Win

by Vera Nazarian

  How is it different? It’s musical.

  And it’s coming from the rim of the little water grail, as Vidam is running his fingers along the edge.

  The tone is a little flat, but it makes a note.

  A sudden cascade of thoughts comes to me—striking me with clarity like bolts of lightning.

  “Wait!” I exclaim, staring at Vidam’s little grail. “That sound—is there water in your grail? Or is it empty?”

  “What?” He stops running his finger against the rim. “Yeah, there’s some water.”

  “How much? Let me see it!”

  “Huh?” Vidam shakes his head. “Are you being crazy again—”

  But Kateb sees my expression, probably recognizes something there, something important. “Let her,” he says in a firm voice.

  Vidam rolls his eyes, popping them wide, then slides over his grail.

  I take it carefully, and set it next to mine. Then I run my own finger along the rim.

  Once I get the hang of it, immediately the little tone rises, the same clean slightly flat musical note. I run my finger against one grail’s rim then the other. The notes are not the same!

  I look inside, and my suspicion is confirmed. The level of water is different in each grail. So then I tip my grail and pour some of my water into the other grail, then play its rim.

  And the tone changes.

  Yes! I think, with rising excitement. It’s a weird Atlantean version of a glass harp! This goblet might not be glass or crystal (possibly it’s orichalcum or something else altogether) but it works exactly the same way as a glass harp on Earth, also called “musical glasses!”

  “What are you doing?” Kateb asks me with a serious expression. “What do you have in mind?”

  But I look up only to ask him for his own grail. “I only want to borrow it,” I say. “Don’t worry, I won’t use up any of your water.”

  “Do you mind explaining what—”

  “Just a moment,” I say, putting my hand up for silence. And then I pour the water slowly, in miniscule amounts from one grail to another, and test the note each one makes—until I’m satisfied that each one is neither flat nor sharp, but at the exact pitch I want it to be.

  F-A-C. The basic keying note sequence. Except I play the notes out of order, so that I do not make the sequence.

  “I have an idea what this is,” Vidam says, coming alive with interest. “But if it’s a voice command, we’re not allowed to do them, remember? The Taboo Rule says we cannot sing or play or otherwise—”

  “All right, listen,” I say. “We’re not using our vocal cords, so it’s not singing. And if we play one note, that in itself doesn’t make any known voice command, right?”

  Kateb nods.

  “So then what—” Vidam protests again.

  “So we each play only a single note!” I say. “This way each one of us is not technically breaking any rule!”

  Kateb moves in closer, while his eyes show a growing comprehension and living excitement. “Yes!” he says. “Those three notes, they can be used to form a keying sequence!”

  “Exactly!” I say.

  “Wait, what?” Vidam sputters. “But how will it help?”

  And then I tell them my crazy plan.

  “We activate the external speech amplifier—the one used to communicate with anyone outside the Safe Base. We hold the three grails up against it, and each one of us plays one of the notes in the correct order to form the keying sequence. The sound will be transmitted and amplified outside and it will key all those drones!”

  “You are crazy!” Vidam says, staring at me. But he appears convinced.

  “We have nothing to lose,” Kateb adds.

  But I’m not done speaking. “So, we key the drones, that’s the easy part—”

  “Assuming we can key them with this technique,” Kateb interrupts.

  “Well, why not?” I say with slightly more confidence that I feel. “Anyway, then comes the hard part. The drones will hover, and I will have to quickly adjust the water level in one of the grails—since we only have three and we really need four notes—”

  The two guys are watching me with complete attention.

  “I will have to adjust that one grail to a higher octave. There will be two grails with F notes, only an octave apart. And the hard part would be to play them together in an illusion of a rising slide, something that’s easily done with voice.”

  As I speak, suddenly I’m thinking of the Hanging Gardens, or should I say, the Hovering Gardens in the Imperial Palace, and how they rise each morning with the simple combination of clean bell tones.

  “You’re going to make the drones rise?” Vidam guesses. “But they’ll still be dangerously active.”

  “Not if they keep rising . . . and rising!” I exclaim with a little smile.

  “I get it,” Kateb says. “They’ll rise up into the atmosphere indefinitely. Until they’re out of range.”

  “And that’s all we need,” I say.

  Vidam suddenly lets out a deep guffaw. “Hah! Crazy! I like it! Let’s do it!”

  And so each one of us holds up a grail, and we turn on the external speech amplifier on the wall.

  “Ready?” I say.

  And then I put my finger on the rim and play an F note. The sound is picked up and transmitted outside, clean and loud, rising over the din and hum of flying drones and scorching crackle of laser fire. . . .

  Kateb plays the A note on his grail.

  Vidam plays the C note on his.

  The three notes blend into each other, and then we repeat, alternating turns, F-A-C.

  The stadium audience outside realizes what we’re trying to do and quiets down, in rapt attention, so that only the buzz of the drones and the sound of burning remain in the clearing.

  And then it happens. The drones stop flitting about, cease firing, and freeze in place. They hover, still buzzing menacingly, but they are no longer activated.

  Vidam snorts with excitement, then cusses again, this time to express his wonder. “I can’t believe it worked!”

  “Okay, now quickly, both of you give me your grails,” I mutter. “I need to create another F note, an octave higher. I’ll need to remove some water—”

  The guys hand me theirs, and I start adjusting the water level in one of them by pouring water out into the other. The way it works is, the less water in the glass, the higher the note when you play the rim.

  And so I keep fine-tuning the water level, until I’ve poured all the water out, and then I test the note and it’s still not high enough to form a high F.

  “Oh, no . . .” I whisper. “Oh, no!”

  “What?” Kateb watches me intently. “What’s wrong?”

  I look up at him, glance from him to Vidam, and then explain our problem.

  This time Kateb cusses also.

  “I can’t create an octave difference!” I say with despair. “The goblet, even when completely empty doesn’t make a tone high enough in pitch to match the other F!”

  “Maybe we can use another water container of some sort?” Vidam says, frowning. “There has to be something—”

  I think intensely. “Well . . . if I can’t make a higher F note, I might be able to do a lower one with a larger capacity cup.”

  All three of us turn to stare at the package on the floor containing the Red Grail.

  “Deneb said not to touch it,” I remind them.

  “Deneb is not here,” Kateb says coldly.

  Vidam nods. “I say, open it and use it.”

  And so I pick up the wrapped bundle, and forcefully rip open the digitally secured pouch that has a tamper-proof numerical combination lock. “Sorry, Deneb,” I say, while out in the arena the hovering drone army hums in anticipation.

  The object inside is wrapped in something else, some kind of fabric. I untangle it with frustration and finally liberate . . . a deep, gold-plated drinking bowl. For a moment I stare at it with puzzlement.

  This is not the Red
Grail!

  The stadium audience explodes in a roar, as they watch us via nano-cameras and see what’s actually concealed in that package, while the commentators go wild with speculation.

  Vidam strikes the nearest wall with his fist and curses so abundantly that even Kateb frowns at him.

  “So that’s Gratu’s game!” Vidam exclaims. “That fish-eating chazuf planted this with us as a decoy while he kept the real Red Grail on him all along! That’s why he took so long to wrap it! Had his back turned to hide what he was doing!”

  Kateb nods, and his expression is dangerous, showing cold anger. “Which means, he never planned to return here.”

  “We’re supposed to serve as a distraction!” Vidam continues to pound the wall with his fist and the flat of his palm to punctuate his words. “We’re just stupid meat bait for all the other major player teams who want to get their hands on the prize, while Deneb is hiding somewhere safe, laughing at us. No wonder he split up the team, took his favorites with him—”

  “Okay,” I say. “I agree, Deneb screwed us over. But now we’re stuck in this mess, so let’s continue with what we were trying to do.” I turn the large bowl in my hands, test its rim. “Pass me more water, please, I’m going to try to make the best of our crappy situation, okay?”

  And so I transfer water from the goblets and the get the rest of what’s in Kateb’s flask, and then even more from Vidam’s larger flask. I slide a finger along the bowl’s thicker rim, try various techniques, and then finally manage to produce a musical tone. With some trial and error, at last I achieve the low F note that matches the little grail in pitch.

  Thank you, lord!

  Next, Kateb holds up the small grail tuned to middle F, and I hold up the bowl with the low F.

  “Ready?” I say again. “I’ll begin the sequence. Low-to-high.”

  Kateb nods.

  I play the low F into the external speech amplifier, transmitting its clear deep sound outside.

  Immediately Kateb follows, playing his grail with its higher octave note.

  The trick is to make a smooth, seamless transition.

  The drones levitate and hum angrily, without responding to our first attempt at a “rise” command.

  “Again,” I say. “This time, wait for my sound to fade, and play yours right then.”

  “Come on . . . come on,” Vidam mumbles at us. “It has to work!”

  We ignore him and carefully repeat the command note sequence.

  Somehow we succeed, on the third try.

  As one, the drones go absolutely silent. It lasts only a heartbeat. And then their hum returns, this time at a higher frequency, similar to the sound they made before the Drone Master fell to his death. It’s a living sound of a program reset in “ready” mode.

  In that moment the drone army accepts its new, simple command.

  Rise. . . .

  We watch in wonder, and the whole stadium watches in expectant silence, as the drones start rising slowly and evenly—I’m reminded of helium balloons back on Earth. They soar, spaced equidistantly from each other, neither overtaking nor falling behind, simply moving directly up in a great robotic flock.

  Up, up, up, they go. . . . In seconds they are above the highest level structure in the arena. . . . Then, they’re higher than any point in the stadium, including the great golden Atlantis Grail monument.

  They turn into dark specks, silhouetted against a late afternoon blazing white sky.

  And then they dissolve into the whiteness altogether.

  The stadium erupts in a roar of absolute jubilation.

  Kateb, Vidam, and I, grin and laugh out loud.

  And then I hear it, the new unexpected chanting outside, amid the applause and the roar.

  “Gwen Lark! Gwen Lark!”

  Chapter 52

  “Not bad! The audience is recognizing you, My Imperial Lady,” Vidam says, with a slightly reluctant grin.

  Kateb raises one brow. “Of course they do. She did well, so they acknowledge it.”

  I’m stunned. “Oh . . . we all did well!” I hurry to say.

  “But it was all your idea,” Kateb says. “You came up with it, so you earned the credit.”

  I smile and let out a held breath. And then I turn slightly to address what appears to be empty space, and I wave to the nano-cameras. “Thank you!” I mouth awkwardly in Atlanteo, speaking to no one in the room and everyone out there.

  The stadium thunders back immediately with more screaming applause, so I know they’ve seen me responding to them, and are responding back.

  I can get used to this. A faint pang of satisfaction comes to me.

  But my respite is short-lived, because Kateb suddenly points to the surveillance view of the scorched clearing outside.

  Contenders are moving swiftly among the rubble, approaching our Safe Base.

  “. . . Now that the drone threat is removed, Grail Games worshippers, it’s Team Irtiu—or what’s left of it—coming forward to make their play for the prize!” the commentator chatters. “At the same time, the remaining members of Team Kukkait are emerging on the upper levels, about to continue their own assault!”

  “It appears that none of them are yet aware that the Red Grail is no longer inside!” another commentator interrupts with enthusiasm. “Oh, what a disappointment for all, once they make their approach, and breach the defenses—that is, if they actually succeed!”

  “Yes, Deneb Gratu had made a supremely clever play by removing himself and taking the Red Grail secretly to another undisclosed location! So the question remains, where is he hiding, this devious major Contender who is everyone’s favorite Athlete?”

  “Okay, glad they said it,” I say. “Those Contenders out there can hear the Games announcers as well as we do, so hopefully now they know we don’t have the Red Grail anymore. Maybe they’ll leave us alone.”

  In answer, several loud thuds sound outside on the walkway. The sound of grappling hooks landing and anchoring themselves over the railing. And then the whine of cables and zip lines tightening. . . .

  Oh, crap. . . .

  “No such luck,” Kateb says tiredly. “Hedj Kukkait is coming.”

  I’m honestly not sure what happens in the next few minutes. All I know is, our door locks have been sufficiently damaged by the drone fire that they’re easily overcome, and then the door is forced open. . . .

  “Kuk-Ku! Kuk-Ku!” the stadium roars.

  Kateb has his long helicopter weapon ready but he can’t use it properly indoors without enough room for the unfurled spinning blades, so he has to resort to other secondary weapons. Vidam has his guns out, and starts firing even as the enemy pours inside, but there are just too many of them, and they have large, clear body-length shields that easily withstand laser and projectile fire. . . .

  That’s when I see him—tall, bony-gaunt like a skeleton, with long white hair, pale skin, and dark brows and eyes, stark against his Red Warrior uniform.

  Hedj Kukkait moves with the sleek grace of a practiced killer, wielding two long jagged blades, as he cuts down Vidam the Artist, and then turns and sees me. . . . I can’t see Kateb, but I hear him fighting the others, hear the clash of metal on metal. . . . And then I blink, and it no longer matters where Kateb is, or even if he’s alive, because the world narrows, and the Red Warrior is coming for me.

  I see the lean, terrible face up-close—blank, emotionless.

  In that moment I’m rendered useless, paralyzed by the enormity of what’s happening, able only to hold up my equipment bag as a stupid shield.

  That’s when he strikes me, and everything goes black.

  I wake up from a horrible darkness into a living nightmare. My head hurts like hell, a dull deep ache. . . . Jumbled thoughts. . . .

  I inhale deeply and wince, and then carefully open my eyes to minimize the pain . . . Apparently, I’m lying down in some kind of room—another arena shelter, I guess.

  Why is it that I’m still alive?

  The sight th
at greets me is a room that has to be another Safe Base. The walls are painted red, and there are two light sconces on opposite sides, plus a surveillance center with a smart screen and controls on the third wall. The utility corner with stacked blankets and a sewer hatch is identical to all the others I’ve seen in the Game Zone.

  There’s only one other person in the room with me. A tall gaunt man in a Red Warrior uniform stands with his back turned before the surveillance center. I see the fall of his long white hair, and realize it’s Hedj Kukkait, the White Bird himself. The views on the surveillance screens behind him show the arena outside, cast in blue evening twilight, and the bright artificial lights have been turned on. I can hear familiar stadium spectator noise and occasional distant gunfire.

  How much time has passed? What are we doing here?

  Again, why am I even alive?

  He must hear my waking movements, because he turns around to look at me, and I see the stern pale face and the black eyes that seem to have no irises or pupils, only darkness.

  Those eyes—they never blink. And then suddenly they blink once, like a wild bird of prey, and again grow still. . . .

  Sprawled on the floor, with my equipment bag under my head, overcome with terrible general weakness, I try to move, to cringe back, away from him. But he takes a few steps to approach, and towers above me, looking down at me.

  My pulse starts pounding with terror, as he suddenly leans over me and stares in my face. And then, as I still cringe, his hand, cold to the touch, comes to check the side of my head.

  “Are you going to kill me?” I whisper in a parched voice, which cracks.

  There is a pause.

  “No,” he says. His voice is hollow and neutral, neither baritone nor tenor.

  “Why?” I mumble thickly. “Then why am I here? I don’t have the Red Grail, Deneb has it—”

  “I know.” His reply is bland, lacking emotion. He merely reaches out with his hand to move my head sideways again. “Be still. I will have water for you, later.”