Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  For the next few moments we exchange a bubbling stream of perfectly silly and pointless and lovely words back and forth between us, consisting of phrases such as: “You doing okay? Are you well? You look funny. Just a little funny. No, you! How do you feel? Love the shirt, I remember that tan shirt! This is so weird. Weird, I know? I’m fine, what about you? Your hair is sticking up. Is he really, really okay? What’s that on your face?”

  “Amre-ter Charles,” Aeson says at some point, leaning in politely to join our conversation. “Are you comfortable with your arrangements?”

  My Dad’s face transforms warmly. “Oh, yes, Aeson, couldn’t be better, thank you!” he says. “Lovely accommodations and such wonderful reading material. Not to mention, the crew is such fine young people, every one of them, going out of their way for us. . . . I couldn’t be more pleased. Learning your Atlanteo is a bit of a challenge, but I accept it gladly. And, oh, what a rich culture and society you have! I’m just starting an overview of the master index of the historical archives housed in your Imperial Poseidon Museum, cross referencing it to Earth records of overlapping epochs. There is so much new material to fill in the missing gaps in our own antediluvian knowledge, especially the Neolithic—”

  “Dad,” I interrupt. “Are you eating okay? I know you tend to forget to eat when you concentrate on new study material—”

  “Oh, sure,” Dad says absentmindedly. “The food is unusual but very, very tasty.”

  I frown and address my brother. “George, is he eating?”

  George shakes his head slightly and gives me a meaningful look that basically tells me Dad is ignoring his meals, and this time it’s worse, because it’s not merely preoccupation, but grief.

  Mom is gone. . . .

  At the thought of Mom, a sharp pain rips through my gut, but I forcefully ignore it.

  “Please make sure he is eating, George,” I mutter.

  “Doing the best we can here,” George says carefully with a glance at Dad. “But, oh yeah.”

  We talk some more, and I tell them about my confirmed Champion status and my Citizenship as of yesterday, about Gracie and Gordie’s grownup new jobs starting today. Dad sighs with relief and nods at me with a gentle smile. I sense that neither he nor George have a solid understanding of what any of it means yet, so I don’t go into too many details. There will be plenty of that later.

  “Hey,” George says at some point. “Did you know, this ship has no windows? I did find one viewport eventually, and I’m almost sorry I did . . . especially now. Right now, that interstellar space outside is just creepy. I thought I’d see amazing space stuff and unicorn farts. But it’s like a field of grey static out there. The stars are not stars . . . not even streaks, like they were yesterday—just blurs of light. You can’t tell anything out there—it’s cosmic soup.”

  “That’s called the Quantum Stream,” I say smartly. “You’re in a special quantum bubble of different space-time, which keeps you protected from the regular space outside and all of its dangers. And it allows you to go super-duper extra fast. Way faster than our own travel time, actually—it took us months on the ark-ships to reach the ‘field of static’ velocity. Wow! You really are flying!”

  “Is that right?” George smirks. “Super-duper extra fast? Nice technical term, sis. I like it. But—a quantum whatchamacallit?”

  I mumble something silly in reply, while smiling.

  We talk some more, and then I give them a finger kiss, touching screens across the immense cosmic distance.

  “We’ll see each other very soon at this rate!” I say with enthusiasm, then glance at Aeson next to me with a surge of heat in my cheeks. “I might even be married by then. . . .”

  “Yes, my sweet.” Dad says with a loving gaze at both me and Aeson. “Give Gracie and Gordie my love. Tell them we’ll be with you so very soon.”

  “We’ll talk to you again before you get here, Dad! Many times! I’ll call soon! Promise to eat and take care of yourself!”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll be fine, Gee Two, don’t worry about us,” George adds with a comfortable wink. “Ok, now off to watch space static, or read a book or two and catch some Atlantean language videos. . . .”

  And we disconnect the call.

  “Seeing them like that, safe and on their way here—I feel better,” I tell Aeson as we return to the living room below.

  He smiles. “I know.”

  “Now I’m going to eat that eos bread.” I pick up my cold plate of food and take it to the serving table to get it reheated by a helpful estate servant who promptly offers to cook me a whole new meal—which I decline with a smile.

  I eat with an awakened appetite, while watching Aeson work next to Erita and Xelio. When I’m done, it’s almost eleventh hour of Ra, according to my “wrist thingie.”

  And so, I ask Aeson to use one of their screen displays for my official Games business.

  “I’m going to submit my Champion wishes now,” I say, and he brings up the online form for me, according to the official Games instructions in his sponsor account.

  “You’re sure you’re ready?” he asks. “You have a few more days to think it over.”

  Xelio and Erita watch me curiously.

  But I shake my head. And I begin to fill out the Champion request form that’s going to change quite a few lives.

  Chapter 24

  My Champion request form takes me longer than expected, since I’m so painfully detail-oriented, and re-read everything multiple times, tweaking and editing every Atlanteo word and running it back and forth through an English language translator app.

  But at last I tap “submit,” and now there’s no going back. My Champion request is on its way to the Games officials for prize fulfillment, and will now become a part of the Atlantida public record, eventually accessible to everyone, after the wishes are finalized and accommodated.

  Out of curiosity I use the sponsor account to check the general Games status of other Champions’ wish requests. I see that I’m not the only one who filed my request overnight. The data files for most of the Champions are already marked as uploaded—I see the names of Kokayi, Hedj, Kateb, Leetana, Mineb, Rea, and Ukou. I can’t access them, of course, since the rules grant each Champion their data privacy until the requests are handled.

  The only wish requests still missing are those of Rurim and Brie. Somehow, I don’t find that particularly surprising.

  What are their wishes? I wonder.

  But it will be at least a few days until we all find out.

  Meanwhile, there’s another thing I can check—my new financial account.

  I enter a secret passcode in addition to a biometric scan to access my Common Earnings Grail personal credit account, and sure enough, the sum deposited there in my own name is 10,370,407 iretar. I’m not clear on what the conversion rate would be to Earth United States dollars or Euros or Yuan, but I know that it’s a huge sum, maybe even comparable to a billion dollars.

  Holy crap!

  Gwenevere Lark is not just an independently wealthy woman, but she’s filthy rich.

  From that point on, the afternoon is blessedly uneventful. I spend most of it lounging on the sofa, with a hovering TV display, staring at various media feeds. They offer a bizarre mixture of current events and post-Games betting results coverage, interspersed with now familiar images of the Ghost Moon against a space sky background. My mind churns in a kind of stupor overload, trying to digest all that’s happening—to me, to others, to the people on the feeds.

  Meanwhile Aeson and the others continue to work, scanning the endless ocean of data that seems to arrive non-stop. At some point the Imperator’s ring tone sounds, and Aeson talks to his Father briefly on his wrist comm. When he disconnects the call, he sighs and comes over to me.

  “What?” I ask with an immediate stab of worry.

  “We’ve been summoned to the Imperial Palace. But it’s not what you think.” Aeson chuckles tiredly. “Not another secret
crisis. Instead it’s related to the Wedding. My Father has been given quite an earful by someone whom he dares not cross. Yes, unimaginable as it may be, there is someone my Father grudgingly defers to, if only for show—the Venerable Therutat Nuudri. She is the First Priestess of Amrevet-Ra, and she oversees all high ceremonial matters regarding Imperial nuptials.”

  “Okay.” I exhale in some relief.

  “Apparently she arrived at the Palace looking for us—for you specifically—and was scandalized that the two of us were residing at my estate, and not at the Palace, in the Imperial Crown Prince’s Quarters, as is traditional, leading up to the day of the Wedding.”

  My lips part. “What does she want with me?”

  “Well. . . .” Aeson chuckles again. “With all that’s been happening, I forgot to inform you about the series of traditional Bridal Events that take place before the Wedding. Preparations start about two months before the Day, but because of your participation in the Games and the unspoken uncertainty of your fate before then, the formalities were delayed. But now, it has officially begun.”

  “Oh dear God . . .” I whisper with a light smile.

  “We’re officially moving to the Palace and will be staying there until the Wedding.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now. The First Priestess will be meeting us there later today to begin the process.”

  I bite my lip, while Erita and Xelio watch us. “Congratulations, Kass and Gwen,” Erita says cheerfully. “Pack it up and head out. I both rejoice and weep for you. You will drown in Ceremony and you will like it.”

  “Ah.” Aeson glances wistfully at the hovering computer displays. “So much work to do. . . .”

  Erita snorts.

  “Oh! I should let Gracie know,” I say, as my heartbeat picks up speed with strange excitement that I didn’t know I could feel.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Hurry, Kass,” Xelio says, holding back laughter. “Your glorious fate has come upon you. The Venerable One expects you promptly, and you too must submit to her will. You can check SPC reports as they measure you for your Wedding pants.”

  And we go into a flurry of activity.

  An hour later, Aeson has made arrangements with the estate staff to transport our basic personal belongings to the Palace, and informed the rest of the daimon, plus Anu and Gennio, of the changes in the work schedule. I’ve left messages for my sister and brother, and all of my friends. Now we take a hover car to the Palace, surrounded by vehicles full of personal guards, his and mine.

  When we arrive, heading directly to the Crown Prince’s Quarters, a mysterious package awaits me in the room with the four-point star window that serves as my bedroom there. An anxiously waiting servant points me to it, the moment I walk in. A two-foot long antique scroll wrapped in a gold and jewel-encrusted wooden sheath lies on the small desk near my bed.

  “My Imperial Lady, the Imperial Bridal Book has been delivered for you,” the servant says, bowing, then heads for the door.

  “Thank you,” I mumble to the retreating servant.

  Aeson watches me with his arms folded and a light dancing in his eyes.

  “What is it?” I pick up the rather hefty item with a helpless glance at my Bridegroom. “What do I do with it?”

  “I know very little, to be honest. Open it, and let’s see.”

  Very carefully I pull the scroll out of the sheath, wondering at the delicate paper-like material, and unroll it. From what I can make out with my barely passable Atlanteo, it’s some kind of bullet-point list of activities.

  Aeson peers over my shoulder and shakes his head in amusement as I attempt to read them out-loud.

  “I think it says—something with Ladies of the Court—feast, or banquet?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this one says, ‘Choose flowers,’ and this one says ‘Choose Song.’ Right?”

  “Right.”

  “This says ‘Bride Show Day,’ and ‘Gifts Assembly.’ And is that ‘Media interviews?’”

  He nods.

  “Then, ‘Meet with the Imperatris.’ ‘Memorize the Imperial Consort Protocol.’ And this one—‘Be Fitted for the Wedding Dress and Amrevet Dress’—what is that?”

  I look up at Aeson with a sudden rush of heat in my cheeks. Even as I ask, I have some idea of what it could be.

  Aeson’s gaze rests on me and intensifies. His own face flushes, as he says softly, “The Amrevet Dress is worn later—at night. And it’s not exactly a dress.”

  “Oh,” I say, biting my lip again and blushing even more. “Is it like a sexy nightie or something?”

  Aeson shakes his head again weakly, this time not quite meeting my eyes. I think my question is killing him. “Yes, something like that. . . .” he mumbles awkwardly.

  I know enough not to pursue the matter—for both our sakes. “Okay,” I breathe, while my lips tremble at the corners. “I guess I can ask them about the rest—”

  Aeson nods in relief. “I think the Priestess and the nuptials protocol experts can better answer some of your questions. This is traditionally female stuff, and I apologize, Gwen, but I am an ignorant fool when it comes to the ceremonial Wedding details. There is a similar rulebook for the Bridegroom that I would need to read and memorize by the time of the Wedding. I would almost rather deal with our current crises than read that book—”

  I giggle.

  Aeson smiles, then smirks, then starts laughing outright.

  It’s a lovely moment of levity, and we both enjoy it briefly, for as long as we can.

  Aeson and I have our dea meal privately in his Imperial Quarters, then Aeson works for several hours while I settle in. And it’s only after we finish our niktos meal in the evening that the Amrevet-Ra First Priestess Therutat Nuudri arrives at last.

  The “Venerable Therutat,” as she is referred to by everyone, is a tiny old woman dressed in dark clothing of expensive material but stern in style. She is enveloped in a long robe, that hangs to the floor to cover her feet, but not enough to cover the peculiar thick platform shoes that elevate her about three additional inches.

  Her mostly white hair with a few gilded streaks is gathered in a complex bun on top of her head, and a fine gold mesh descends like a veil over her hair and down her back to the waist. Her face is probably deeply wrinkled underneath a thick layer of pale makeup, but it’s hard to tell. Her dark sunken eyes are highlighted in kohl, her lips are delicately gilded—over an undercoat layer of mauve gloss—while a dab of rouge fills the hollows of her cheeks. She is doll-like and absolutely terrifying.

  Therutat enters the spacious antechamber of the Quarters where the Imperial Crown Prince receives formal visitors, and sits down at once in a chair. A young woman accompanies her, introduced as Lady Isulat, her assistant—a slender pretty girl in a similar conservative dark robe, with dark olive skin, and her own gilded hair swept up in a bun underneath a gold mesh.

  Seeing Aeson and me, Therutat inclines her head to both of us in a deep nod from her seated position, which must be her version of a courtly bow. It occurs to me, she probably has some difficulty standing. Meanwhile Lady Isulat bows properly, with a gentle smile which I like immediately.

  “My Imperial Lord Aeson, My Imperial Lady Gwen,” the First Priestess Therutat says in an unexpectedly firm voice with only a tiny quaver. Her haughty expression does not change, and she does not smile even while uttering courtly pleasantries. She squints slightly as she examines us as we sit down on a sofa across from her. “It is my pleasure and honor to be in your presence. A lovely young couple, I see. And now, Imperial Lord, I must ask you to withdraw from the room, for this is Bridal business. Your own turn with the Amrevet-Ra Priest will come. He will call on you tomorrow, I believe. And we, women, shall not intrude upon your masculine privacy then. Now, begone!”

  And as Aeson’s eyes widen in surprise, Therutat shoos him away dramatically with one hand.

  Aeson gets up with an amused expression, and leaves us to ourselves, closing th
e door behind him.

  Therutat turns to me with a stern, focused look that seems to memorize and analyze me from head to toe, like a digital scanner. “Very nice, my dear,” she says at last in a voice of authority used to absolute obedience. “Come closer, so I might look at you in detail—your skin, hair texture, eye color. All must be verified and confirmed.”

  Surprised, I approach. “Stand up straight,” the old woman commands me. “Turn around. Now, the other way. Lift your arms so I can see your waist and hips.”

  I do as I’m told, stiffly.

  “Isulat—recite her measurements from The Book of Fashion.”

  The young woman opens a smaller scroll from a case she is holding and reads my embarrassing personal sizing details—whatever was recorded at that time when Consul Denu had me measured for a new wardrobe, soon after Aeson chose me as his Bride.

  “Very good,” the Priestess says coldly, after glancing at various parts of me to confirm each measurement that is read. I almost expect her to use the Atlantean equivalent of a tape measure, but apparently her expert visual appraisal makes it unnecessary.

  And then she pronounces, “However—it may be that your physical attributes have changed enough overall to warrant a new set of measurements to be taken. Your arms, shoulders, and legs, for example—more muscular definition than what your earlier values imply. Yet you appear to be thinner in general. Isulat—hand me the body scanner.”

  It’s clear that Lady Isulat has come prepared. As I look on nervously, she reaches into her case and takes out a tiny gadget, then passes it on to the Priestess. I’m a little surprised that they’re using a high-tech device as opposed to the traditional manual method. Likely, it’s more practical.

  Therutat unceremoniously trains the gadget at me, and a small, wide-angle beam of bluish light sweeps me vertically from head to toe. It takes only a couple of seconds, and then she passes it back to Isulat.

  The young woman does something with the gadget so that it now brings up a tiny holographic display with text and numbers. She reads the scanned values out loud while Therutat listens, nodding slowly.