“What is it?” a girl asks.
“Aha!” Mr. Warrenson pauses, then scratches his balding head to better consider his answer. “Well, that’s the thing. We don’t really know what it is. And the Atlanteans won’t tell us.”
The classroom comes awake.
“For lack of a better term, we here in the Earth scientific community, refer to it at present as orichalcum. I realize it’s a placeholder name, and somewhat trite, since it’s the mythic term from ancient writings referring to an unknown, ‘magic’ Atlantis metal. But until the Atlanteans share with us its atomic structure, we have nothing else to go on. And who knows, maybe that’s what the mythic orichalcum is anyway.”
I raise my hand. Laronda immediately kicks me underneath the desk, but I ignore her.
“Yes,” Mr. Warrenson turns to me. “Your name, please?”
“Gwen Lark. I want to know why can’t we simply analyze a sample in a lab and find out for ourselves its atomic structure? Isn’t it the normal thing to do with unknown substances? And if we already tried, what happened?”
“Good question, Ms. Lark. We have, in fact, tried. Unfortunately, it turns out we cannot properly break down this material to the atomic level, and none of our lab tests are able to have any conclusive effect on it.”
My eyes widen, and I stare. The gears of my mind are turning. Orichalcum, the fabled metal from myth and legend, is in fact real! And it’s super weird!
“We do know,” Mr. Warrenson continues, “that it is a metal alloy. It appears to conduct heat—sometimes. Yes, I know that makes no logical sense. We can make an educated guess that part of its elemental makeup is gold, since gold is widely used on Atlantis for practically everything. We have not found its melting point temperature however. And everything else we think we know about it is messy science at best. The Atlanteans have not been particularly forthcoming with us about this stuff, nor have they shared with us many raw samples.”
Mr. Warrenson turns the lump of orichalcum this and that way in his fingers as we continue to stare. Under the bright overhead lights, it appears to catch fire and sparkle with gold flecks. But as soon as light falls away it goes back to dull grey. “But enough background for now. Watch!”
Mr. Warrenson sings a sequence of notes in a clean tenor voice. It’s a sustained major sequence, C followed by short notes E and G and then C again, sustained. He repeats this so that it sounds like he is singing the components of a C Major chord, over and over again.
The lump of orichalcum begins to visibly vibrate in his fingers. When suddenly he takes his hand away, the piece remains in place, floating in mid-air.
“Awesome!” a boy says.
“It sure is. Now, I want all of you to do it. Everyone, turn to the person next to you, who will be your partner.”
Mr. Warrenson plucks the orichalcum piece from the air—it continues to vibrate oddly in his hand—and then opens a large box that contains a whole bunch of similar grey lumps. “As you can see, the other pieces of orichalcum in this box are presently inert. That’s because the container is soundproof and serves as sound insulation.”
With the box, he walks around the classroom, depositing a piece on every desk. “This is for your use today, but you cannot keep it. You will need to return it to me at the end of class. Now, put your hands on your piece, squeeze it, close your fingers all around. Warm it in your palm.”
I wrap my palm around the small metal lump that Mr. Warrenson just gave me. It feels cool to the touch at first, then quickly takes on body temperature. Soon, it feels strangely right.
Next to me, Laronda is holding up her own piece and examining it closely.
“Now, repeat these notes exactly. C-E-G. And be sure to hold the C longer—”
A very young middle schooler with freckles raises her hand. “Excuse me, I don’t know music notes. What’s a C-E-G?”
Mr. Warrenson sighs. “What is your name, dear?”
“Jessica Conlett . . .” the girl mumbles.
“That’s all right now, Ms. Conlett. I know that not all of you’ve had music education, or even remember all your notes if you did—and really it’s quite a lot to demand of you. But, as you realize, this is not ordinary class, this is Qualification.” He sighs again. “So please see me afterwards, or during your Homework Hour. My office is upstairs in the Arena Commons building. I’ll catch you up on basic music theory. There are also some books you can borrow. . . . In addition, you can see your Dorm Leaders and they might be able to tutor you a bit.”
“Okay,” the girl mumbles.
“Now, everyone,” Mr. Warrenson continues, “even if you don’t know the notes, just sing along with me. Hold your piece up on your palm and sing C-E-G, like this.”
We raise our palms up, and echo the Instructor. I take a deep breath. As soon as I make the first C note sound, I feel the vibration in my hand start. The lump of metal comes alive, and I feel its strange soothing warmth run like a light charge of electricity up and down my arm, echoing in my body. “C-E-G,” I sing, and my voice begins soft and breathy then gets more confident, as I continue the notes. I am focusing so hard that my knuckles pressing against the side of the desk are turning white, while I hold up the other hand, palm up, with the orichalcum.
It’s just another note, just another note, a familiar mantra begins in my head. I try to ignore it, focus, focus.
At my right, Laronda is singing in a pleasant soprano, smooth as silk. On the other side of me, an older girl sings in a slightly nasal lower soprano, with rich overtones. A boy’s light tenor sounds directly behind me . . . then further back, someone else with a deeper voice. There are even a few baritones from the older boys. From everywhere, teen voices rise, repeating the grand C Major chord, eerily beautiful and powerful, until the classroom itself is suddenly buzzing, and all our orichalcum pieces are practically dancing in the palms of our hands, vibrating to the frequency. . . .
Mr. Warrenson raises his hand for silence. “Now, keep your palms up, fingers wide open and slowly lower your hands without holding on to the orichalcum.”
I gently remove my palm from underneath the piece in my hand, and it . . . stays floating in the air before me.
My breath catches in my throat with awe.
With my peripheral vision, I see other pieces of metal floating like clouds in front of each Candidate. Laronda is watching her own levitating piece with amazement.
“Good!” Mr. Warrenson smiles at us. “What you’ve all done just now is keyed each piece to your unique voice and specific sound frequency. This means that your own piece will respond to only your voice and commands, until another person handles it and repeats the keying note sequence. This assures that there are no conflicting commands being issued. It’s truly ingenious how the Atlanteans made it so that you have inert and keyed states for orichalcum.”
I raise my hand again. Laronda rolls her eyes at me.
“Yes, Ms. Lark?”
“This is definitely amazing,” I say. “But what if no one touches it, and there are several people all singing different commands at the same time? Will the inert piece respond at all? How will it know what command to ‘obey?’”
“An excellent question!” Mr. Warrenson nods eagerly. “That is called auto-keying. In a situation where several voices sound together, and there is potential conflict, the orichalcum will indeed pick up and auto-key to the frequency of the strongest, loudest, cleanest voice. It will then follow the first complete command sequence issued by that voice. So, the more precise and powerful your notes are, the more likelihood there is that you will key the object to yourself remotely.”
“Wow,” I say.
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Warrenson nods at me then walks to his desk. “Now, there are two ways of returning orichalcum to its inert state. The first is to place it in a soundproof container. After a sufficient period of continued silence—about fifteen minutes to half an hour—the auditory ‘charge’ appears to wear out. The second method is to issue
a ‘turn-off’ command by the person to whom the object is keyed. And the way to do it is simple. Just sing a few random notes that are dissonant. In other words, notes that sound ‘jarring’ or weird together, and don’t make good harmony or melody. Plenty of flat or sharp notes should do it.”
Mr. Warrenson holds up his original piece of orichalcum that is still buzzing in his hand. He opens his palm to show us, then takes his hand away until the piece levitates in front of him above the desk surface. And then he sings four notes that don’t sound good together at all.
With a clatter, the orichalcum falls down on the desk.
“Now, the next basic commands you need to know is how to lift objects up from either a stationary or levitating position, and how to bring them back down smoothly.”
This time Mr. Warrenson stands back from the desk. He clears his throat, then sings a loud C note and holds it for a few seconds, then sweeps up an octave, and concludes on another C, except one octave higher. As he does so, various loose objects on his desk suddenly begin to rise.
There must be a whole lot of orichalcum there, because in seconds, the contents of the entire desk surface are airborne. They float up slowly, and I remember in that moment how Oalla Keigeri had used a similar octave-jumping sequence to call the hoverboards in gym hall.
Before everything floats away to the ceiling, Mr. Warrenson begins singing the C-E-G looping sequence we already know that makes the objects stop in place and just levitate. He goes silent, and looks around the class to see the Candidates staring intently.
“And now,” he says, “the final sequence to bring everything back down again.” And he sings a C note, starting in a higher octave, then bringing it down to the lower C. The levitating stuff begins to gently float down, until it is once again resting on top of the desk.
“And that’s the basics of Atlantean object movement,” Mr. Warrenson concludes. “The only other command you need to know for now is the ‘advance forward’ command. It is perfectly simple. You hold a single note. Usually it’s C, or the first note of the chord you choose to use for your keying command sequence—that’s the tonic note. As I said before, the Red Quadrant uses Major keys and chords, so we have been using C notes and Major sequences in our demonstration. But you can use any chord sequence, Major or Minor. The Blue Quadrant often uses D Minor, for example. As for Yellow and Green—well, that will come later. For now we’re keeping it simple.”
Mr. Warrenson pauses, then looks at all of us, at our levitating orichalcum pieces. “Now, I want you all to turn to your partner and you will be practicing moving your pieces across space toward each other. . . . Then you will reset each piece back to inert state, then switch and try to key each other’s piece remotely. Please begin!”
There’s much shuffling and scratching sounds of furniture as the class starts rearranging and pushing desks together. In moments Laronda and I are facing each other across two levitating pieces of grayish metal with gold flecks.
“It’s on, girl!” Laronda grins. And then she sings a loud and perfect C—at the same time as other teen voices sound everywhere around us.
Her orichalcum easily floats in my direction.
I watch it for a few seconds, then take a deep breath and begin to sing also.
Chapter 13
I have no idea how, but I survive the rest of Atlantis Tech. I clench one hand underneath my desk, out of sight, where I can squeeze it as much as I need, while my knuckles turn bloodless and my nails bite into my palm . . . all so that I can keep the focus and make the notes without breaking apart.
I sing each note—clean, remote and emotionless, all along imagining myself disembodied, a machine—and move the orichalcum piece forward, reset it, then switch with Laronda. I have very little memory of most of it for some reason. Class is over soon enough, and then there’s only one more left for the day, which is Combat.
Relief. . . . I know this is just nuts, but I actually feel relief going back down again to the hateful basement and Training Hall, where I don’t have to make another musical sound.
When I get there, the gym is nearly empty, and the Instructors have not shown up yet.
A couple of people are milling around near the workout equipment, watching some guy use a punching bag. . . .
Oh great. It’s Wade and Derek with the neck tattoo. Their backs are turned, but I recognize Derek’s coiling spiked serpent pattern crawling up his muscular neck and disappearing into the dark short-cropped hair at the base of his head. The two of them stand with arms folded, watching a third, the one’s who’s working out with the punching bag.
Whoever the guy is, he’s moving fast. And I mean, fast. He’s throwing punches in a volley, right and left hooks, and the shirt portion of the grey uniform he should be wearing is lying carelessly discarded on the floor a few steps away. . . .
He’s naked to the waist, and he’s got an amazing upper body. Meanwhile, his uniform pants, tucked into short boots, show off impressive legs and a tight compact rear.
I gulp. . . .
The guy has long, raven-black hair, very dark and straight. It slides against his back with every movement he makes. His deeply bronzed torso is gleaming with sweat, and now I’ve stopped in my tracks. I am staring so hard, because, holy lord, what a body! There is so much amazing definition in his triceps and biceps, his deltoids emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders in contrast with the lean waist.
He wears a prominent red armband around his upper arm, right over the sexy bicep.
Okay, this guy has to be Atlantean. Yes, his hair is pure “black-hole” black, with not a trace of gold, but there’s just very little doubt he is not from our Earth.
Why? Because he’s just too impossibly fast. . . . He moves precisely like the other Atlanteans I’ve seen so far.
If I’m wrong, I will eat my words. I mean, my thoughts. All right, screw my thoughts—they are kind of making me blush right now.
While I am gawking, more Candidates fill the classroom. Now a small crowd has gathered, watching this guy destroy the punching bag. We all stand in silent admiration.
Finally he is done.
He stops and stands back, bringing his hands down in a stance so smooth that it is worthy of a dancer. His chest rises and falls as he catches his breath. He turns around to face us.
A stone-cold handsome face of lean angles meets us. His brows are well defined and his dark brown eyes are emphasized in kohl. Oh yeah, he’s Atlantean.
But, what’s with that amazing black hair?
While he stands looking at us, woots of approval follow his performance, and many of the Candidates clap.
At the same time, our Instructor from the day before, Keruvat Ruo, comes into the Training Hall.
“Attention, Candidates!” Keruvat says, then pulls out a whistle and blows it. “Line up! Two rows facing each other! Now!”
While we scramble to form the now familiar double line, the Atlantean with the long dark hair goes casually to pick up a towel. He wipes the sweat from his chest and arms then nods casually at Keruvat.
“I see you’ve started early.” Keruvat turns to the other, with a light glance, ignoring us for the moment. “No shirt, Xel? Really?”
“Get used to it.” The raven-haired Atlantean’s voice is low and cool, and fits his icy demeanor exactly.
Keruvat shakes his head, but there’s a shadow of a smile there. “Oh, I’m used to it, I just don’t think these Candidates should have to be.”
In answer, the other only shrugs, then tosses the used towel where his uniform shirt lies. He then turns to us and speaks in a hard voice of command. “Candidates! I am Xelio Vekahat, and I will be one of your two Combat Instructors for today. Your other instructor Oalla Keigeri is teaching Combat at Red Dorm Nine in my place. As you will see in the coming days, we will switch often, so that you will have exposure to a greater variety of instructors and fighting styles from all Four Quadrants.”
He then approaches Keruvat, a
nd the two of them walk down the line and count us in both our rows.
“First, warm up exercises! Legs apart. Begin with twenty forward stretches, fingers touching floor—”
I move my feet apart and start bending forward, hands to the floor. On either sides of me the Candidates move in unison. As I come up each time, I glance to see the two Atlanteans walking to the equipment cabinets. By the time we’re done with the first set of stretches, they return carrying the familiar equipment bag.
“Now, legs wide, lunge with a twist to your left, ten reps, followed by twist to you right, ten reps. Begin!”
As I widen my stance then lunge, feeling my poor knees wobble, I watch Keruvat and Xelio go through the contents of the bag, removing and counting cords and netting.
“Now, ten deep squats, no stopping!”
I am already breathing hard, and trying to stay on my feet, while the now familiar sensation takes over, and my body has turned to pathetic malleable putty.
A few minutes of this, and we are told to stop and stand upright, and shake out our hands and arms at our sides.
I momentarily glance to the side and note that a much smaller pile of cords is now lying in the middle of the room.
“There are exactly forty-three Candidates in this class,” Xelio says.
“And there are exactly forty-two cords and nets in this pile behind you,” Keruvat adds.
We all stare in the direction of the pile.
“When you hear the whistle,” Xelio says, “you will run and grab a cord or a net. The last person to reach for a piece will end up without one. That person will receive a demerit, and will have to face me as sparring partner for the rest of the class.”
“Trust me, you don’t want him for your sparring partner.” Keruvat makes a deep noise that sounds like a snort.
I feel a cold sensation of terror wash over me, while my pulse starts to race wildly. The older teen boy to my right cusses softly.
“Are you ready?” Keruvat blows the whistle.
We all burst forward. It’s a stampede.
I am bumped and shoved from all sides, as I hurl myself bodily in the direction of the pile of cords. Fortunately I am not too far away in my original spot in the line, and it’s only a few paces. But it’s a grinder of bodies in front of me. . . .