Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  In that moment, Fawzi Boto next to me makes an exclamation of protest. But he is drowned out by the audience.

  And then Miramis Opu, the Priest of the Grail, adds, “Let there be no doubt as to the final decision of this Category. Does the Vocalist judge agree?”

  At once, there is again universal silence.

  Then the woman judge speaks, raising her circular sign with the mouth logo even higher to signal attention. “Yes, I agree with the decision of the Imperial Sovereign.”

  But Fawzi Boto is not done. His bright tenor rings out, “I challenge this decision! It is my right to demand an explanation, a reevaluation, or a new tiebreaker event! It is my right—our right—” and he glances past me at Sofia Veforoi, “—to demand that this so-called ‘win’ be explained! What exactly did Gwen Lark do that makes her a winner? We sang magnificent arias, and she—she issued mere voice commands, faulty ones at that, accomplishing nothing—”

  Nothing? Really? Is he being ironic, or sincere? I feel a brief stab of anger.

  But oddly enough, he does have a point—if the official interpretation is that a natural seismic event caused all the stadium damage during which the Grail was “displaced,” then what did I do indeed? Nothing!

  They have no logical reason to award the win to me. Unless—maybe they don’t need to have a reason? Maybe it can all be based on the whim of the Imperator? Do the Games rules allow such a thing?

  While my mind goes into a tailspin of doubt, on the other side of me, surprisingly, Sofia Veforoi now speaks, interrupting Fawzi. “I disagree with your challenge, Boto. Please do not include me in your dispute. I concur with the judges and I concede my Category to Gwen Lark.”

  “What?” Fawzi glares at her, again looking around and past me.

  But in that moment, the Vocalist judge says, “This decision is now final and, being the Imperial choice, according to the rules, needs no explanation. Contender Fawzi Boto, you have the right to continue to disagree and even appeal. But from this moment on, your dispute must be taken to the courts, where you may hire Arbiters and spend your time and resources on this pointless matter. Because, I assure you, this decision will not be overturned. So, persist, if you will, at your own discretion.”

  The crowd screams, and I’m not even sure if they’re expressing approval or displeasure. That is, until the chants come: “Gwen Lark! Champion! Champion!”

  My own pulse calms down—my nerves settling, at least in this regard—because I know in my gut that regardless of what Fawzi Boto might continue to think or do, the Imperator made his public choice in my favor, and it is irrefutable.

  I won, and it’s official. No matter on what shaky grounds—quite literally—the decision is based.

  Now that my Vocalist Category has been decided, I remain standing before the judge, while Sofia and Fawzi are told to step back. The Priest of the Grail instructs them to descend from the dais onto the floor of the arena and wait at the foot of the stairs. Eventually they will be dismissed, but not until the two remaining Category tiebreakers take place.

  From the corner of my eye I watch Fawzi’s angry, confused face, and Sofia’s stoic one, as they remain below, resigned. There is something tragic about the sight of them, and I feel a moment of real sorrow on their behalf.

  What desperate hopes and dreams are being shattered right now for them, their families, and loved ones. . . ?

  Forcibly I turn my attention back to the judges and the remaining Contenders. Miramis Opu is announcing the next contested Category—that of Scientist.

  The Scientist judge raises his circular sign with the atom cloud logo and looks at Chihar Agwath and Rea Bunit. “Contenders, your tiebreaker event will determine which one of you is the winner. You must impress me with your abilities to solve the problem presented to you! Bring forth the materials for the Scientist Category!”

  At once, three Games staff dressed in blue come running across the arena, carrying two small folding tables, a large tray with twenty bottles, and two round stones, each one the size of a bowling ball.

  The audience noise increases as they ascend the dais and quickly set up the little tables before the two Contenders. One stone ball is placed on each table, and each is surrounded by ten bottles from the tray. Apparently, each of the bottles contains a different substance, because they have ten different color-coded labels, one of each kind per table.

  Chihar and Rea wait nervously.

  “Contenders, your task is the following: use any of the ten common chemical substances presented here to destroy the stone before you. Some of these substances are highly toxic, others are benign, until mixed with each other. All are potentially lethal, so take care not to become contaminated with them. Use as many or as few of the chemicals as you like. The first person to cause the stone to crack and crumble most effectively will win the Category. You have ten minutes to achieve your task. If neither one of you succeeds by the time the alarm sounds, you will have to perform a second task. Are you ready? When the bell tone sounds, you may begin!”

  In seconds, a sound of three ringing bells echoes across the stadium.

  At once, Chihar and Rea approach the table and start grabbing bottles to read their labels.

  I watch with pity as they keep turning the bottles and picking up others, examining the stone, pausing to think, starting to pick up the items again—all while the audience roars at them.

  Visually, it’s not a particularly exciting or physical task, but because of the high stakes involved, the audience betting goes wild. In moments, the great scoreboards all around the Khemetareon start filling with rows of numbers as the thousands of additional bets from the media feeds start pouring in to complicate the already rapid-fire changes in the tallies.

  Minutes tick. I realize, the pressure on Chihar and his rival is astounding. I’ve no idea what kind of chemicals they have at their disposal, and how much or how little is in each bottle. They have to plan wisely, because once they use up any given bottle, they are out of that substance. Furthermore, the combinations of the ten substances might result in dangerous poisons or toxic fumes.

  Rea Bunit is the one who opens the first bottle and pours its contents onto her round stone. A second one quickly follows, and there’s a hiss from the stone’s surface.

  Chihar takes a bit longer to begin his own process. He selects two different bottles and opens them slowly with extra care—his bandaged hand doesn’t give him the full range of finger movement. And then he methodically pours them together over the stone, resulting in a thick vapor, while his stone begins to sizzle.

  This goes on for a few more minutes, as both Contenders open more bottles and there is a lot of hissing, sizzling, and noxious fumes. The surfaces of both their tables must have some kind of anti-corrosive coating because they remain unharmed by the chemical warfare being enacted on top of them.

  When the final alarm sounds and they cease their efforts and step back, both stones have cracked into multiple pieces, but the one that appears most eroded is Rea’s stone.

  Chihar’s expression is normally bland and hard to read, but now it deepens with a kind of weary despair that summarizes all the ordeals and brutal effort that this older man had to go through to get to this moment. He closes his eyes for an instant and lets out a deeply held breath. And then he stands motionless, staring at nothing before him.

  My heart breaks for Chihar as the Scientist judge raises his circular sign and announces: “The Scientist Category Winner is Rea Bunit!”

  The audience screams as the woman’s face beams with jubilation and she raises both hands to wave at the crowds. “Rea! Rea! Champion! Champion!” they shout.

  Rea Bunit remains standing proudly before her judge.

  Meanwhile, as instructed, Chihar descends the dais. As he walks near me, our gazes meet for a moment, and a world of meaning is exchanged between us. Chihar nods to me with dignity, then goes below to stand with the others who have come so unbelievably close to their dreams, but ultimately los
t the Games of the Atlantis Grail.

  At the same time, Games workers return to remove the folding tables and the bottles and what’s left of the broken stones.

  Broken, like their aspirations and dreams. . . .

  I am still bogged down in sympathetic depression on behalf of Chihar—my thoughts are racing in an effort to come up with some means of helping him after this is all over—when the final tiebreaker Category is announced by the Priest of the Grail.

  The Technician judge looks at Lolu Eetatu and Mineb Inei, then raises his circular sign with the sine wave logo. “Contenders, your tiebreaker event will determine the winner in the Technician Category! You must impress me with your technical skills and solve the problem presented to you! Bring forth the materials!”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Lolu standing stiffly, with a very pale little girl face. I notice her hands are clenched at her sides, and she is frowning from the pressure of what’s about to happen.

  I can feel her emotion, waves of it passing through me, and my heart starts to pound again, this time on her behalf. . . .

  Lolu’s competition, the large and heavy Mineb Inei, towers at her side. His own face reflects intense concentration.

  The audience starts to chant both their names while the scoreboards once again light up with numbers.

  Two of the Games staff, once more wearing blue, come running, each of them with a large bag and a folding table. They set up the tables before Lolu and Mineb, then overturn the bags and dump the contents onto the tables—it looks like electronic parts and junk.

  Lolu continues to frown silently, while Mineb makes some kind of nervous grunt. The crowds roar.

  The Technician judge waves his circular logo for attention then speaks: “Contenders, your task is the following: use any of these components to put together a functional drone. Your finished product must be able to perform at least one useful task. You have ten minutes to achieve your task before the alarm sounds. When the bell tone sounds, you may begin!”

  The moment the bells ring, Lolu and Mineb surge forward and start rummaging through the stuff on their tables. They pick up and examine the alien circuit boards, components, connectors, microchips, cables, and lord knows what else—the kind of stuff that Anu and Gennio work with on a regular basis. As they take stock of their materials, their faces intense with concentration, the audience starts to scream again. The crazy betting commences, and the scoreboards flash with the new data.

  I must admit, both Lolu and Mineb are really good with their hands—in less than a minute they start putting things together, fiddling and plugging in and twisting and connecting parts. Their fingers flash with sure movements born of long practice. I marvel at the steely concentration and the skills they both display.

  But there can only be one winner.

  The ten-minute alarm sounds, and Lolu has some kind of object assembled, and Mineb has another. I have no idea what they are supposed to do, but the Technician judge nods and then asks them to demonstrate the functionality. The audience quiets and waits in suspense.

  Mineb sings a keying command and his drone rises several feet above the table, then emits a bright beam of light. “It’s a basic auto-light,” he says in an uncertain voice that carries across the arena.

  Lolu is up next. She voice-keys her drone and it too rises several feet overhead. She sings another command, and a small bright hologram projection appears over it, with Atlantean numerals in glowing orange light. “It is a chronometer . . .” Lolu says in a breathless voice.

  The judge nods in approval.

  Suddenly the holo-clock projection fizzles. . . . The image scrambles, and the drone goes dark.

  Lolu’s drone crashes down onto the table surface.

  And just like that, Lolu’s dream is done.

  Chapter 18

  Oh, no! Not Lolu! My own breath catches and I blink, fighting back a strange rush of emotion and a lump rising in the back of my throat.

  Lolu stares at the defective fallen drone, the junk lying before her, and her face starts to twitch. She does not cry, but her face fixes into a weird expression that is almost amazed—it’s as if she is stunned by the event as much as anyone.

  The crowds roar and the Technician judge looks somewhat surprised too. He lifts his brows and shakes his head in obvious regret. Then he raises his circular sign and pronounces Mineb Inei the winner in his Category.

  I stare at Lolu in horror, seeing her continue to stand motionless as the Games staff arrive to clean up the materials and remove the tables. Finally, she takes a shuddering breath and turns to walk down the stairs, head lowered. She never looks up as she passes all of us and joins the others who lost, waiting below.

  No, no, no! I think. I must do something, anything for her! Aeson can help, surely he can do something, so that her dying mother would get the medical help she needs . . . she cannot be allowed to die, no. . . .

  Stop.

  I force my spinning, horrible chaos of emotion back down inside me, deep. I cannot fall apart now, not now, not yet.

  And so, I pull myself together and stand and listen as the audience chants “Champion! Champion!” while Mineb Inei straightens his bulky frame and raises his eyebrows up really wide in amazement, and starts to laugh, then raises his hands up and waves to the crowds.

  The Games choir sings once more, and a swell of triumphant music comes from the hidden orchestra.

  As music fades, Miramis Opu turns to the Contenders standing below the dais and says loudly, “Contenders, you who stand below, having struggled bravely but having ultimately lost—you may depart the arena!”

  Three Games workers come running, two in Blue, and one in White, and they motion for the losing Contenders to follow them. Sofia Veforoi and Fawzi Boto follow the worker in White, while Chihar and Lolu each follow one dressed in Blue. They walk quickly across the arena, and the crowds roar and clap, awarding them the final accolades and respect of their near-winner status.

  When they are gone and silence returns, the Priest of the Grail looks up, raising his hands up to the audience, “I present to you, the Champions of the Games of the Atlantis Grail!”

  It is an indescribable moment. . . .

  The audience roar is absolutely deafening, and the music swells. At the same time, our uniforms light up. This time, it’s final and undeniable. We stand, all ten of us, before our Category judges, and raise our hands and wave.

  I perform the same motions that the others are doing, wave and smile automatically. Yet I’m stunned and overwhelmed, and yes, despondent on behalf of my two teammates who have both just lost. I glance to my right and see Brie, grinning and waving to the audience. Our gazes meet, and she too reveals a moment of doubt and darkness, recognizing the sorrow in me. On her other side is Kokayi, who also meets my eyes with a brief searing look, and beyond him, I see Kateb. The four of us, all members of Team Lark, have done the impossible—all four of us won. And yet I can feel that each of us grieves on behalf of those who didn’t.

  But the Ceremony is far from over.

  “The Games are Forever!” Miramis Opu exclaims, interrupting the roar and thunder. “And now is the time to announce the Top Ten in order and award Rank! We will start with the lowest score, and end with the highest. Presenters, come forth!”

  From the farthest entrance of the arena, hundreds of Games Staff arrive, dressed in all the different Category colors. They hold various gaudy items—flowers, colorful ribbons, golden vine-leaf wreaths, and among them, ten small Grails in metallic colors of each Category, each with a gilded border of curling vines sculpted around the rim. Four of the workers hold four larger Grails, Red, Blue, Green, and Yellow. They all remain below, forming several concentric circles around the dais on which we stand.

  “First, behold, the Winners of the Grail of each of the Four Stages!” the Priest of the Grail announces. “Stage One, the Red Grail—originally held by Athlete Deneb Gratu, but presented to no one in these Games due to loss of his life, wi
th no clear succession or inheritance of points—hence, forfeiture. The Red Grail is awarded to the People! It will go on permanent display for all to see in the Imperial Poseidon Museum—”

  The audience screams and stomps and cheers. The worker holding the large Red Grail ascends the dais stairs and stands at the Champions level alongside us. He raises the gleaming red thing high overhead, and turns around slowly for all of the audience sections to see and acknowledge. Then he carries the Grail back down the stairs and proudly walks across the arena to the exit.

  The Priest of the Grail continues: “Stage Two, the Blue Grail—held by the Artist Champion Rurim Kiv!”

  The worker holding the large Blue Grail goes up to the dais. Lowering his head in a respectful bow he hands the Blue Grail to Rurim Kiv but does not linger and returns to the arena floor to rejoin the staff circles.

  Rurim, dark and beautiful, receives the Blue Grail. As the crowds scream, he slowly raises it over his head and throws his head back. Then, he lowers it again and surprisingly, kisses the object along the rim. All along, a delicate smile plays at the corners of his lips.

  “Stage Three, the Green Grail—originally held by Entertainer Tiamat Irtiu, but inherited by the Entertainer Champion Kokayi Jeet!”

  Kokayi takes the Green Grail from the Games worker with a briefly startled look. But then his expression blooms into a fierce smile, a flash of white teeth. He raises the Grail high overhead and brandishes it, while the crowd roars approval.

  “Stage Four, the Yellow Grail—held by the Vocalist Champion Gwenevere Lark!”

  I know it’s coming, but when my moment arrives, I feel a burst of nervous energy. I receive the Yellow Grail from the hands of the Games worker, feeling its slight heft, the smooth metallic surface . . . recalling the moment when I first held it a couple of days ago on top of the Great Nacarat Plateau, at the culmination of that most insane, impossible Race. . . .