Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  He glances at the ACA Director. “Let’s get Rovat Bennu here. He might have some fresh ideas from a scientific perspective, and he can work with you on the jargon for the official statement about the faulty sensors and ‘lights in the sky,’ for the release later tonight.”

  I recall that Rovat Bennu is the Director of the Science and Technology Agency, and he’s yet another Imperial loyalist member of the IEC.

  “How much of this does Bennu know?” Aeson asks.

  His father glances at him. “Officially, not much, though he suspects enough. But he will now be brought in, as far as the full extent of the role of the ancient ship. It’s become inevitable. He’s worked down there long enough to have an idea of the deeper facility levels, the unexcavated portions.”

  “Is that wise, My Imperial Sovereign?” The priest’s remark is both a subtle caution and a rhetorical question. “Despite all these unfortunate circumstances, some degree of our customary secrecy must still be maintained. Ancient tradition dictates that the fewer individuals who know, the better—”

  “Don’t be afraid, Shirahtet. Your favorite nine-thousand-year-old secrets are so deeply buried that we remain duly ignorant. Right now, we need all the help we can get—to make sure they remain that way.”

  The ACA Director nods and makes the necessary call to the STA Director, as the rest of us watch.

  Apparently, the Red Office is about to get even more crowded.

  Chapter 13

  STA Director Rovat Bennu arrives shortly, with a troubled expression on his long, leathery face, and for the next hour, Aeson and I observe the others bring him “into the fold,” then argue.

  Rovat Bennu is also not a young man, and most of his dark brown hair has left him years ago, so there isn’t that much left to dye. But he attempts to gild it nevertheless, all around the large bald spot. He wears a light-blue coat-like tunic of thin fabric over his jacket, suggesting he’d arrived directly from a science facility and forgot to make himself presentable for the Imperial Palace. But none of it matters.

  Now, Bennu knows.

  “Unbelievable! You’re telling me, the research site where I perform most of my work is not the high security basement of the stadium structure but is in fact the inside of the ancient Colony vessel? And it’s buried underneath the city?” Director Bennu asks in a nervous voice. “And—and you say there are levels that go even deeper than the Yellow Sector, the so-called “basement” fourth floor? Why was I not told about any of this?”

  “Because up till now, it did not concern you,” Director Tiofon says.

  “Oh, and apparently it concerns you?” the STA Director retorts with growing indignation. “How is it that the venerable Science and Technology Agency, working for decades inside this relic, is kept ignorant, while the upstart Atlantis Central Agency, only recently formed to act as a liaison with Earth, is apparently deemed relevant enough to be granted this critical inside knowledge? What else am I unaware of? Apparently quite a few things! And not just sensitive information, but details that could be crucial to our current field of scientific knowledge!”

  “You always know what you need to know, Bennu,” Shirahtet says in his calming voice. “Same for Tiofon, and other IEC members. It is how things work; there is no slight intended. We each have our place in the scheme of things.”

  “Oh, and I suppose you and your holy caste always get to decide who knows what?”

  “As the First Priest of Kassiopei, granted authority unto the ages by the divine ancestors of the Dynasty we serve, it is my ancient role and function. Therefore, yes, I do.”

  “Enough!” the Imperator interrupts them. “Stop bringing up my chazuf ancestors, Shirahtet. I choke on them every night as I lie in bed thinking of all the ancient shebet they passed on to me in the form of Imperial duty. And you—we need a hard solution to this crisis, and it’s why I called you, Bennu. You have been informed, you now have privileged information that must not leave this room, and you will remain discreet.”

  “My Imperial Sovereign—yes, of course.” And Director Bennu inclines his balding head with courtly resignation.

  The Imperator exhales fiercely. “Now then, let us discuss our options.”

  Rovat Bennu scratches the back of his head, causing a few of his remaining gilded hairs to stand up messily, then frowns and glances down at his feet and around the room. His darting gaze lands upon Aeson and me, and I see him blink a few times, as though considering us.

  “For starters, I’d like to see it,” he says. “The Grail Monument—that is, the ship. Is it broadcasting now?”

  “Not now, but—judging by its earlier behavior—it soon will be,” Hijep Tiofon says. “And haven’t you seen enough of it from the inside?”

  “Knowing what I know now—” Rovat Bennu shakes his head thoughtfully. “It will be with a new perspective. How, in the name of all divinities, did we as a culture, manage to keep the original Colony ship hidden from the public for millennia? All public historical archives claim it’s long-lost. But it’s buried right here, under our noses. . . .”

  “Having worked there myself, I’d say it’s easy to think of it as just a very old underground structure,” Director Tiofon says in a conciliatory tone.

  Rovat Bennu rubs his forehead and attempts to pace in a very crowded, small spot.

  “Have a seat,” the Imperator tells him. “My Son and his Bride can stand.” And he glances at us with subtle mockery, since only one unoccupied chair remains in the room.

  Aeson does not show any reaction and continues to stand with his arms folded. I am at his side, before the desk. Director Bennu looks at us again briefly, then takes the chair, pulling it closer.

  “Meanwhile, with your permission, My Imperial Sovereign—” ACA Director Tiofon calls up a smart screen from the nearest wall, and sings the sequence to display the media feeds.

  The sound comes on, and there’s a blast of crowd noise. He zooms in on a bird’s-eye aerial view of the downtown complex, taken from one of the media network hover cars, which shows a sizeable crowd gathered below. The agitated voice of a commentator is speaking over the noise:

  “. . . as you can see, the protester crowds are spilling around the complex of the interconnected stadiums and other venues for at least eighteen intersections, and they are carrying signs and holo-projectors. Not only is the Atlantis Grail Stadium itself completely surrounded—despite the possible dangers of the unexplained sound explosions coming from the site all throughout the day—but so are the Red and Blue Forums right next door, all the way across the Golden Grail Plaza to the entire breadth of the Imperial Khemet Stadium. Various protest groups appear to be GGR-enflamed ordinary residents who want the Games to be resolved and an end to their betting. However—and let’s zoom in—quite a few groups seem to express other agendas, including the various conspiracy proponents—”

  The camera swoops down and focuses on a street-level view, and the noise of the crowds becomes deafening. We see Poseidon residents, men, women, teens, and even younger children—everyone is pumping upraised fists, waving colorful Category banners with the Logo images, and holding up both physical and holo-projected placards. They are chanting, “Champions! Champions! Give us the Top Ten!” and “The Games are Forever but the Results are Now!” and “Give me my Champion!” and “No Games, No Work!”

  However, the camera speeds past all these and stops before the signs that read, “Protect the Skies, Protect us! THEY are Here!” and “The Stars are Falling!” and “Ancient ENEMY Found Atlantis!” and “Star Pilot Corps Mobilize!”

  One man stands with his hands upraised and spread apart, projecting a holographic image of a night sky and a strange glowing blob of pale, washed out radiance, with a caption projected above it that reads: “Tonight from New Deshret!” And then the image is replaced with another view of another night sky, this one showing moving dots of brightness, and a caption that says: “Last night in Ubasti!” Seconds later, the scene is replaced by a third view, of yet
another sky with another glowing blob of light and the caption: “At dawn in Shuria!”

  “These alleged eyewitness images are confusing, but powerful and undeniable,” the commentator’s voice says. “So far, our sources cannot verify any of these amateur scene-captures to be genuine, and there have been no official comments from the authorities on the nature of these—indeed, no comments or statements forthcoming as yet from the Imperial Palace or the IEC Assembly Chamber on anything today. But now we are being told that quite a few of the fringe networks worldwide have carried short clips of these eyewitness images taken by local residents in the last 27-hour period—ordinary people recording views of their skies, including New Deshret, Ankh-Tawi, Weret, Seba, Abuud, Hemet-Saret, and on our side, Ubasti, Shuria, Khenneb, and Ptahleon. None of the networks include our affiliates—we are still attempting to get more information for our viewers, and investigative crews have been sent to gather our own footage—”

  “That big mass of light. Those moving sparks. What is that?” the Imperator demands to know over the noise of the TV feed. “Are you certain all of these are caused by faulty sensors, Tiofon? That’s not just New Deshret—they’re the only ones having weather tech issues, not Ubasti or Shuria!”

  The ACA Director does not answer immediately, but stares, frowning at the screen. Then he says, “Hmm.”

  The STA Director however, says, “Not sure if that kind of blur right there is corrupted sensor transmissions. But—could be anything. Let me look into this.” And he looks down at his wrist comm and starts tapping something.

  The Imperator continues staring at the screen, shaking his head.

  “I will have the SPC patrols do a complete orbital pass and report within the hour,” Aeson says. He too starts entering something into his wrist device. I stand and watch the swift movements of his large, elegant fingers and the tiny screen display across the band light up on his wrist, racing with data in Atlanteo letters and numerals.

  “Have there been any strange sky sightings here?” Shirahtet asks. “Anything unusual in today’s reports from any of your agencies?”

  Both the directors shake their heads. “No, nothing,” ACA Director Tiofon says.

  “No reports scheduled for today.” STA Director Bennu looks up, then continues tapping on his wrist.

  The Imperator makes a gruff sound. “If this is real—could it be somehow related to our current problem?”

  Meanwhile the TV feed continues to scroll down the street, showing the various protestor signs. My attention is sharply drawn to one group waving familiar signs with images of me holding the yellow Grail and the words “Gwen Lark, Our Imperatris, Our True Goddess!” And now they’ve added new ones—there I am, superimposed upon a night sky, and the caption says: “Her Voice is Logos! She Will Save Us!”

  I make an involuntary sound of sharply indrawn breath, while a pang of fear hits me in the gut.

  The Imperator sees the signs with my likeness, hears them chanting “Gebi Goddess! Gebi Goddess!” and lifts one finger to the screen. “This,” he says in a frigid voice, “this needs to be stopped. Throttle it before it escalates.”

  “Indeed, my Imperial Sovereign,” the First Priest replies and casts a chilling look at me.

  “That’s horrible,” I say, staring back at the priest and forcing myself not to break eye contact, so that he is the first one to look away. “I agree, this needs to be stopped, because it’s crazy!”

  “It’s obviously ignorant nonsense,” Aeson says at once, frowning at the priest and at his father and throwing me an intense glance. He then resumes observing his wrist comm.

  Director Bennu looks up from his. “Okay, a quick scan of global satellite imagery of the skies right now, shows absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “And—SPC pilot orbital reports starting to come in,” Aeson says. “So far, nothing there either.”

  “Tell them to range farther out past orbit,” the Imperator says, continuing to stare at the TV feed.

  Aeson raises one brow. “Already done. The next pass will be outward toward Olympos. And the Ishtar Station has been notified to look inward. Notifications being propagated to all other Stations.”

  “Good.” The Imperator tears himself away from the sight of crowd protests and plants one palm down on the desk surface. “Now let’s return to the more important problem at hand—containing the hoohvak ship.”

  And so, the brainstorming nightmare continues. At some point we relocate from the Red Office to a more comfortable room in the Imperial Quarters with seating for everyone. A very large panel TV is called up so that it hovers before us showing at least eight window feeds simultaneously.

  Aeson gives me meaningful looks and gently squeezes my hands when the others are not looking, then insists I rest—so I occupy a spot on the end of the large sofa, grateful for a chance to sit down at last. My chronic Games-induced exhaustion is definitely taking its toll.

  In addition, I seriously worry about Aeson—he is maintaining his usual composed appearance, but I can only imagine how tired and overwhelmed he too must feel underneath his mask of control.

  It’s now evening, and the downtown complex is blazing with artificial illumination, which is featured prominently on the Hel-Ra Network feed that tends to focus on the larger picture instead of zooming to individuals in the crowd. Free Poseidon News is much more “zoom-happy” and focuses on interviewing people in the streets, lingering with loving attention on close-ups of provocative captions on signs, angry yelling faces in the various groups, and occasional clusters of uniformed Correctors and other law enforcement officers. Other networks offer coverage somewhere in between, interspersed with talking-heads round-table commentary. Topics include the mysterious quake from yesterday and its causes (I cringe), the ongoing protests and the agendas of the groups involved, the individual Champions and unresolved tie-breaker Contenders and their mental state, the strange lights-in-the-sky conspiracies that have sprung up literally overnight all around the globe, and even the Imperial Bride (I cringe), and now that she’s a Champion, the upcoming Imperial Wedding.

  Now that we’ve sampled the gist of the news, everyone pays only minimal attention to the feeds, and it’s time to get down to business. The First Priest and the two Directors discuss the possible quantum field containment options. The Imperator makes various calls, some of which are to additional IEC members. Aeson deals with the incoming data on his wrist comm. I’m the only one simply observing and waiting.

  Soon two very quiet Imperial staff members arrive to take notes and draft a formal media statement regarding the Games Final Ceremony. It is to be held tomorrow at the Khemetareon at the second hour of Khe. Every ticket holder’s pass from yesterday’s original Stadion event is to be duly honored, but actual seating is to be determined by order of arrival and availability, with additional standing-room-only arrangements and, if necessary, consolation vouchers. Champions and tied Contenders will be notified separately.

  The statement—after being approved by the Imperator—is forwarded to the media. Minutes later we get to watch and hear it being read by anchors over the different live feeds, including multiple street-level floating orb holograms projected directly into the gathered crowds like giant iridescent soap bubbles filled with moving pictures and sound.

  The crowds respond immediately, and now on all the channels there’s the noise of cheers and jubilation. But most of the people don’t disperse, and some groups continue yelling their angry slogans regardless, while milling around the downtown complex.

  The Imperator shakes his head, watching them.

  “Ah, you can’t please these chazufs, My Sovereign Lord,” Hijep Tiofon says with a gesture of disgust at the media feeds.

  “Tomorrow this time, they will be satisfied and happy,” the First Priest says.

  “Give them time, yes.” Rovat Bennu nods. “Now, as far as the effectiveness of performing the maintenance sequence immediately after the Imperial Aural Block, just as the ship goe
s silent. . . .”

  And they continue their discussion.

  Aeson sits on the sofa, once again right next to me. His wrist comm emits a tone, but thankfully it’s just the mass announcement addressed to me as a Champion Contender instructing me to be at the Final Ceremony tomorrow, with detailed instructions. After glancing at the message and arching one brow, Aeson leans back and closes his eyes momentarily. His hand slips over mine, resting there, warming my skin. Then he opens his eyes again and leans in closer to me. “I’m sorry, Gwen. You’ll have to put on that damned uniform once more—tomorrow. Hang in there,” he whispers. “Amrevu.”

  “You too,” I barely mouth the words, and move in closer against him. My own fingers twine with his, then gently sweep upward along his forearm, feeling the toned warmth of his muscles through the sleeve. Squeezing his arm gently, I linger there, grounded (and even now, sensually energized) by his physical presence.

  The thought of wearing the white Vocalist uniform yet again makes me sick. I feel like I’m trapped in an eternal haze of unrelenting tension, of waiting, waiting, I don’t know for what. Thoughts of my fellow Contenders plague me, and I try to image what the other members of Team Lark must be thinking about right now—especially Chihar and Lolu who are still tied with other Contenders in their Categories and will find out tomorrow whether or not they won. . . .

  Distracted by our common stress state, Aeson and I sit aside from the others and only half-listen to them argue about the ship.

  Some of the ark-ship solutions being brought up and discarded as impossible, unreliable, or otherwise useless are: combining the Imperial Aural Block sequence with the annual maintenance sequence (will try it once, but it will likely be for nothing), creating a secondary quantum shield all around the stadium complex (too difficult to maintain, too complicated, will not work, public will notice), relocating the ship (insanity!).