I get into a row near the back.
“Good afternoon, Cadets!”
In response we salute, with our left hand to lips and forehead.
Oalla shakes her head. “Now, give me the Form Salute of Atlantida!”
This time we perform the four-part Form Salute we’d been taught back on Earth before the Qualification Semi-Finals. It consists of a series of full-body movements and is supposed to be the brief form of the ancient Er-Du Salute given during formal Combat. I have no idea what the full extended Form is like, and I suppose at some point they will teach us, but for now, I struggle to remember how to do this short form version.
One. Step with right foot to the side, widen stance. Bring two fists together, knuckles touching, arms bent at chest-level.
Two. Open fists, palms facing out. Touch the tip of the thumb and index finger of one hand to the corresponding other so that the empty space between the two hands forms a triangle.
Three. Bring the two palms together, thumbs still away from other fingers at an angle. Draw the “praying” hands toward you, so the thumbs touch the chest. At the same time bend your head down so that the fingertips touch your forehead. Bend the knees, maintaining the wide stance.
Four. Separate the hands, lifting them outward into a sweeping arc. Return hands, palms down against your sides. Straighten your knees, as you bring the right leg back in, feet together.
I manage to do the Salute the best I can and then stand in the lineup with the others.
Oalla Keigeri observes us coldly. “How quickly you forget,” she says, shaking her head. “This is the first Er-Du class since you Qualified, and today we’ll see how much else you have forgotten in just a few days without practice. As Cadets, you will no longer have the luxury of forgetting your training. If you continue to perform poorly, you will not only earn demerits—you will earn punishment.”
She blows her whistle again and tells us to line up in double rows, facing each other.
We rush to do as we’re told.
“Now, give me First Form, Floating Swan!”
An hour later, pouring sweat, and nearly dead, I stagger out of the gym. The rest of the class does not fare much better.
Pilot Keigeri puts us through the entire Primary Twelve Forms cycle, over and over. No sparring, no stretching, no running laps, no hoverboards. We simply perform the Twelve Forms in order, starting with Floating Swan. And when we get to the last one, Shielding Stone, we start again at the beginning.
Without rest.
At some point the exhaustion turns into lightheadedness, and I have no idea how I manage to stay upright. But, it’s over at last, and now I wander back to my cabin on Command Deck Four, through corridors busy with other Cadets and Civilians returning from their classes. I really need a shower, because, pouring sweat, ick. . . . Dinner can wait.
As soon as I get showered and cleaned up, it occurs to me I probably should check up on Gracie and Gordie. I haven’t talked to my little brother since I got transferred to ICS-2, and although he’s a Civilian and is unlikely to get into much trouble, still. . . . What kind of a big sister am I, not to see how he’s doing? So I call up the video display screen from my cabin’s wall and start to make the call, when a beep sounds outside my door.
It’s Logan.
He stands at my door with a grin, and I swear, he could be holding an “I’m sorry” rose between his teeth if he had one at his disposal.
“Hey, jerk,” I say, letting him in. “How did you find my room?”
“They have computers, you know. With search engines.”
“Crappy Atlantean search engines,” I say, continuing the verbal game.
But Logan takes one step inside my tiny room, and suddenly his hands go around me. His mouth closes hungrily over mine, and oh, forget it, brain. . . . Forget everything. The sweet honey starts to pour, and I have honey in my veins, not blood but sweet coursing weakness. . . .
I lift my hands automatically and grasp the back of his strong neck, feeling the soft wavy locks of his oh-so-dark brown hair with its secret reddish highlights, as he takes my breath away from me.
Holy lord, my temples are pounding. . . .
We disengage at last, and Logan looks at me steadily with his impossible hazel eyes. “So, dinner?”
“Huh?” I say. And for some reason I’m instantly reminded of Consul Denu’s weird admonishment to not use “animalistic or gurgling infant noises in adult speech.”
So I make a light snort, and Logan raises one brow. “Dinner is funny? We could go to your Yellow Quadrant meal hall, or mine. Or any other—”
“Well, I was going to call my brother Gordie, and then check on Gracie too.”
He glances around my tiny sterile cabin. “Nice place you got here, by the way. An actual private room of your very own. . . . And as for your bro, he’s probably already at dinner. It might be best to try him later.”
I make another laugh sound. “Knowing Gee Three and food, you’re probably right. Wonder how he’s doing, though? A little worried. No, a lot worried.”
Logan gives me a curious look. “We can talk on the way. And I’m sure he’s doing just fine.”
And so we head for the nearest meal hall, which happens to be Cadet Deck Four Meal Hall.
It’s close to 6:00 PM and the place is still busy as usual at this time, filled with unfamiliar but pleasant edible smells. Whatever’s on today’s menu is faintly spicy and savory with herbs, reminiscent of Mediterranean food.
There are only a few empty tables. Cadets with Yellow Quadrant armbands fill the hall, with a few other colors in the mix. I see no one without a four-point star pin. I also see no one I know.
I take that back—there’s Blayne Dubois, settled quietly with his back against the wall, his hoverboard out of sight, which I am guessing means it’s stowed underfoot. He’s bent close over his bowl of soup or stew, typical curtain of hair falling to cover half his face. He is eating absentmindedly with a spoon in one hand while reading something on his tablet. No one else is sitting next to him, and he’s oblivious to the world.
“There’s Blayne!” I say to Logan.
“Uhm, I was hoping it would be just the two of us for dinner, so we can talk.”
“We can talk with Blayne there,” I say. “He’s completely trustworthy and a friend.”
“Gwen. . . .” Logan touches my arm lightly. “I want to really talk. One-on-one. About what happened.”
“Okay.” I bite my lip. . . . I am not entirely happy. Just because his kiss back in my cabin temporarily lowered my IQ points, doesn’t mean I can’t think just fine, now.
And so we get our trays, get our bowls filled with the aromatic stew stuff, and fill up the drinking glasses.
Logan gets us a table in the middle and we sit down, across from each other.
“Okay,” I say, looking up at him seriously. “Talk.”
Logan sighs, picks up his glass and takes a deep swig. The glass is steaming hot, so I think it’s lvikao. I still haven’t tasted that stuff and I’m momentarily curious.
“Look,” he says, staring into my eyes seriously. “I am really, really sorry. About not warning you today. I know it was a shocker, and yeah, it was important that it would all look real enough to make an impact on your CP—”
I put down my spoon, clattering it against the bowl. “So you used my raw, terrified, freak-out reaction as part of the ‘look real’ scenario? Logan, that’s depressing—depressing that you don’t think I can be counted on to keep my face straight or just stay out of your way if needed. I still insist you should’ve told me. I’m a big girl, I can handle subtlety. I feel used.”
“I know. I used you. I did. I suck for doing it. But again, there was a life and death crisis.” He pauses, glances around the room briefly with a kind of absentminded expression that disguises a razor-sharp perusal. “And it still is. Still going on. Do you understand? Nothing has broken yet . . . no attempt has been made by EU. Which means that, even with my warning
, with the new enhanced security and state of readiness, your CP, the other two CPs, and the Commander, are still at risk. And so are all the rest of us.”
I frown. “Yes, I get that it’s going to hit the fan any moment. You don’t need to remind me. It’s part of what’s making me soul sick in addition to everything else. We’re hurtling through outer space; nothing’s any longer real except these damn ark-ships. And some kind of violence is potentially going to erupt, while I can’t even get to my baby brother and sister because they’re stuck on some other dratted ark-ship that’s also hurtling through outer space, while the rest of my family is stuck back on Earth all because that damned asteroid is going to destroy everything—”
The burn of tears is starting to coalesce in my eyes. I swallow quickly, then raise the spoon of stew and put it in my mouth. I chew by force.
Logan watches me with intensity, and his expression is sympathetic and vulnerable—completely honest.
A tray clatters loudly to the floor behind us.
I start, and Logan starts. We both turn around.
For a moment it looks like some kid dropped their tray and bowl. And then, I blink, and I see that it’s not.
The kid fell. And he’s not getting up.
Then I hear a soft zing sound. Not a pop, but a zing, the sound of an Atlantean mid-range small-caliber laser handgun. I know that sound because of several target practice sessions during Combat classes—I’ve fired one. It’s also the kind of gun that guards use.
Another Cadet falls—this one’s only several tables away, standing with her tray talking to someone, an easy target shot in the back.
Immediately there’s screaming mayhem. I see flashes of individuals with black masks covering their faces, rushing inside the dining area, holding weapons, pointing, firing. . . .
“Down!” Logan shouts, grabbing my hand. Moving with lightning reflex, he pulls me automatically down, so we both hit the floor, lying on our stomachs between two tables.
I am not sure what is happening, but I see many feet, people stumbling, running in all directions. . . . Cries of fear and pain. . . . Bodies hitting the floor.
It’s impossible to tell who’s who, how many shooters are there—in that first vivid moment I remember seeing at least four masks, but I can’t be sure.
Logan is holding me tight. After we fall, he sidles near, and now lies covering me with his body. I feel the rigid hard muscles of his arms and chest, crushing me to the floor as he whispers, “Don’t move, don’t breathe. . . .”
Temples pounding, I lie there, until we hear voices issuing commands in Spanish, Chinese, maybe some other language.
And then someone says in English, loudly, “Attention! This is Terra Patria. You are all going to listen and do as you’re told. If you are alive, and on the floor, get up, now. If you don’t get up, you will be shot. We start shooting bodies on the floor, row by row. Starting now! Get up if you want to live!”
Logan cusses under his breath. He locks his intense gaze with mine.
And then he and I both get back on our feet, very slowly.
We stand, looking at the meal hall full of fallen bodies, sounds of fear, soft weeping. About thirty people in addition to ourselves, are still alive, standing quietly all around the room, frozen in place.
The masked assailants are all dressed in the same uniforms as the rest of us, wearing armbands of all four colors, and Cadet stars. There are six of them, three male and three female, and they carry a variety of Atlantean weapons among them, including a few big guns and rifles. Where in heaven’s name did they get those?
One of the masked guys, dark-haired, big and muscular, with a green armband, yells out, “All of you, move over to that wall, away from the food bar. Go! And keep your hands up, where we can see you!”
Holy crap, I recognize that voice. It’s Trey. It has to be. Same big build, same a-hole swagger. And, Terra Patria, really? WTF?
Damn. . . .
We obey the instruction, and move in a careful hurry, stepping over the few bodies in our way, toward the back of the meal hall.
And then I notice, still seated in his chair, right where he’s been eating, there’s Blayne Dubois. At first, with an ice-cold shock to my gut, I think he’s been shot dead. But no—I see a flash of his blue eyes registering mine—he is simply very, very still, staring quietly at us as we all crowd near his table.
I realize in that moment of horror that, without his hoverboard that’s still stuck on the floor, Blayne cannot get up.
Chapter Seventeen
We stand in a sorry crowd of very scared teens in the back of the meal hall. I glance at Blayne who’s still seated and motionless, and move as close to him as I can. Logan moves with me, his fingers touching mine briefly.
The six shooters herd us up against the wall, and four of them remain while two move aside to whisper among themselves. Then I see one of the two, a girl, step away and quietly exit the room though the entrance, still brandishing her gun. I have a feeling she’s been told to guard the entryway.
“All right, everyone!” Masked a-hole Trey speaks again, loudly. “This is what’s going to happen here. You are all going to stand quietly against the wall and do what we tell you to do, or you get shot. Right now, remain quiet. Got that? ¿Comprende?”
Some of the people nod, but most of us remain motionless and silent, watching.
While Trey is speaking, two other guys pace slowly, looking at us, while the two girls stand off to the sides, guns pointed.
“You—why are you sitting? Get up! Now!” A masked guy notices Blayne seated against the wall and points a gun at him.
Blayne blinks. “I can’t, my feet don’t work, sorry,” he says softly. “I need my hoverboard just to stand. It’s under the table.”
“What the hell?” The guy steps closer. It looks like he’s about to shoot Blayne.
“No, wait!” I exclaim. I’m trembling, and now my stupid big fat mouth goes into overdrive. “He really can’t! He’s disabled! Please let him be!” I say loudly in a high-pitched squeaky voice.
The guy with the gun whirls toward me. I see his eyes through the slits of his black fabric mask, considering me.
Trey, who seems to be their leader, hears and looks at us, then takes the steps to narrow the distance. He looks closely at me, then Blayne. “Hey, I know you two,” he says crudely. “You’re the ‘special treatment’ cases, aren’t you? The girl who’s not a Cadet and not a Civ, and the boy who’s got the fancy hoverboard?”
As Trey speaks, I see Logan’s eyes watching me with a very intense burning gaze. Oh, his gaze—it’s pleading me to be careful. . . .
“So,” Trey says, moving in closer to me. “You’re what? An Aide to the CCO? That’s just great! With him and you, we’ve got us a nice pair of bargaining chips. And a hoverboard!” And he kicks the table where Blayne is sitting, which is fastened to the floor, and doesn’t budge. So he bends under to look for the board.
“What do you want?” I ask, watching his movements. “What do you hope to achieve with this? You just killed a bunch of innocent people!”
In reply I receive a hard blow against the side of my head from the other masked gunman who’s right next to me. The impact sends me backwards, reeling, so that for a moment I see black nothing and stars. Logan’s hands reach out and close around me, keeping me upright while I blank out, keeping me from falling. A few barely repressed gasps sound from the other hostages.
“All of you shut up! And you, you especially, just shut your mouth,” Trey tells me, straightening, with the hoverboard pulled out from underneath the table and now in his hand. He approaches, dragging the inert length of orichalcum against the floor and leans in, hissing in my face, as I blink from the harsh blow. “But before you do, what’s your name?”
“Gwen Lark,” I mumble.
Trey smirks. “Okay, Gwen Lark! Now, we’re going to make a few calls, and you’ll be speaking for us.”
He then sets down the hoverboard in the middl
e of the floor, grabs hold of my arm and pulls me forward.
“Hey!” Logan speaks up, trying to keep his hold on me.
“Let go, or you get shot in the face,” Trey tells him, followed by an obscenity.
Logan grows silent and releases me, but his eyes are dark with fury.
The rest of the hostages are barely breathing.
Trey pulls me roughly behind him, and we approach the opposite side of the room with the food bar where a small wall computer console is visible. I step over the body of an Atlantean food server, a kid with metallic hair, no older than Gracie. He’s lying on his side, glassy blue eyes wide open, still holding a stew ladle in one dead hand, while the large tray is overturned on the heating pad surface, globs of aromatic stuff dripping down from the counter. Blood is pooling from the wound on his chest and it’s mixing with the spilled stew on the floor.
Suddenly I start to gag. I’m about to be sick all over my uniform, but I hold back the reflex, just barely. Glancing behind me, I see the crowd of hostages, Logan and Blayne among them. Many terrified eyes watch me move, while the armed assailants continue to point guns at them.
“All right, here we go!” Trey pushes me to the wall with the console. “Now, Gwen, baby girl, you’re going to call up the CCO and ask for your commanding officer.”
“And if I don’t?” I don’t know what kind of crazy crap in my head makes me say that.
“If you don’t, I shoot your brains out.”
I start to punch in the call. Immediately I get a low beep tone—a null signal indicator, meaning that there’s no one in the office at the moment. Crap!
“Okay, it’s not answering,” I say. “He’s not there. He’s probably having dinner.”
Trey leans in close to my face so I see the black fabric of his mask and his two glittering eyes. I also smell cheap musk body spray for men. “So, where would he be now? You know his schedule, right?”
“Actually I don’t.” And then I remember. Aeson Kassiopei works out before dinner. “I think he might be in the gym. . . .”