He is carrying a small tablet-like device that looks vaguely alien in the same way that I’ve come to recognize Atlantis tech—the overall shape is imperfect, asymmetrical, unlike the tech gadgets designed on Earth which are usually polished and balanced to appear aesthetically pleasing, smooth, trendy objects.
He places the Atlantean tablet on the desk next to the books and scrolls.
And then he speaks.
“Good afternoon, Candidates. I am Nefir Mekei. I am from Atlantis, and I am going to teach you Atlantis Culture.”
As his words flow, it seems a soft, lilting, almost subliminal buzzing hum has entered the classroom, and echoes are reverberating along the walls. Immediately I feel goose bumps. The fine hairs along my arms begin to stand up on end from the strange tangible sensation of this guy’s amazing voice. It’s grazing along my skin and smoothing it down at the same time, as though honey is being poured over every inch of me, making me alert and receptive at the same time. . . .
I glance to my side and Laronda is equally affected. She is staring at the Atlantean with wide eyes and parted lips. And, it seems, so is everyone else in the room.
Nefir Mekei looks around at us, his unblinking gaze sweeping the classroom. There is a shadow of a smile on his face.
“What you are hearing now is the voice of a Storyteller. It is one of many things you will learn about us, your distant ancient relatives. In our society on Atlantis we cultivate very special voices—voices that are imbued with power, to a varying degree. Voices that in their inflection have a purpose and a specific task attached. There are voices of Creation, of Force, of Movement, of Command, of Desire. Voices that build skyscrapers, and navigate ships, and dig canals, and heal whatever ails the body. There are so many voices that it would take me several days to tell you the function of each. Suffice it to say, they are voices for everything you can imagine, and even for things you have no words for.”
“Wow,” someone says in the back of us.
“Wow is a good way to sum it up,” Nefir says, turning to the speaker. “You will learn much more in the coming days, but for now, be aware of the Storyteller voice, because you will come to know it very well.”
“What else can you do?” says the boy.
Nefir looks at him and smiles. “I was taught a number of different voices. We all were, since infancy. However, most of us retain the mastery of only a few. Usually we excel at one in particular. It becomes our specialty. Mine is this one.”
A chubby girl with curling red hair raises her hand nervously. “Are you gonna teach us these—voices?”
“I will try. In the very short time we have, you may not be able to learn this skill that takes many years to cultivate. Yes, a few of you might be fortunate enough to discover a basic ability to do a voice or two. But at least all the rest of you will know about it. And you will have some idea of how to defend yourself from—its unwanted effects.”
“Oh, yeah?” a brown-skinned Latino boy says, running fingers through his black hair. “What kind of effects? Are you talking about some kind of mind control? Like making people do things?”
The Atlantean pauses. “You might call it that, yes—perhaps. But rest assured, mind control is completely illegal in Atlantis, and misuse of voice is strictly punished and enforced. Potentially dangerous forms of power voice may only be used with the consent of others. Also there are defense techniques that are taught—which I will teach you, as I said. But first—today, our first day, I will tell you some general things you need to know about Atlantis. You might want to take notes—”
The shuffling of papers is heard as Candidates take out notebooks and writing implements, while some people reach out to touch-enable their smart jewelry recording functions.
“—Atlantis is a planet very similar to Earth, technically larger in circumference, but only by a negligible number of your Earth units of distance. It is located in the area of your sky that you know as the constellation of Pegasus, or the Great Square. The sun of Atlantis is slightly bigger and brighter than Earth’s Sol, so daylight is more blazing, and the seasons are longer due to a longer orbit and hence year, the equivalent of 417 Earth days. The day is slightly longer also, the equivalent of Earth’s 27 hours, because Atlantis rotates along its axis a bit slower than Earth.
“The atmosphere is oxygen rich, similar to Earth. Now, we have somewhat less surface water on Atlantis, so there are only two large oceans that cover about one half of the planet, and the rest is mostly green forests and tall snow-covered mountains. Other animal species are abundant. However, unlike Earth, Atlantis is very sparsely populated, with fewer than a billion human beings on the planet, and fewer than seventy national boundaries. There are several main cities—”
I take my usual excessive notes while the general geography lesson goes on. Each time I glance at him, Nefir appears to be speaking eloquently about the most fascinating things ever, and the classroom is hanging on to his every word. Okay, even I know that’s not natural. No one is that interested in surface temperatures and demographics. No one. Especially not some of the less brainy kids . . . not to mention, the jocks, or the obvious junkies. (Because, yeah, I can see some of them in this room. I’ve no idea how they managed to pass Preliminary Qualification while being high on some crap.)
Must be his compelling Storyteller voice that’s causing us to pay such super attention.
Before I know it, the hour is up and class is over.
“We will continue tomorrow.” Nefir picks up his tablet device and lightly touches its surface with his fingertip. Immediately all our tokens emit a single bright pulse of yellow light, like a flash, then return to steady yellow. Gasps are heard around the classroom.
“Relax, I’ve just taken your attendance,” he says. His face again registers the same light smile. It’s both wise and curious. And yet I find it slightly obnoxious because it manages to come across as superior.
“Yeesh! Could’ve used a warning!” Laronda blinks, staring at her own token.
“I bet he did it on purpose to mess with us,” I say lightly, putting away my notes. I’m still feeling the happy buzz of intellectual excitement from the lecture I’ve just heard.
And then just as quickly it dissipates. Because I suddenly realize what’s my next and last class for the day.
Atlantis Combat.
My stomach is in knots as I head back down to the basement Training Hall gym. I’ve only been here once previously, and I already hate this room with a passion.
This time I notice the presence of mats on the floor—which is both a good thing and a bad thing. Good, because at least if we fall down, there will be padding to break the fall. Bad, because, well, there’s gonna be falling going on.
Ugh. . . .
I stare around the room and see the weights training equipment in the front near the entrance, and the now familiar multi-story scaffolding where somewhere up on top the hoverboards are stashed away. There are about thirty people here so far, and more are coming in behind me. We all look sheepish, stressed, scared—or at least most of us do, and after a quick glance I see there are no familiar faces.
No, I take that back. There’s at least one. Claudia Grito is standing with her arms folded, looking fearless and bored. Her long black hair has been gathered into a sleek ponytail and she’s changed into a tight black tank-top and skin-tight jeans. The bright overhead lights catch like fire in the metal stud piercings in her nose and ears.
Just as I think it can’t get any worse, I see several of the popular hashtaggers from the lobby who had ganged up on Blayne. There’s curvy Olivia and the dark-haired guy with the neck tattoo, and the big blond jock Wade.
The moment they see me they all turn like vultures. I feel the weight of their stares, hear smirking whispers, while a cold numbing thing starts to build and fill me up like a brick. How well I know that cold slimy resident of my gut.
While I freeze, they start casually moving in my direction. Meanwhile, the neck tattoo gu
y shapes his mouth into a nasty kiss, then licks his lips and gives me a sneer, all without taking his eyes off me. I think that’s gotta be the creepiest worst.
Before any of them reach me however, I am saved by the arrival of Oalla Keigeri. The gorgeous Atlantean girl comes into the gym hall walking in her swift brusque manner. She is followed by two others.
“Attention, Candidates!” Oalla claps her hands together and starts speaking before she even reaches the middle of the room. “Line up!”
Everyone’s milling about, but her ringing drill sergeant voice compels us, so that for a moment I wonder if she’s using a power voice, now that I know about it. The bullies forget me for the moment, and everyone moves in toward her.
“Two lines, one to my right, one to my left! Starting here, now! Move!”
We hurry to do what she says, in a brief stampede. I swear, it feels like army basic training. In seconds I find myself in a lineup with some skinny African American guy with locks I don’t know to my right, and a young Asian girl I’ve never seen before on my left. Meanwhile, across from me are other unfamiliar, frightened faces.
Basically we’ve just formed a gauntlet line. Or maybe a line dancing line. Whatever. There’s roughly two rows of us, facing each other, separated by about ten feet.
Oalla stands at the start of the line between our two rows, and two other Atlanteans are behind her.
“Stand up straight! Feet together! Hands down at your sides! Eyes on me!”
We shuffle and pull ourselves up as straight as possible. I press my fingers against my sides and notice from the corner of my eye the Asian girl to my left is shaking.
Oalla takes a step aside, and the Atlantean immediately behind her walks forward so that at last we can see him. He is very tall, ebony-black, with the darkest skin I’ve seen so far in their kind, but his tightly curled short hair is colored the same molten gold. He is slightly older or possibly our age, extremely good looking, with a slightly heavier cast to his features, and a beautifully toned muscular body encased in the grey uniform that looks tailored on him. Curiously, the armband he is wearing is blue, not yellow.
“Good afternoon,” he says in a deep gorgeous voice. “I am Keruvat Ruo, and I am from Atlantis. Some of you know me already from an earlier Agility class, just as you know Oalla Keigeri who also teaches Agility. Together, we will be teaching Combat.”
“But first—” He nods to Oalla who picks up speaking after him.
“First, before we begin,” she says loudly, “we are fortunate to have with us today an important visitor.”
Keruvat and Oalla both take a step to either side, and we all stare while a third Atlantean walks past them and stops in the middle.
He is not nearly as tall as Keruvat, but now that he is here, his presence overwhelms. Light bronze skin, striking chiseled features. Longish golden hair, of a washed-out metallic hue that seems a shade lighter than the others. He is probably the same age as Keruvat and Oalla, an older teen, or the Atlantean equivalent. His expression is a perfect blank mask, hard and impassive. His eyes, framed by dark brows and a fine tracing of kohl, are fierce blue lapis. His lips are held in a tight slightly disdainful line.
The grey uniform sits well on his toned body, compact, muscular. And yes, it must be said, there is something about him overall—maybe the confident way he stands, the way he holds himself—that makes him strangely, undeniably hot.
Okay, I can’t believe I just said that. But it’s true. . . .
This guy is attractive, and I bet he knows it.
As I am thinking this, I notice also that he’s wearing an armband that is neither yellow, nor blue, red, green, or even rainbow.
It is black.
“This is Command Pilot Aeson Kass, one of the highest ranking officers of our Fleet, and astra daimon. Remember well his name, for you will come to know it, even among the other daimon. He is here to observe our class, to observe all of you. This is an honor!” Oalla speaks, glancing around the room, and then looks back at Aeson Kass with a tiny light smile. This is the first time I’ve seen Oalla smiling, and it makes her face more open, more beautiful, if such a thing is even possible.
It occurs to me for just a moment, that Oalla is deferring to him, and it’s a strange thing to see. Meanwhile, Keruvat is looking from her to Aeson, and there’s also a tiny shadow of a smile just wanting to break out.
But Aeson Kass does not smile. “Thank you, Oalla, Keruvat.” His voice is pleasantly low, but very soft, almost tired-sounding, which is probably deceptive. “And now, please proceed.”
Aeson Kass then moves aside and barely nods to the other two Atlanteans. He simply stands, watching us.
Oalla and Keruvat take us through some kind of a warm-up drill. I honestly don’t even know what is happening, but it’s hell and there are just no words. . . . My body is like a puppet, and I am told to move this way and step that way . . . jump up and down, and raise both hands and arms . . . extend my torso and bend forward, then back, and rotate from the waist . . . crane my neck, then drop to the floor and do something else physically unspeakable. A few minutes later I am panting hard, and so are many of the teens around me.
It really sucks to be out of shape. And we haven’t even started anything real yet, this is just warm-up!
“Enough! Now stand! Line up!” Oalla says at last.
I crawl up from some kind of messy sit-up, and stand, breathing hard. My weak knees are buckling under me, still traumatized and shaking from the physical effort of this morning’s Agility Training ordeal. The guy with African locks next to me is rubbing his elbow and I see sweat glistening on his face. He mouths some kind of complaint and grins painfully at me, while I nod back and roll my eyes.
As I’m still struggling to calm my breath, Keruvat goes to an equipment cabinet near the wall and motions to one of the Candidates in line to follow him. The teen and the tall black Atlantean both return carrying a large bulky athletic bag which they deposit in the middle of the room.
Keruvat nods for the Candidate to fall back in line. He then unzips the huge bag, and turns it over to dump out what looks like a whole bunch of netting. Ropes and nets and cords of all sizes and lengths, some twisted, some in great spools. There’s metallic and plastic, and ordinary coarse natural rope, and everything in-between.
“Candidates, take a good look,” he says, pacing around the mountain of netted and loose strands on the floor. “These nets and cords are the basic weapon of the Yellow Quadrant. If you want to Qualify, you will learn to use them to your advantage, in addition to the hand-to-hand combat forms of Er-Du which is our traditional martial art.”
Oalla approaches and picks up a short net, and snaps it open. Turns out, it’s a two-meter wide round woven piece resembling a spider web, with sizeable gaps between each segment, big enough to draw your hand and arm through it. “This alone,” she says, “can be used to kill your opponent.”
Keruvat meanwhile reaches into the pile of netting to select a single long cord. “And this,” he says, “can serve you equally well.”
Oalla picks up the net and with a lightning motion she flings it at Keruvat, who stands still to allow her the demonstration. “The net is an ancient traditional weapon of Poseidon, the great city of Atlantis, and its origins are the sea,” Oalla says, as she tightens a single rope segment, and suddenly Keruvat is immobilized in an impossible net cocoon. His entire body is encased to his ankles, and his hands and feet bound. “Fishermen used nets to harvest the waters of ancient Earth oceans, and then the tradition was continued on Atlantis. First, they harvested fish, then they learned to harvest men.”
A few surprised exclamations are heard in our rows.
“Now, admittedly, the net and cord of the Yellow Quadrant is impressive on its own,” Keruvat retorts. “But it is a weak weapon against the edged blade weapon of the Red Quadrant, the sword.” Still bound, he makes an equally blazing-fast move, despite his confined state, and retrieves a previously invisible shor
t dagger from his sleeve. He slashes a few times, and in seconds he is free of the net, which now lies in torn pieces on the floor.
“Whoa!” some kid gasps in the line nearby.
“Yes, the Red Quadrant sword cleaves the Yellow Quadrant cord,” Oalla says, with a blank, hard expression. “But it, in turn, is a weak weapon against the Blue Quadrant firearm.” She draws like quicksilver, and from a hidden holster on her leg comes a small object resembling an Earth handgun. She fires, there’s a soft pop, and Keruvat’s dagger goes flying out of his hand from the force of the projectile striking the blade perilously near the grip.
This time there are loud hoots of appreciation all around the gym hall. Some of the guys clap. A few of the younger boys and girls hold their hands to their mouths.
But Oalla and Keruvat ignore the noise around them. Their gazes are locked, and now they are circling each other, in loose sleek fighter stances.
“As you see, the Blue Quadrant firearm trumps the Red Quadrant blade,” Keruvat says, without taking his eyes off Oalla. “However, it happens to be a weak weapon against the Green Quadrant shield.”
I have no time to blink because Keruvat’s hand streaks for his own hidden gun holster on his thigh. He fires at Oalla—not once, but in a series of sharp staccato pops and the volley fills the hall with recoil echoes.
Holy crap! I cringe, wanting to cover my eyes. . . .
But amazingly, Oalla is standing unharmed. Each time Keruvat fires, she as quickly moves her forearms in a strange shielding stance between her and the bullet projectiles. And now I see her long grey uniform sleeves are riddled with holes going up her arm and all the way to her shoulder.
Okay, what is she, some kind of freaky comic book heroine? Super duper bullet-resistant wonder? She should be seriously hurt, maybe even dead!
But Oalla raises her hands and arms to show us the torn sleeves and bullet holes, and then she pulls up her uniform sleeves, rolling them up past the armband, to her shoulders.
Her arms, from the wrists up to just below her armpits, are encased in some kind of skin-tight braces, made of a silvery metallic material. I am guessing it is not ordinary fabric. However, it is discreet, and amazing in the sense that it can be worn easily and inconspicuously underneath long sleeves, like body armor. The bullets—small round pellets of metal—are stuck like pearls to the material of the braces.