“It’s not going to happen,” he speaks ruthlessly.
“What?” I open my mouth.
“Let me be blunt. None of what you want is possible. There is no way to rescue your parents, and you cannot become a Citizen. I am sorry that you have been deluded to think that you can do something—”
“No!” I exclaim, standing up suddenly, while dizzying vertigo rises in my head. And then I sense I am about to say the same thing I told him before, back at the National Qualification Center in Colorado, when I accidentally used a compelling power voice on him: “I do not accept this.”
But I don’t. Not this time.
I rein the surge of power back in, as I feel my own prickle of gathering energy along my skin, and I allow my voice to dissipate and echo only in my own mind. And then I slowly return to my seat.
I have no idea if Aeson Kassiopei realizes the kind of inner struggle I just had to put down.
Instead I say very softly, “I am sorry, I disagree with your assessment when it comes to my own life and my own choices. I am going to enter the Games of the Atlantis Grail as soon as we arrive on Atlantis. Please tell me the truth. As a free individual, am I forbidden to do so?”
There is a peculiar dark pause. He watches me tragically.
“No,” he says. “It is true. You may not be denied this outright.”
“Then it is settled.”
“No, it is not,” he says loudly, commandingly, with rising anger. “Although you do have a certain individual right to enter the Games of the Atlantis Grail, according to our laws, you are also on my ship, under my orders. As such, I can forbid you to act in any way that will potentially harm or damage you—and therefore your voice—as it relates to matters of Atlantis. Your Logos power voice is an asset and you are hereby ordered to comply with my decision.”
“And what if I refuse to comply? Will you incarcerate me?”
In that instant Aeson Kassiopei gets up from his desk. He takes three steps and suddenly towers above me.
In the next instant, he picks me up by the shoulders, raising me up from my seat effortlessly, as though I’m weightless . . . and he holds me briefly, his strong fingers cutting into my arms painfully, his face inches from mine—so close that I can see the dark fringe of his lashes and the sharp line of wonderfully exotic natural pigment around his eyelids . . . And I am also suddenly very aware of his elevated breathing through his slightly parted, chiseled lips.
He then just as suddenly lets me go, so that I fall back in my chair, slack-jawed from the shock of him, his touch, his overwhelming presence. Even now, the places on my arms where he touched me seem to ring, as though branded. . . .
“Gwen Lark,” he says very carefully, looking down at me, speaking like a serpent, his voice gone low and dangerous. “Do not ever presume to challenge me, or to speak to me in this way again. I have tolerated your outbursts due to your ignorance of proper conduct, and your difficult circumstances. But it all stops now. You will listen and obey orders. Or you will be disciplined.”
I feel a surge of crazy emotion rising, as I look up at him, shaking with the overload, and my hands clutch the armrests of the chair. Some really awful, possibly insane blather is about to pour out of me and I cannot stop it, as usual, and frankly, I don’t care.
“Is this the Command Pilot speaking, or the Imperial Prince?” I say with boiling anger. “Should I address you as Your Highness? Because it seems to me you’re ordering me about, and I am sorry, but technically I have not made my so-called ‘life choice’ or decision yet, and therefore I have not sworn, or promised loyalty, or obedience, or fealty, or any other junk—to you or to Atlantis! In fact, I’m not sure I want to, if this is how things are going to be! When Instructor Oalla Keigeri told me that I mattered to you, I thought that meant that you actually cared, as a human being, not some kind of tyrant—”
“What?” Aeson’s expression grows perfectly still and cold, like stone. He appears to be stunned once more by what I just said. “She did what? What did Oalla Keigeri say to you?”
I stare at him, freezing also, my eyes wide open. And then I begin turning red again, red as a beet, or maybe a damn tomato. Oh, crap! What did I just do? What did I just tell him? “Nothing. . . . She said nothing, I mean, not much. . . . She just made it sound like you care—about my well-being, I think? Or—I am not sure—”
A terrible pause.
He exhales a long held breath. “Well,” he says, composing himself suddenly so that he looks perfectly casual, almost relaxed, which I know cannot be right. “Looks like Pilot Keigeri and I need to have a little talk—about overstepping bounds. You can be certain it will not happen again. In the future she will not speak nonsense about things she knows very little about.”
I can tell he is very angry, but also, for some reason, he does not look directly at me. Instead, Aeson Kassiopei steps away and goes back to sit down at his desk. He sweeps back his metallic gold hair, puts his hands behind his head and leans back in his chair, still without looking at me. If I didn’t know better, I would think he cannot face me. Or maybe it’s something else?
Whatever it is, I sit in my chair and feel incredibly awkward—for about five very long seconds.
“So,” he says.
And then he starts to laugh.
It is a clean arrogant sound, perfectly devoid of any emotion, completely in control, and for that reason it is terrifying. And as he laughs, he at last looks directly, confidently at me.
“Gwenevere Lark,” he says my full name in a sarcastic, terrible, condescending voice, and the unwavering gaze of his eyes is upon me. “Whatever it is you think I hold in regards to you—whatever sentiment or weakness that Oalla Keigeri has so absurdly and mistakenly informed you about—it does not exist.”
He pauses, observing the impact of his words. As he does, I feel a wave of cold rising inside me.
And then he continues, softening his words. “You matter to me about as much as any other refugee from Earth on this ship. Which is to say, you matter greatly—all of you. But that is all. And I regret that this conversation has turned out to be so inappropriately personal.”
“I—I am sorry,” I say brokenly, forgetting my own rebellion, while a strange inexplicable feeling of regret floods me, makes me numb. “I did not mean to imply—”
“No, you did not. Very well,” he says, sitting forward again. “Then let’s not speak of this any longer. As far as the Games of the Atlantis Grail—the matter is settled also. But—let me make it fair for you. You have my permission to enter the Games, if, after all these months on my ship, you can demonstrate to me that you have what it takes.”
I open my lips and sit up, with a sudden surge of hope.
“But,” he continues. “Face it, Lark, you barely made it through Qualification. If you were to enter the Games in the same pathetic condition as you are today, at the same minimal level of physical training, you would not last past the first round. The competition would eat you alive. So, for all practical purposes, we will not dwell on this idiocy ever again.”
“But—” I say.
“You will spend the bulk of your time working for me as my aide, reporting to this Central Command Office. After your daily duties, you may use your own time as you wish—to train or not. Also, I will not force you to make a life decision of Fleet Cadet or Civilian until this journey is over—not until I make my final evaluation of you. It is the only exception I will make for you, compared to anyone else—and only because of your unique value to Atlantis. For the duration of our trip to Atlantis, you may choose any classes and train with both the Cadets and the Civilians. I will also continue to train you personally in the use of your Logos voice.”
“Thank you!” I exclaim. “It is all very reasonable and fair, I agree, thank you!”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he tells me with a faint smirk. “Let’s see how you feel in a year from now.”
“So, if you find my training adequate by then, you will allow me to ent
er the Games?”
“Yes.”
I smile at him, a big blooming smile of hope and joy—so much so, that he actually seems to be caught up by the sight of me. He cranes his neck slightly, never taking his eyes off my face.
And then reality washes over me.
“Wait,” I mutter. “You don’t believe I can be ready in a year, do you? And that’s why you are saying this . . . only to humor me?”
“Very perceptive as usual, Lark. That’s correct. I do not.”
“So then you are not really letting me do anything, are you? I am not going to be entering the Games?”
“Not a chance.”
I bite my lip and nod at him. A strange new tumult of emotion is rising inside me, churning deep, and oh, it is comprised of so many things . . . there’s outrage, hurt, the same deep, bitter regret at the revelation of how he really feels about me—or should I say, how little he feels for me—and a fierce burning sense of thwarted rightness.
Well then, Kassiopei, I will show you, I think.
But I keep it all bottled up. “Okay,” I say softly. “What is expected of me, as far as daily work here for you?”
“I am glad you show some sense at last.” Aeson raises one brow, almost surprised at my composure. “Now then, let’s discuss your duties.”
And for the next twenty minutes, we do.
Chapter Five
Aeson Kassiopei outlines for me what it is I will be doing as an aide to the Command Pilot’s Central Command Office.
“Your primary duties,” he says, “will be as records keeper to the CCO. You will observe and record the journey that the Earth refugees make, and you will compile the chronicle into a historical record from an Earth native’s perspective. When we arrive on Atlantis, it will be added to our library records and become a part of our common historical record.”
“Oh, wow!” I exclaim, unable to hold back. “That’s actually amazing, I would love to do this!”
“Yes, I know,” he says, looking seriously at me. “You are very bright and observant, extremely detail-oriented, and that’s part of the reason I chose you for this task, after having looked over your school records and other details in your personal file.”
“I have a file?” I say.
“Everyone does. The information from your Earth schools—in fact your entire education and life history—has been compiled and tallied, together with your Qualification record. Your ID token now holds your complete Earth identity and history. Same goes for every other Qualified teenager from Earth on this ship and in the whole Fleet.”
I allow that to sink in.
“A secondary part of your duties,” he continues, “will be to assist me in day-to-day regular office tasks, together with my two other regular aides—whom you will meet soon. For that purpose you will learn as much as you can about all functions of the ship. I give you permission to interview the crew and to take notes. You may also come and go freely on all decks, including all four Command Decks, and this office—I’ve granted your token ID access to enter here, and to use the computer systems at this desk with a basic entry-level clearance. The guards have been notified to allow you to enter freely. If asked, you are always to say you are an Aide to the CCO.”
He pauses, and then pulls down one hinged mech arm from the equipment wall behind him, and lowers a display screen with a floating keypad. He swings it around to show me the screen.
I see a login screen and a tablet-style virtual touch-pad English keyboard directly on the screen. Meanwhile the physical keypad below has what looks like alien hieroglyphics, which I realize is the Atlantean character set.
Aeson swings the Atlantean keyboard aside and snaps it closed underneath the display, then rotates the screen even more, so that it lies flat like a tablet before me. “This way you can do data entry in English,” he says. “For now. Because your third task is to begin to learn Atlantean. I expect you to have a basic understanding of our core language by the time we arrive on Atlantis.”
“Okay,” I say. “I can do that. This is all great. I am really excited to be doing this!”
“Good. Your duties will begin tomorrow, eight AM, sharp. First thing when you get here, we will work out your training schedule so that it does not interfere with your duties.”
He pauses for a moment, watching me. It seems he is considering what he is about to say next. “As far as your special voice training—it will be incorporated into your regular schedule. But we will have it off the record.”
“Oh?” I say. “What do you mean? In what sense?”
He continues looking at me with a complex expression, and the long pause extends, becoming unusual.
“Your voice training will literally not be recorded on your schedule. We’re going to keep your Logos voice as much as possible a secret,” he says at last. “Yes, it’s true that a number of people in the Fleet currently know about it, including several of my officers, and quite a few of your fellow Qualified Candidates, especially those who were with you at the Pennsylvania RQC-3, and witnessed you levitate that shuttle. . . . Regrettably, there’s nothing that can be done in that regard. However, we can minimize any new dissemination of this. From this point onward, you will not mention it to anyone new, including any of your new Instructors here in the Fleet. If asked, you deny it, or change the subject. And then later you report it to me. Any questions, any inquiries about your Logos voice—you tell me immediately.”
“Okay. But—why?” I ask.
His gaze upon me is hard and intense. “Because your voice can be used as a political weapon. It can be used as leverage. And so can you. As of now, you are under my protection, until we get home to Atlantis, at which point—but we will discuss it when the time comes. For now, all you need to know is that we will work on your voice, but discreetly.”
“All right.” At this point, I’m frowning. He must read all kinds of turmoil on my newly troubled face.
“That’s about it,” he says with a sudden change of tone, almost flippant. “For the rest of today you may settle in and take it easy.” He looks away then again glances into my eyes momentarily. There’s a steady intimate expression that I see lurking in his blue eyes which is almost warm—but the next moment it is gone, and I am no longer certain it was ever there in the first place.
He sits back, moves the computer out of the way and taps the surface of his desk lightly with one hand. “And now, I believe, it’s lunchtime. I’m hungry, so I am heading to the Officers Meal Hall. Come along and I’ll show you where it is, since you’ll be eating there often from now on.”
“Oh . . .” I say. “Am I actually allowed in the Officers Meal Hall?”
Aeson’s lips curve into the faintest smile. “As my CCO Aide, you are allowed everywhere.”
He gets up.
I quickly follow.
Outside the office doors, the two stationed guards step aside and salute the Command Pilot. He acknowledges them with a brief nod as he walks past them, with me trailing. The guards pay no attention to me whatsoever.
Aeson walks in his typical long stride, so I have to rush to keep up. We arrive at the Officers Meal Hall after taking a few turns along various corridors on Command Deck Two, Blue Quadrant.
The meal hall is a chamber similar to the ones I’ve eaten in, back on the residential decks of the other ark-ship, except it is considerably smaller in size, with fewer tables, and comfortable dim lighting. The food bar lines one of the walls, and there is an identical selection of food items. No privilege here, nothing to show that officers eat better than the rest of the crew or the Earth refugees.
Somehow it pleases me to see this.
The room is half-full. A tantalizing aroma of warm spices and unfamiliar but appetizing food fills the air. I note that here too all the long bench tables are anchored to the floor, which makes sense onboard a starship. Atlantean officers and other upper-rank personnel sit at the tables, eating from dishes set on trays, and there is the ringing of utensils, and the easy sou
nd of subdued but friendly conversation in the lilting tones of Atlantean, and sometimes English speech, interspersed with occasional laughter.
The moment Aeson Kassiopei enters, the entire meal hall falls silent. All the officers and crew stop eating, rise from their seats and salute the CP.
Aeson acknowledges the room in general with an informal command: “Carry on.”
Immediately everyone resumes their meal and conversation. A few people continue looking in his direction, and now I feel eyes on me.
“Grab a tray, get your food,” Aeson tells me casually, and proceeds to the lunch bar. I follow him somewhat awkwardly, and watch his tall powerful back and the fall of his golden hair as he interacts with the server who produces a covered tray and what looks like a ready packed bag from around the counter. “Savory lidairi and ero grains stir fry. Your favorite, Command Pilot,” he says.
“Smells great as always. Thank you.” Aeson takes the tray and bag, with a nod and a faint smile to the crewman server, and then turns around.
“What are you waiting for?” he tells me, as he finds me staring, holding on to an empty tray.
“I—I was not sure,” I say.
Aeson glances around the room, which I now realize is for my sake. “Feel free to approach anyone you might know here. Or take a seat anywhere you like.”
“Oh . . .” I mutter. “You’re not going to eat here?”
He raises one brow. “No. I usually prefer to eat at my desk. But don’t let it stop you.”
I nod, but feel a moment of uncertainty. Seriously, what did I think was going to happen? That we were going to have lunch together, just the two of us, the Command Pilot and I? Yeah, Gwen, you idiot.
“Enjoy your meal, Lark,” he tells me, with a confident glance. “Now, dismissed.”
And with those words, Command Pilot Aeson Kassiopei turns away from me and exits the Officers Meal Hall, carrying his take-out lunch.
The moment he’s out of the room, I feel a barely perceptible relaxation in the atmosphere, and conversations get louder. Obviously the officers are somewhat constrained by their commanding officer’s presence, even when told to be at ease, and he is smart enough to know it.