The Instructor stops in the front of the class and turns to us, saying, “Nefero dea, scolariat!”
Her speaking voice—oh, it’s like song. Pure, resonant, gorgeous. And it’s especially amazing to think so, considering that every single person here can sing and is musically inclined, yet she still manages to stand out.
“Good afternoon, class!” she repeats, this time in English. “I am Chior Kla, and I am your Atlantean Language Instructor.”
The classroom full of Cadets and Civilians watches her with growing interest.
Instructor Chior Kla smiles at us, and looks widely around the room. “All of you, you are so fortunate,” she says. “Your Earth languages are all so beautiful! So intricate, glorious, musical! On my way here, I have spent many months studying the various language families and groupings that Earth has produced since the last time Atlanteans were here with you, sharing the planet of our origin. Most languages have common roots, like great trees and vines, and many of them entwine lovingly, mixing together to form new hybrids. At the time of Old Atlantis, our vibrant language was thriving and giving offshoots, which later became your Ancient Egyptian and Ancient Greek, among others. Thus, when you study the language of Atlantida, you will recognize many roots of words that you already know in your modern languages.”
Instructor Kla pauses. “How many of you have studied a language other than your native language? Raise your hands!”
I glance around me and see most hands go up, including my own. Next to me, Chiyoko Sato also raises her hand.
“Oh, wonderful!” Instructor Kla exclaims. “Then you already know what it’s like to think in a different way about the same thing. Because that’s all a new language is—a slightly different way of thinking and looking at the same world. It’s like putting on multi-colored sunglasses. It enriches your thought processes and blows up your imagination like a balloon. And it gives you the mysterious power to express yourself to others who normally might not be able to understand you.”
Chior Kla paces among the rows of our desks, and looks at us. “Now, I will tell you a secret. But first, I ask you this—what do you think is the purpose of language?”
A girl behind me raises her hand. “Is it to communicate?”
Chior Kla smiles. “Of course, but that’s just the most obvious purpose of language. What else?”
“To share your own life with other people?” a boy says.
“Definitely. What else?”
I raise my hand with excitement. Yes, here I go again, me and my super-uber blab power taking over my mouth. “I think, language gives you the ability to become someone else,” I say. “When you speak, you are no longer you, but a vessel for the thing that must be expressed, the meaning.”
Chior Kla pauses and nods at me. “What is your name, Civilian?”
“Gwen Lark,” I reply. Again, not going to correct the misconception that I’m a Civilian.
“Thank you for a wonderful new insight today, Gwen Lark. Because you have illustrated one part of the secret I am about to share.”
And then she looks around at us, and her eyes—which I notice are the color of yellowish-orange amber—are filled with poetry. “The secret purpose of language is to change everything. And by everything I mean, your life, the life of others, the planet, the universe itself. Language is action, movement, life itself. It initiates progress, evolution. Language creates. If I recall correctly—in one of your ancient Earth holy books, there’s the notion that ‘in the beginning was the word.’ I think it’s a beautiful metaphor. Because if you think about it, the world itself is made up of metaphors—meaningful thought and image constructs.”
“Okay, this is too weird. I’m getting a big-ass headache,” a boy whispers behind me.
But most of the class is listening with curiosity. Because, yeah, this Instructor is definitely a little weird, but that’s what kind of makes her weirdly irresistible.
“Now, you might have studied metaphors and similes in your own language classes back on Earth,” says Instructor Kla. “Who can tell me what they are?”
My hand shoots up, but so does a whole bunch of other people’s.
“Yes?” Instructor Kla nods to the girl right next to me—Chiyoko Sato.
“Similes and metaphors are both figures of speech,” Chiyoko says, in a clear deep alto voice. “They both let you describe and compare things by means of analogies or abstractions. A simile uses comparison words ‘like’ and ‘as,’ while a metaphor uses the word ‘is’ or any other, to describe. For example, ‘my heart is like a flower’ is a simile, while “my heart is a flower’ is a metaphor.”
“Nicely said,” Instructor Kla says. “What is your name, Cadet?”
“I am Chiyoko Sato,” the girl repeats, this time in a less enthusiastic manner.
“Thank you, Cadet Sato. Metaphors and similes are just some of the many parts of speech, complex constructs made up of words to convey meaning,” Instructor Kla continues. “How many of you know what a synonym is?”
A dark-skinned boy says, “That’s just a word that means the same thing as another.”
Chior Kla nods at him, then once more turns to all the rest of us. “What if I told you that the word ‘heart’—or corazón, coeur, sertse, sin, seert, herz, hart, cuore, uummat, cridhe, kardia or any other of the thousands different language forms of the same thing we all have beating inside our chest cavity—is just a synonym? Because you can think of different languages as merely vast groups of synonyms of each other. So the more languages you learn, the more words you know to mean the same thing—which makes each thing you know that much more rich, powerful, wonderful! Suddenly that thing inside your chest—that coeur, sertse, heart—is no longer merely one, but many!”
I admit, my mind is racing with excitement. I find that now I am listening with all my heart—if such a thing is possible.
“And on that note,” Chior Kla says, Let us begin learning the beautiful language of Atlantida, a proto-language for so many of your modern ones.”
For the next half an hour, Instructor Kla teaches us some basic words. We all learn the Atlantean greeting “good morning,” “good afternoon,” and “good night,” which is nefero eos, nefero dea, and nefero niktos. And then we learn how to say goodbye, which is hetep-nete.
We also learn that Atlantean nouns have genders—male, female, and neuter—and that some words have different meanings if they are sung as opposed to merely spoken.
Okay, that kind of blows my mind. . . .
“Forget the basics, what I really want to know is some juicy Atlantean cuss words,” a boy says to his fellow Cadets and Civs, as they laugh on their way out of the room, as soon as we are dismissed.
I say bye to Chiyoko, the Japanese girl next to me who seems to have such a nice command of verbal knowledge. I’m definitely impressed.
She only nods shyly without even looking me in the eyes, and heads out, walking with a slouch as if to hide her big shape and height.
Next, instead of heading to dinner, I return to the CCO. I remember about the speech that the Fleet Commander is going to give at five. I should be there to hear it with the rest of the CCO staff.
When I get there, Anu and Gennio are working inside, and so is the Command Pilot who, as usual, is talking to someone on the video screen in Atlantean.
Now that I’ve had some basics, I find that I suddenly appreciate the lilting beauty of the language he uses. . . . And it certainly doesn’t hurt that Kassiopei has such a deep, pleasing voice.
“Gwen!” I look up and Anu is poking me with the end of a digital tablet stylus. “So, what did you learn? Can you speak Atlantean now?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Hetep-nete, Anu.”
Anu makes a horse-laugh sound while Gennio chuckles. Command Pilot Kassiopei peers at us with a minor frown then resumes his current video conversation.
We all shut up.
A few minutes later, it’s time for the Commander’s speech.
The ship
’s PA system comes alive with the strong measured voice of Commander Manakteon Resoi.
In that moment, I think pretty much everyone hearing this is a little afraid of what he’s about to tell us.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Good afternoon, young people of Earth and Atlantis,” Commander Resoi says. “The regretful situation of last night has been resolved, and the terrorist factions are in custody. In the next months, they will be further investigated and tried for their criminal activity. In the meantime I grieve with all of you for the great loss of lives, especially at a time such as now when every human life means so much to all of us.
“I want you to be secure in the knowledge that none of this will happen again. For as long as you are in my Fleet under my protection, you have my promise, and the promise of the Atlantis Central Agency, and the Imperator Himself, that your lives, and the precious lives of everyone undergoing this journey are safe.
“You, children of Earth, are safe from harm. And your continued presence on these Ark-Ships will from now on will be a positive time of learning, fruitful effort, and mutual cooperation between the crew and the welcome refugees.”
Commander Manakteon Resoi pauses, allowing the meaning to sink in. And then he continues. “Today is the third day of your formal duties in the Fleet. To mark the occasion of your entry into the life and routine of Atlantis, I designate a formal Celebration Day in three days from now—it will approximately mark the time during which we will be leaving the heliosphere of your solar system and entering interstellar space. As the Fleet moves through the Oort Cloud, on this first calendar month of Blue, the Blue Quadrants on each ship will host a Zero Gravity Dance. You will learn more about this joyous event from your commanding officers, and you will at last have the opportunity to experience a true ancient tradition of Atlantis.”
The Commander’s speech ends.
Gennio and Anu glance curiously at the CP who sits at his desk, to gauge his reaction. But Aeson Kassiopei is silent, grave and thoughtful.
“This is good, isn’t it?” I say at last. I remember the excited big deal my Culture Instructor had made about this Zero-G Dance stuff. I’m definitely curious to learn more, even though I likely won’t be taking part.
Because yeah, in case it’s unclear, Gwen Lark the Dork does not dance, doesn’t know how to dance, and doesn’t want to know.
Instantly I’m reminded of the essence of living hell that is high school dances, and the horrible lonely wallflower experience I’ve had during the few that I’ve regretfully attended at Mapleroad Jackson High, back in Vermont—mostly by force, due to the evil machinations of my best friend Ann Finnbar.
So, yes, normal teen dances are the worst atrocity perpetrated upon klutzy nerds like me. But Gwen the Dork (still speaking of herself in third person) is more than fascinated by the physics and mechanics of this space version of the thing. I mean, zero gravity dancing, wow!
As I think all this, Aeson Kassiopei gets up and turns off the nearest monitor. “I am heading to dinner,” he says coldly.
“No gym?” Anu asks.
“Not today.”
And the CP exits the office.
“Well, he’s in a bad mood,” Anu mutters, glancing at us as the door closes.
“Why?” I ask.
Gennio looks at me. “I think the CP feels this is poor timing. Dancing is frivolous, and we’ve just had a tragedy. So much still going on. All that recovery work left to do.”
“Besides, he’s never been a fan of dances, especially since he has to deal with all that crap at the Imperial Court. He really hates dancing,” Anu says with a snort. “He has to dance with all those court ladies who throw themselves at him.”
“Something we have in common,” I mutter, momentarily imagining Aeson Kassiopei in a grand ballroom surrounded by crazed girls in fancy outfits that look a little bit like the fashions worn by Consul Denu. “Not the ‘court ladies throwing themselves at me’ part, but the ‘I hate dancing’ part. But I’m really eager to learn how the Zero-G part works.”
“Let’s go to eat dinner, and I’ll tell you all about it,” Gennio says.
We eat at the Cadet Deck Two Meal Hall, among crowds of mostly subdued teens, still recovering from the bloody ordeal of yesterday. Gennio and Anu blab non-stop about how the Resonance Chamber will be set up for the Dance, and how they will likely have to do a lot of the preliminary tech setup.
As I listen, only with part of my attention, I keep thinking about where Logan is, and how my sister and brother are doing, and for that matter how Laronda and the rest of my friends are.
“So there are all these layers of sound-sensitive orichalcum panels,”
Gennio is saying. “And they line the entire Resonance Chamber, floor and ceiling.”
“Uh-huh,” I reply, taking a bite of my sweet-sour-savory noodle and greens dish called varoite.
“And the floor panels are the most fun part. Because they will be levitated up and down during the dance, each section separately from the others, so that people end up on different levels, and then when the gravity drops out, you fly!”
“Wow,” I say. “I still can’t really visualize it, but I guess I’ll see it in action.”
“Oh yeah, you will,” Anu says. “Because it’s part of our job to make sure the tech behind the Zero-G works properly, and in time with the music. Blue is hosting this first dance, so the CCO has to get involved, whether the CP likes it or not. I mean, he’ll probably farm out the official welcome announcements stuff to Pilot Keruvat Ruo, but still, he’ll have to make an appearance—”
“Okay, now I’m a little confused,” I say. “Why are we, the CCO, involved, exactly? Isn’t Pilot Ruo in charge of the Blue Quadrant? So, how is it the CP’s business?”
The Atlantean gives me a look, this time as if I’d said something truly ridiculous. “What else would it be? It’s his Quadrant.”
“Wait, what? Oh . . .” I exhale. Suddenly a whole lot of things snap into place and become clear. “So—does it mean that before Command Pilot Kassiopei got to wear the black armband he wore blue?”
“Yes, of course.” Anu grows silent, almost respectful. And then he ruins it and adds, rolling his eyes at me, “What did you think, stupid Earth girl?”
I raise my brows. “Well, actually I didn’t think anything. . . . I mean, I didn’t really know. How could I?”
“Yes, our CP originally pledged himself to Blue,” Gennio tells me. “He is the best marksman in the Fleet—that’s a Blue distinction. In Fleet School, he ranked in first place for marksmanship. He was so far ahead of everyone else that he broke the curve. He can shoot multiple targets with his eyes closed. And he can shoot faster than anyone in recent history.”
“Okay,” I mutter, thinking about what I’ve witnessed during the meal hall hostage shootout. “I can believe that. . . .”
At that point the guys forget about the Zero-G Dance and start talking about target practice scores, so I zone out, and finish my dinner mostly with my own thoughts.
A little before 8:00 PM I head back to the CCO for my voice training. It’s been a long day, rather unexciting compared to yesterday, but with much thinking in retrospect. As I walk the ship’s corridors, I see cleanup still happening, as Atlantean crews scrub and sterilize decks, and wash the blood residue from the floor and wall panels.
Where are the bodies? What happened to all those people who died, both Earth and Atlantean? The grim thought plagues me.
The guards at the CCO doors let me pass, and I find Aeson Kassiopei is inside. He sits before a darkened screen, leaning back in his chair, hands resting behind his head, eyes shut.
The moment I walk in, his eyes fly open. “Lark,” he says. “Good, you’re here.”
“Sorry I’m a little early,” I say, feeling a familiar elevated pulse beating in my temples, which happens every time we’re alone.
“There will be no voice training today.”
“Oh?” I pause.
“Inste
ad, you will come with me.” He gets up from his desk and I turn after him in confusion.
“Where are we going?” I mutter, trying to match his long stride as we walk outside past the guards, and head down the corridor.
But Aeson Kassiopei does not turn to look at me, and doesn’t say anything. We continue walking past several sections of Command Deck Two, then cross over to the Cadet Deck, and continue to the Residential Deck, all the while moving outward, away from the hub center of the ship.
Finally, in a long dimly lit corridor designated as Storage—which I only know from studying the ship’s layout map, never having been here before—we pause before a series of doors leading into a closed and isolated sub-corridor section. In other words, we will have to go down to lower levels—something that again I’ve never done before on an ark-ship. Everything I know so far is located on the same main ship level—Command, Cadet, Residential Decks, the central hub with the Resonance Chamber, the space observation deck, et cetera.
What’s down there? I believe some of it is designated as Hydroponics decks, and the rest? More storage? Machinery?
As I stand and wonder, Aeson Kassiopei takes out a key access card and swipes it over a security panel. The doors slide open, and we are inside another corridor that stretches for about twenty feet and then ends in a corkscrew metal staircase.
The Command Pilot goes down the stairs first, and I follow, our boots clanging against metal. The echoes here are significant, by their acoustics suggesting the presence of more metal.
We keep going down the dizzying spiral of stairs, passing several levels marked with Atlantean numerals. When we get to Five, we come to a stop. There are more levels below, but Aeson Kassiopei steps off and enters the corridor on Five. It is long and dimly lit also, as though there’s a need to conserve lights, or maybe no need for them.
Rows of doors fill both sides of the corridor. Two sets of guards patrol slowly down its length. The CP swipes his key card over one door, and we enter.