Win

by Vera Nazarian

  Ah, sweet Aeson. . . .

  Meanwhile, I wear a practical and ordinary one-piece that I requested to be made for me by the “Palace Fashion Department” as my sister Gracie jokingly refers to that almost magical source of our new clothing. In this swimsuit I float next to Aeson, as we chase one another across the length of the pool, doing laps, splashing water at each other, and ending up either breathless with laughter or suddenly serious from physical awareness and mutual proximity.

  As he glides through the water next to me, we often touch, skin brushing against skin, sending sweet currents of fire, until I burn on the inside, glad for the cool water. And I’m guessing he burns also, judging by the often flushed color of his face and the dark intensity of his eyes as he touches me, seeming to find every opportunity to do so. . . . Furthermore, he seems not to mind my boring swimsuit at all. . . .

  My siblings and friends come by the Phoinios Heights estate nearly every day, so that there’s at least one of them to see me and bring news and helpful information.

  Gennio and Anu run daily errands from Aeson’s city residence to his Quarters in the Imperial Palace, so it’s a convenient hover car drive back and forth to pick up Chiyoko or Hasmik or Laronda. Admittedly every time Anu ends up driving Laronda anywhere, there’s enough bickering between them that even Dawn has started rolling her eyes.

  “Wha-a-a-t?” Laronda glares at Dawn and the rest of us, as we all sit in our favorite living room with the panoramic view of the city. Anu has just stepped out—after making a series of aggravating comments, loud guffaws, and having shown Laronda some kind of vaguely rude Atlantean finger gesture in parting.

  “Oh, he did not just—did you see that? Did you hear what he just said?” Laronda exclaims, popping her eyes wide with indignation.

  Dawn lifts one brow and glances at me and Hasmik, while I bite my lip to hold back a giggle.

  “Ye-e-e-es, we heard,” Dawn says. “It’s typical Anu dimness, best disregarded. But on your part, was that ‘Your mama mistook you for a booger’ really necessary? Why stoop to his level?”

  “Because troll boy drives me crazy! His constant idiotic comments worthy of a five-year-old, the a-hole stupidity, all that ridiculous ‘Earth girl’ this and ‘Earth girl’ that. . . . What am I supposed to do? Just let it go?”

  “I would.”

  Laronda’s mouth parts in outrage. “Girl, you have no idea how much I want to reach out and strangle that pasty, freckled, crappy-gold-hair-dye-job fool with his own skinny ponytail wrapped around his neck! This is me letting it go! The alternative is me killing him with my own two hands—after a nice hard kick in the balls—but we’re told the Fleet looks down on Cadets committing homicide, and I’ve still got hopes of making officer someday—”

  Dawn holds her lips tight and continues to look unconvinced. “So why do you encourage him?” she says calmly. “Sure, he prattles and picks on you, and yet you let him rile you and talk back at him all the time. He’s an idiot, we all know that. Just ignore him.”

  “Easy for you to say.” Laronda sighs, tapping her fingers furiously against her leg, and continues to frown.

  “Well,” I say. “If it makes you feel any better, remember, Anu used to drive me crazy also. The only thing that’s stopping him now from calling me ‘Earth girl’ is that I’m the Imperial Bride. Even so, he still slips up sometimes!”

  “Okay, that’s it, I’ve had it,” Laronda says. “I don’t want to talk about the troll anymore.”

  Dawn rolls her eyes. And Hasmik whispers, “Until the next time. . . .”

  During these days of hard training that I spend at Phoinios Heights, my friends and family go out into the city, start getting to know what Poseidon has to offer, and do whatever they can to help me, for which I’m immensely grateful.

  Chiyoko, Laronda, and Gordie, with the help of Gennio, take multiple trips to the various venues where the Pre-Games Trials are being held, and to several potential Game Zone sites (actual Game Zone locations are a well-guarded secret, until formally announced during each of the Four Stages, but everyone still loves to guess, based on possible preparation activities in some areas). Their aim is to get a closer look at the locations, at some of my competition, and to pick up public opinion gossip.

  They—and Aeson, for that matter—don’t want me to go down there in person just yet, due to possible security issues—now that I’m the Bride of Kassiopei. However, as the Games loom closer, I might make a few carefully calculated and controlled public appearances, depending on the advice of my various trainers.

  While they’re out there, Hasmik and Gracie have been studying the phenomenon of Games merchandising, which includes not only this season’s official Contender uniforms, but also the fabrics involved—which is Hasmik’s new specialty—and the color hues. According to them, this year’s Games clothing style involves very deep and at the same time vibrant metallic colors, and this new crop of uniform fabrics is highly reflective under direct light.

  While actual Contender uniforms are only available directly from the Games official sources to the Contenders themselves—and you can’t get them until right before the Games begin—there are many copycat fabrics and “fan uniforms” being sold on the streets of Poseidon to the public.

  “They almost look like colored chrome,” Gracie tells me. “Very pretty, actually. Red looks like a juicy cherry, green is dark forest-green, blue is close to navy, and yellow is rich like an overripe lemon.”

  “Yum,” I say. “So what does it mean for me?”

  “Sorry, Gwen-jan, if you are a Vocalist you get to wear boring white,” Hasmik says. “But at least the texture is nice, using very complex materials, with orichalcum woven throughout. It has a shiny pearl gleam. The black Mouth logo will stand out.”

  Yes, many of my friends assume I’ll be choosing Vocalist as my Category, even though I haven’t officially “decided” yet. . . . I neither confirm nor deny.

  And then Gracie mentions the other merchandizing. “Hate to tell you, Gee Two, but they have all kinds of Games gear and trendy swag—clothing, kind of like sports team jerseys, hats, buttons, flags, mugs, grail souvenir replicas, even action figures of the most popular competitors. Tons of Deneb Gratu and Hedj Kukkait stuff—there are buttons and pins everywhere with the Deneb skyball logo, and the stupid ‘Kuk-ku!’ or white bird design for the Hedj Kukkait fans. . . . Oh and Tiamat Irtiu has scarves and ribbons, and all these gorgeous ‘Thalassa’ dolls, which turn her nickname into some kind of sexy sea nymph. . . .”

  I recall with a shudder that Entertainer Tiamat Irtiu—popularly known as “Thalassa” or “blue sea” for her flowing blue-tinted hair and amazing blue eyes—is not merely a beautiful courtesan, but a vicious martial artist, dancer, and acrobat, who is going to destroy me in the arena if I ever let her get close to me. . . .

  “And there are so many Sarpanit Latao tech gadgets! She’s the Scientist Category favorite, and they say she’s crazy brilliant, some kind of mad scientist!” Hasmik adds. “And Technician Ujaste Naat is just as dangerous—his name is on all those wrist comm devices people carry. You can see hovering holograms everywhere advertising action figures sets and doll miniatures, so that you can collect them all. They even sell Color Quadrant armbands with Games designs and competitor pictures on them!”

  Gracie nods. “It’s just as bad as it gets on Earth, with the movie industry or sports events and team affiliations. . . . Insane!”

  “Ugh . . .” I mutter. “Please don’t tell me they have action figures of me.”

  Gracie and Hasmik exchange pitying glances.

  “Not action figures. . . . They have pillows with your picture on them, the same junior year school picture which you hate.”

  I frown. “Pillows? What? Why?”

  Gracie purses her lips. “Although, some use a new picture of you from the Imperial Court Assembly when you were all dressed up—”

  And then I get it. “Oh crap, it’s the sleepy Earth refugee thing, isn’t it
?”

  “Yeah,” Gracie says with a sigh.

  Hasmik just looks at me sadly. “At least they’re using a better picture!”

  “Anything else?” I say.

  “Well, there isn’t all that much. But there are a few ridiculous buttons—with skulls and your name underneath, both in English and Atlanteo.”

  I nod with resignation. “Okay. In other words, I’m dead.”

  Meanwhile Dawn and Blayne make trips downtown for a different reason. They’ve been in touch with Tamira Bedut, a high-powered city Arbiter—the Atlantean equivalent of lawyer—who specializes in personal rights and citizenship cases, and who comes highly recommended by Erita Qwas.

  “Okay, why do I need an attorney, or this Arbiter person?” I ask them. “I thought that the Atlantean law in this case is clear. As the Chosen Bride of the Imperial Crown Prince I get automatic protection and citizenship privileges. Right?”

  “Well, yes and no,” Dawn says wisely, while Blayne sits on the sofa and munches something savory and nut-like from a bowl. “You get potential rights, according to Arbiter Bedut. In other words, your rights are presumptive until you are actually married, at which point the formal legal definition kicks in and you become permanently safe and untouchable. For now, you have to be careful, because technically you are in ‘rights limbo.’ So if anything happens—”

  “What do you mean, anything happens?”

  Dawn shrugs. “Just watch your back, girl. The Imperator has it in for you, and he has a very long reach. You never know. I’m not saying that your Prince can’t protect you, but just be aware of the realities and the technicalities, and stay careful. This Arbiter, Tamira, she’s definitely sharp. I think it’s a good idea to have local legal advice.”

  Of course neither Dawn nor Blayne, and probably not this Arbiter, really know the true extent of the danger—that all-permeating alien danger that looms over all of our heads. I live under its constant grey shadow, and it is hard to lie to all of them, Gracie and Gordie especially—but I continue putting on a brave face.

  During all my time at Aeson’s residence, we get occasional ranking visitors from the Palace. Quite a few IEC Council members come to see the Imperial Crown Prince on confidential business, and I get to witness Aeson going into closed room meetings with them—meetings which last anywhere from a few minutes to several hours, during which all the servants are dismissed for privacy.

  I am occasionally introduced to some of these important visitors, but their reactions to me are generally cool and polite. It’s obvious these important Atlanteans are not too happy with me as the Imperial Bride.

  On the other hand, the Imperatris herself visits, with or without Aeson present, and her affectionate warmth toward me makes up for everyone else’s indifference. Aeson’s mother makes me feel grounded, and part of a family. Her voice is soothing, her conversation is always mild and pleasant, asking me about my training progress, and never mentioning the goings-on at the Palace, nor her Imperial Husband, except to send his formal “regard,” which I’m sure is just her polite way of expressing Court Protocol.

  “Your progress is remarkable,” Devora Kassiopei tells me with a smile, after I’ve described to her the latest oddball tricks I’ve mastered in Combat or at the shooting range with Aeson.

  And then she takes me aside, squeezes my hands meaningfully with her own gentle fingers. “Stay strong, dear child,” she adds softly, out of Aeson’s hearing. “Remember, we all need you very much—and my son Aeson desperately needs you. . . . You must survive the Games, not only for your own sake, but for his.”

  I nod seriously, reassure her that I understand.

  And then I see the vulnerable expression, the pain that she is unable to disguise in her eyes. . . .

  My well-being is tied in with her son’s well-being completely. With her desperate look, the Imperatris pleads me never to forget.

  Something else I can never forget is that I’m probably under constant secret surveillance by the Imperator himself, in one way or another.

  In all this time that I’ve been here at Phoinios Heights, the Imperator has not made an appearance at his son’s estate. I’m told by Aeson that his Father never visits, so that part is not unusual. However, Romhutat Kassiopei has made no official inquiries about me or my well-being, not even to express a false concern about my training progress. And neither has he invited me back to the Imperial Palace for a formal family meal or any other event—it’s as if I no longer exist. Supposedly he casually asks his son about me whenever Aeson is at the Palace, but it is usually done as an afterthought, with a flavor of sarcasm.

  “Did he say anything about me today?” I ask with trepidation whenever Aeson returns from yet another IEC meeting or meal appointment with his Father.

  Aeson’s expression becomes closed off and grim. “Only the same as always: ‘Your Bride must be training for the Games. Good, keep her busy.’ The exact words he used are far less pleasant, so I will not repeat them. . . .”

  I sigh and place my hand on Aeson’s arm, stroking it gently. “That’s okay, you don’t have to. . . . As long as there’s nothing new, it doesn’t matter.”

  In contrast, Princess Manala visits the estate often, coming with or without Khemji, and bringing the latest unpleasant Palace gossip. While Devora Kassiopei is an example of tactful restraint and gentle diplomacy, Manala knows no such filters. It’s apparent that she’s simply incapable of deception of any sort, not even when it comes to kind white lies—which, to be honest, I wouldn’t mind hearing now and then.

  “I try not to listen to them, but oh, Gwen, they say such awful things about you,” she blurts out sadly. “The courtiers and the servants say you will not survive even the First Stage of the Games, and good riddance to you, the Imperial Crown Prince will be rid of you and can finally get another proper Bride such as Lady Tirinea Fuorai or Lady Hathora Sekru. Meanwhile Lady Tiri is so awful. . . . Every time I see her she asks about you and smiles. And she continues to come and walk in the Palace gardens with the other girls all the time, hoping to remind my brother, my Father, and everyone at Court about herself.”

  Manala tells me that there are now all kinds of gambling activities involving me and my fate, and people whisper in the Palace hallways about how I will be killed in the first few minutes of the Games. But none of it is news, since I see daily proof of it on Atlantean TV.

  That’s because on the second week of Green Pegasus, someone starts an Earth Bride Death Lottery. No, I’m not kidding, they even have a trendy abbreviation for it, the EBDL. It began as a novelty sketch, then trended, going viral all over the Atlantean media. Feeds picked it up, and now even the major channels carry it daily, on bus screens, levitating hologram billboards, and lighting up entire walls and sides of buildings in city centers—all under the guise of a comedy news segment so as not to incur the official wrath of the Imperial Family.

  But the EBDL betting is deadly real—there are daily running tallies and options to bet on Gwen Lark’s Demise in each of the Four Stages, specific days in each stage, plus choice of weapons used to kill me, and names of popular likely candidates who do the deed—high profile Games entrants such as Athlete Deneb Gratu or Warrior Hedj Kukkait and others. (At this point I am heartily sick of hearing the names “Deneb Gratu” and “Hedj Kukkait,” but of course it’s only going to get worse.)

  When Aeson finds out about it, he is even more affected than I am. He’s ready to call every network to pull the plug on this offensive segment, but the astra daimon and I, and even my friends, convince him to let it go.

  “No one can stop this ugliness, Kass,” Oalla says, exchanging a knowing glance with Keruvat, as we all sit watching the various TV feeds. “If you try to shut it down, you’ll make it worse. Trust me, I know how it is, with my father being on the Hel-Ra Network and regularly dealing with this kind of media nonsense—and I mean, all the time. The only thing that can change public opinion is more public opinion. And time. . . . And—and okay, just don
’t let it get to you, both of you, seriously. People are evil idiots—on Earth and on Atlantis.”

  “We’ll just have to try to ignore it,” I say bravely, watching a snarky Atlantean commentator call up an EBDL scoreboard. It fills up the main TV screen, populated with betting averages and the same horrid high school picture of me from junior year. It’s the photo that refuses to die.

  “Gwen Lark Overall Death Probability” is the biggest overall category in the first column, and it currently stands at 92%. The next big categories and numbers are “Day of Death” with 97% of bets on Day One, and “Stage of Death” with 99% betting on Stage One.

  Then the numbers become more mixed, with 48% betting on “Kill Weapon” being a Blade, 34% on Firearm, 7% on Net or Cord, 3% on Shield, and 8% on Other.

  As far as who kills me, Deneb Gratu and Hedj Kukkait are almost neck and neck at 26% and 25%, followed by Tiamat Irtiu at 19% and Sarpanit Latao at 13%, with the rest of the percentages being in single digits.

  I watch and shake my head, and giggle nervously. I mean, what else can I do?

  Meanwhile Gracie has been several times to the Earth Cadet Headquarters at the Fleet School complex in downtown Poseidon. It’s the same place where she, Blayne, Laronda, Chiyoko, and all the newly arrived Earth Cadets have to register for Fleet assignment placement. Every time she’s there, she gets a chance to talk to other Earth arrivals, and apparently they have all kinds of opinions about me.