dominy ascended to the oddest man he’d seen at Aspiria, a skinny man, knobby-kneed with a scrawny neck, wrapped in a red robe.
Talia encircled Garin’s bony wrist with
her thick fingers. “Garin and I are expecting you to win today. We just heard a simulated symphonic recording of your semifinal qualifier.”
Garin nodded. “I was awestruck. I’m inspired to raise my own work to a higher level.”
Talia pulled at her heavy neck skin. “The countless permutations of the musical theme, I lost track of the number.”
Garin turned to Talia. “Yes, the structure’s original, but how’d it shape the way you feel?”
“Feel?” She repeated the word, pronouncing it with two syllables.
Garin laughed. “Yes, his performance seized my heart. How’d the emotional second movement affect you?”
“Interestingly, Garin, it didn’t.”
Garin pivoted to Dominy. “Well, Aspiria has an extraordinary talent. Once there was—”
Talia playfully nudged Garin and turned to Dominy. “Ignore him and his silly parables.”
Dominy ascended again to Garin. “Thank you.” The thin master didn’t appear as unhealthy as he first thought. “If my finalist entry does win, I hope you enjoy it, too.”
The other nine semifinalist winners were sprinkled throughout the front rows of the large semicircle of seats. Dominy spotted Vernan strutting down a near aisle. Dominy didn’t recognize him at first, perhaps because his competitor now sported that popular hairstyle with the bangs.
Vernan glared at Dominy. “Redemption time.”
The chime rang. The performance of the second place composition was imminent.
The orchestra’s horn section opened with a single, sustained high note. The unfamiliar first measure of music meant Dominy was still alive for the championship. His stomach pitched and his mind blanked. For how long, he wasn’t sure.
Cymbals crashed bringing Dominy to the present. The audience erupted in a rousing ovation.
A throat-clearing sound came over the speaker. “And the second place finisher: Vernan!”
The freckle-faced young man stood and turned in a circle, acknowledging the ovation.
Dominy caught Vernan’s gaze and ascended.
Vernan sneered and shook his head. “Winner? It can’t be you.”
Dominy shrugged.
The applause faded. Dominy closed his eyes and waited.
Tah-tee-tah-tah-tee. The familiar first notes pierced through the hall, jolting him from his thoughts.
A muffled shout came from the Firsts’ section. “Yes! The Dreamer did it!”
His chest swelled and a heartbeat pounded out a sharp rhythm in his eardrums. Every neuron in his brain seemed to be firing simultaneously.
While he’d composed the piece in three movements, it had no prelude. The first movement began as if it had been created from nothing. Stripped of ornamentation, it would have been considered elementary—even by modern standards—if not for its elegant theme. The theme formed a base to which the music could retreat at any time yet also served as a foundation to build upon. Over the duration of the piece, in subtle gradations—the audience not aware until much later—the base modulated and a glorious progression transpired.
At the end of the first movement, he studied his master’s body language. The corners of her lips rounded up slightly. Of course she would like the first movement, composed with logical precision—without emotion—controlled and disciplined. His fists tightened with the transition to the second movement. The second incorporated a series of harmonic progressions, each with the time of resolution compressing, creating tension, and developing on earlier melodies with more variation. The time between notes shortened and the rhythm increased, strengthening the connection with each succeeding harmony. Additional voices joined with each new section, and the notes reached higher before ebbing. They rose again, each time with a different pattern and peaks and troughs higher and more complex than before. The second brought fresh understanding but also discovered turmoil, emotional turmoil.
He did not look up in the few silent moments after the second movement, his head bowed in contemplation. The third movement maintained glimpses of the themes of the first two but, as if an epiphany had occurred, the third transcended the earlier ones. It recreated them with a greater perspective, altering the audience’s perception. The music’s meaning grew deeper with fewer explanations needed: freer, more creative, unbound by previously held limits. In the third movement, the emotion of the second merged with the precision of the first to create a beauty beyond emotion and logic. As the finale approached, the music rose. Those notes then sustained before soaring higher still as though remaining unfinished, never quite reaching their destination. When the last note sounded, it felt like the only natural ending possible. Many in the audience simply said one word: “Yes.”
Krina, an old council member, almost as old as Everlen, struggled to her feet. “A star!”
Students and masters alike jumped out of their seats, clapping and cheering. Symphony Hall turned to pandemonium.
Dominy raced up to the Firsts’ section.
“You won!” Genna separated the throng with her hands. She drew in close. He hugged her. She smiled, her hands lingering on his back. “A worm created that—not a master, not a guardian, but Dominy, a worm. You’re a bright light.” She grabbed his hand and yanked him toward the awaiting group of congratulating Alliance members.
“Thank you.” Dominy smiled and splayed his arms for balance, his mind spinning from the performance. “Thank you.”
“Yes, you finally did it.” Nalton fluttered his fingers at him. “You made time stand still.”
Cal bear-hugged him and lifted him off his feet. “Aspiria’s rising, once again.”
Speakers hissed. “And the winner of Music Composition is…”
Dominy raised his arms.
“Pandor!”
Dominy’s body palsied, his hands locked like crab pincers. He collapsed.
Genna climbed on her chair. “No! The winner’s over here.”
Dominy struggled to his feet. “I have proof.” He waved his notepad. He typed the words, Finals Composition. “No record?” His heart pounded out arrhythmic beats against his chest.
Genna jumped down, snatched his notepad and did a deep search. She shook her head. “Nothing here. Hacked.”
The audience filed out of the hall. Dominy and the other outsiders trailed behind them.
The heat was crushing. Sweat soaked Dominy’s collar. He shuffled over to the protection of a green awning in Sector Seven where a crowd swarmed around Pandor. Someone tapped Dominy’s shoulder. He turned.
“Do not fear failure. One learns and becomes stronger from failure.” Garin smiled. “Failure is a precious gift, do not be afraid to unwrap it.”
No! Dominy mashed the sides of his throbbing head.
Sergian emerged from the Hall and lumbered toward the winner. The crowd parted. He spread out his arms, tenting his red robe like the wings of a huge bird. “Congratulations, Pandor. The only First to ever win an Individual Games championship.”
“Thank you, I—”
“Master Sergian!” Dominy clasped his hands so tightly his knuckles turned blue. He pointed at Pandor. “He stole my composition.”
“You’re insane, and you’re a known liar.” Pandor lifted his notepad. “I have all the proof of my composition right here.”
Genna raced over. “Dominy, you still have your paper copy. The first page is still on your wall.”
Pandor grinned.
Sergian wrapped his heavy left wing over Pandor’s shoulder and addressed Dominy. “You’re living up to your reputation.”
The pain in Dominy’s head spread with the reach of a squid’s tentacles. He stared into Sergian’s eyes—they were murky brown, like pools of pond water. “Master?”
“As The Victim.”
Dominy seethed.
Sergian’s face contorted, making a twisted smile, pointed behind Dominy and laughed, a throaty, monstrous laugh. “Like him.”
Dominy turned. Nalton.
Dominy and the other six Alliance members sat ar
ound the wobbly table. The tapping of sandaled feet was the only sound in the dank room.
Genna whispered. “No signs of your paper copy?”
Dominy shook his head, reached into an aluminum crate and pulled out his special supplies. The kit gave him the dentistry-creeps—times ten: the high-pitch whirl of the drill, the acrid smell of tooth dust hanging in the air, those memories tumbled through his brain circuitry.
“Don’t do it!” Nalton stood. “This is crazy.”
“Nalton, go.” Dominy pointed at the door. “Go stand guard.”
Nalton sniveled and slunk away. Dominy crept around the table and poured six cups of alcohol. He inhaled the fumes coming off the last cup, thinking it would awaken his senses—he wanted to fully experience the pain.
Cal eyed the alcohol and cringed. His massive body looked half its normal size. “I’m not so sure about this.”
“I’m doing it. No one else needs to.” Dominy rolled out six cotton balls. “Understand if you don’t.” He had a sense of purpose deep down to his marrow.
Genna gritted her teeth. “Pass me a ball.”
Dominy handed out welders gloves and cleaning towels. “When the time comes…” He folded a towel, stuffed part of it in his mouth, and mumbled. “You’ll bite down on it like this.” He set up chemistry burners on the table, one in front of each person, and lit them. Their hard breaths sent flames dancing wildly. “Hey, Nalton, turn off the basement lights for me.”
The outsiders’ restless motion sent creepy shadows twisting across the darkened room.
Dominy’s synapses were afire. His composition started playing in his mind, its rhythmic beat building in his ears.
He pulled out the final six tools. Special matching irons with stands. “For the ends, I heat-bended robe hangers fashioned into the shape of a large M.”
The strings and horns joined the percussion instruments pounding his head.
The Alliance members positioned their irons over a flame. They rolled up their right sleeves and waited. The irons smoked and turned red. “Ten seconds.” They swiped their forearms with alcohol, twenty centimeters from the wrist.
Aspiria Rising Page 9
