I need to hit the shower, and fast!
On my way here, I’ve tried to rub away the blood as much as possible from my face, but some of it has already dried, and I realize I look strange and awful.
On the third floor, I don’t bother to grab a change of clothing from my cot, and instead turn directly into the bathroom. Fortunately no one is using the sinks, although I hear someone flush one of the toilets in the stalls.
I run the water and soap up my face and neck, hands and forearms, scrub hard, and wash in the sink as much as possible, so that the soot and blood comes off, running down in pink and grey rivulets. The girl staring back at me in the mirror looks skinny, crazed, with a smeared sickly pale face, circles of exhaustion under her eyes, and a tangle of dirty, sweaty hair falling out of her mess of a ponytail. Ugh.
My T-shirt is seriously messed up, but I will deal with it later, wash it in the sink. First, I splash water on the front so that the worst of the blood is dissolved, and it just looks like I’ve had some kind of clumsy stain accident and tried to wash it off.
I get out of the bathroom and walk to my cot, past a few beds that are occupied, and a few girls who glance at me without much curiosity.
Thank goodness, Laronda is not there, in the cot next to mine. I can avoid her questions.
I rummage in my bags, pull out a nightshirt and my last clean pair of underwear, and head back to the bathroom barefoot. Oh, but my blistered feet are in agony!
Fifteen minutes and a shower later—during which I spend a long time scrubbing my hair and face with the shampoo, and then wash my clothes that I had just taken off, under the showerhead—I am clean, dried, and dressed for bed.
And best of all, there’s no blood anywhere. . . .
I wring out my hand-washed clothes, and carry them back with me. There’s nowhere to hang them up, but I can sort of jam them in around the edges of my cot on the sides of the metal frame under the mattress, so that they hang off my bed and air-dry overnight.
“Gwen! There you are!” Laronda comes up, and plops down on her own cot beside me. “So, where you been, girl? Hanging out with that hottie Logan all this time? Oh, lord, did you hear what happened out there? There was a horrible accident—an Atlantean shuttle crash!”
I glance up briefly, and try to smile casually, or maybe look surprised—I still haven’t quite decided how to play it. “Oh, yeah,” I mutter. “We went running around that big Arena track, and he really helped me train—”
“Did you hear? I said, an accident happened! It was a huge crash! The blast filled the sky! Atlanteans got hurt!”
“Yeah, I heard. Terrible! We’ve actually just got back here, when we heard the explosion.” I am making it up as I go.
Laronda rolls her eyes and shakes her head at me. “Hey, you okay there? You look a little out to lunch. . . . Hello! Yeah, I can tell, your head’s still in the clouds, girlfriend. Must’ve been one heck of a dreamy training session, one-on-one with his hotness.” She pauses, while I turn away in haste, and pretend to adjust my wet laundry.
Laronda nods at my efforts. “Hey, now that’s a very smarty-pants rig. Like the way you’ve got a laundry clothesline going. I just might have to do the same thing tomorrow, since I am all out of fresh undies.”
“Good idea,” I mutter and then fake a large yawn. “I think I’m going to bed early, I am so dead after all that running.”
“What is it, around 9:30? Yeah, okay. I probably should get ready too, before they flip the light switch.”
And Laronda picks up her toiletry bag and heads for the bathroom.
I climb in bed and lie there, with the bright overhead light shining directly into my face. My body aches all over in exhaustion, but my mind—it is racing, racing. . . .
The girl on the other side of me, the one whose name I still don’t know, quietly slips into her own cot.
I shut my eyes and hear other girls moving around the dorm, getting ready for lights out. There are many nervous whispers and chatter going across the rows of beds. Everyone’s talking about the shuttle accident, rumors and conspiracy theories are flying. The name “Aeson Kass” and “Phoebos” is mentioned. So are the words “sabotage” and “retribution.” Two girls argue over what one supposedly overheard, that a whole bunch of Atlanteans got killed on that first shuttle—or maybe it was only five people, or maybe just three. . . .
I pretend to be asleep when Laronda gets back and climbs in her own bed. The metal springs of her cot make a creaking sound as she turns and tries to get comfortable.
A scene of smoke and burning flames inside the shuttle replays in my mind . . . Aeson Kass lies unconscious, head lolling, in a tangle of golden hair and blood . . . fire dances in reflections against his skin, the lean angles of his striking face . . . sharp lines of kohl trace closed eyelids fringed with dark lashes, underneath perfect lapis-hued brows.
I remember my fingertips brushing against his lips, searching for a sign of living breath. . . .
Interspersed with the images of the crash, I see Logan Sangre’s intense face, as he stares at me with complete disbelief. His beautiful hazel-brown eyes, so warm earlier, are suddenly closed off and impossible to read.
Somehow I fall asleep eventually, while the claxons and alarms still ring outside, all throughout the compound.
Chapter 17
In the morning, the Dorm Leaders drag us out of bed just as the wake-up alarm claxons go off. I come awake to the loud voice of Gina Curtis and then the additional shrill sound of her whistle, as she’s moving through the girls’ dorm floor.
“Attention! Good morning, everyone! Time to get up now, move it, ladies! Up, up, up! A big day today!”
“Awww, nooooo!” Laronda moans one bunk over. And similar groans of pain can be heard from all around the room.
I shudder, pull the blanket over my head and grimace at the pain that’s coming from every single tormented muscle in my body.
And then like a cold pail of water the sobering memory of the previous night hits me hard. . . .
“Move your rear ends, get in the bathrooms, get dressed, and be downstairs by seven-thirty AM! No breakfast! I repeat, no breakfast! Dorm meeting!”
“What’s going on?” a girl asks. “Is it something to do with that shuttle crash accident?”
Gina Curtis turns in her direction with an angry frown. “You can bet your sweet ass, it has everything to do with the tragedy of last night! Now, move it!”
I drag myself up and check the condition of my makeshift laundry “clothesline” around the mattress. My underwear managed to dry overnight, but the T-shirt and jeans are still a little wet. I can wear them and let them finish air-drying while on me. My socks however are still soggy, so with a grimace I put on my only other unwashed pair, because there’s just no way I’ll survive the day of new exercise without socks on my blistered feet.
Why am I thinking about underwear and socks?
I grab my clothes, run to the bathroom past other girls, as we push and shove to take care of our morning business.
I keep my head down and brush my teeth at the sink when I hear some familiar voices.
“I heard that three at least died,” Olivia says to another girl whose back is turned. Claudia is next to them, as they stand taking up real estate in front of the mirrors and two sinks.
“Yeah, well, serves the Goldilocks right . . . I won’t be shedding too many tears—” the girl hisses, then turns around and sees me staring.
“Shut up!” Olivia nudges her. “Quiet, idiot! Don’t let anyone hear you talk that way, or they throw you and me both out of here, and you can kiss Qualification goodbye!”
“You didn’t hear anything, Gwen Lark,” Claudia says, with an intense glare in my direction. “Unless you want me to brush your hair some more, you get my meaning?”
I shake my head, and look away, and quickly finish my business without saying a word. To be honest, I hardly care. . . . I think I’ve forgotten to be afra
id of these alpha girls because of what has happened overnight, and it has given me a strange, new, serene perspective—a sense of cool desperation that is eclipsing all my other usual emotions that would otherwise be overwhelming me right about now.
My mind is going over and over the events of the previous night. . . .
Emotionally numb and yet clear-headed and focused, I come downstairs, and the first floor Common Area and lobby is packed with Candidates from our dorm. Dorm Leaders Gina Curtis, John Nicolard, and Mark Foster are standing in the middle of the room and they don’t look too happy.
“All right, attention!” Mark Foster raises his hand for silence.
“Last night, two Atlantean shuttles were involved in a serious incident here on the airfield,” John Nicolard says. His face is grave. “There was an incident on takeoff. One of them, carrying three passengers, exploded in flight, for reasons unknown, killing everyone on board. The second, carrying one pilot, crash-landed. The person in the second shuttle was injured but was fortunately treated by our EMTs on the ground. He was then taken up to the closest Atlantis starship for their advanced medical treatment via an emergency transport that was called down on his behalf. He is expected to survive, but I have no details on his present condition.”
“In short, this is a very serious situation,” Gina picks up speaking. “The airfield is off limits for the day, for cleanup. Furthermore, they are treating it as a possible crime scene. An investigation is going on right now, and we are told, there’s a very good chance that this was not an accident but that the shuttles were tampered with. Which means that this whole RQC compound is going to be under possible criminal investigation—all of us, all of you. If it’s determined that there was sabotage, and if any of the Candidates are at fault, then let me just say, I would hate to be that person or persons who are the guilty party.”
“If any of you here had anything to do with it,” Mark Foster says loudly, “they will find out. They will find you, and you will face criminal punishment, and an Atlantis trial in addition to Disqualification. You cannot hide. Strong recommendation—turn yourself in now. I sincerely hope none of you in this room were foolish enough to be involved with any kind of terrorist group.”
“All right, next order of business is, because of the incident, your schedule for today is rearranged,” John Nicolard says. “You will have fifteen minutes to grab some breakfast and then you will have your first two classes as per schedule. However, at one PM, right after lunch, there will be a general assembly for all Candidates in the Arena Commons building. Be there promptly! Now, come up and get scanned for your schedules.”
We move in a crowd to get our tokens scanned. I am cold, clear-headed, sharp as a razor. Emotionally detached, I am moving on auto-pilot, as I then do a five-minute breakfast, and head to my first class.
“Passion—Aggression—Anger—Force . . .” Nefir Mekei recites in Atlantis Culture class. “These are the qualities of the Red Quadrant. Together they embody the Red Cornerstone of Atlantis. Repeat after me!”
We echo his words, speaking in unison. The entire class is somewhat beaten down this morning, as we are still reeling from the events of the night before and the new vague threat of punishment hanging over our heads.
But the Atlantean Instructor does not show any emotion, or for that matter any normal living expression on his face. Usually reserved, today he is an absolute blank, as he paces before the desk covered with old scrolls and books that he never bothers to open. Only his Storyteller voice continues to mesmerize and keep us alive and attentive.
“Leadership—Control—Reason—Analysis . . .” he intones calmly. “These are the qualities of the Blue Quadrant. Together they embody the Blue Cornerstone of Atlantis.”
We repeat in unison.
“Endurance—Patience—Resistance—Strength. . . . These are the qualities of the Green Quadrant. Together they embody the Green Cornerstone of Atlantis.”
I watch Nefir’s composed face, and the unblinking stare of his kohl-rimmed eyes. I wonder if he knew the people who died in the shuttle crash. Of course he had to know them! Maybe they were his friends. Maybe he is grieving them even now, and does not show it. . . .
“Creativity—Originality—Curiosity—Inspiration . . .” he concludes. “These are the qualities of the Yellow Quadrant—your Quadrant. Together they embody the Yellow Cornerstone of Atlantis.”
Nefir pauses.
The class watches him, waiting. No one is asking questions, not even me.
“Your lesson for today is to think about what these qualities of the Four Quadrants really mean, and what makes them Cornerstones. Your homework is to memorize them. That is all.”
And with those words, Nefir Mekei grows silent. He then walks out of the classroom, with half an hour of lesson time still remaining, leaving us alone.
For the rest of that class we sit stunned, a few of us whispering nervously.
No one leaves the class early.
My next class before lunch is Combat. I get down to the basement gym hall and stand waiting with the others for our Instructors to arrive. No one’s using the exercise equipment.
“Wow, I hope our Instructors are okay,” Jai Bhagat says. He comes up to me, and with him is Mateo Perez.
I nod. “Yes. . . .”
“Any news on what actually happened?” Jai asks, pacing anxiously. “Who was on that shuttle?”
“I bet they’ll tell us during the assembly,” Mateo says.
“Where were you when it happened?”
I start a little. “Who, me?” Damn . . . why is Jai asking this? “I just got back to the dorm after running at the big track in the Arena Commons. I barely saw the sky flash white in the window—”
“Oh yeah, it was kind of awesome SFX, in a sick way!”
I frown at Jai and his crazy grin. Is he for real? “Don’t say that.”
“She’s right. Better keep your mouth shut, for everybody’s sake.” Mateo gives Jai a hard look, and turns away, sticking hands in his pockets.
Jai’s face goes serious for a moment. He appears hurt. “Hey, just saying . . . I mean it was like, neat optical effects, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Just—don’t say it out loud, dumbass.” Mateo turns back around and glares at him. “People died. And because of it, we might all be screwed now. What if they punish us and auto-Disqualify this whole RQC?”
A new freezing chill runs through me. . . . Mateo is right. The repercussions for what happened might be worse than any of us can even imagine. And it’s just the beginning.
Moments later, Oalla Keigeri and Keruvat Ruo enter the Training Hall.
Seeing them I feel a sudden wave of relief. The fact that these two could have been on that first shuttle is hitting me hard.
The two Atlanteans look different today. Their faces are hard and impassive, and Oalla, especially, is cold as ice.
Without any preliminaries, the Atlantean girl blows her whistle and we line up in two opposing rows without needing to be told.
Oalla and Keruvat stand in the middle of the room, looking at us.
It’s as if they are trying to see through us, to read our thoughts and minds, and learn our deepest secrets.
“Attention, Candidates!” Keruvat says in his deep voice, and it carries in echoes through the very silent gym hall. “Before we exercise or train today, we will observe a Moment of Honor for those who died a senseless death yesterday. In Atlantis, we sing farewells to our dead. Now, listen, and follow us.”
And then he sings. It is a simple base note sequence, a low D Minor, and he repeats it, while Oalla sings the same note sequence, only an octave higher.
One by one we echo them, singing the same chord in different octaves, our voices naturally choosing whatever frequency is most comfortable, until the room is filled with one great big sound of harmonic grief.
It is said, D Minor is one of the saddest chords of all, and I agree.
It is also my fa
vorite.
I open my mouth and pretend to make a sound, but today, nothing comes out.
I should be more exhausted than I am after Combat class—but I’m not—as I head upstairs from the basement floor to the first floor Common Area. Maybe all that endless exercise is having a positive endurance effect at last on my untrained wimpy muscles. After all, this is the third day here at the RQC. Or maybe it’s the fact that I am still reeling after what happened last night, and what I did. . . .
I walk through the lobby wiping my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand and think. I could try to go look for Gracie and the other Gees. Somehow the emo tantrum that Gracie threw last night got completely overshadowed by the incident that followed. Normally I would follow up with my kid sister, especially considering I have no idea what happened to her after she took off and left us in the Arena building.
But apparently there are other more pressing concerns. As I glance around the lobby and note quite a few Candidates from my dorm hanging around the sofas—which constitutes half the alpha crowd, including that jerk with the tats, Derek—the outside doors open and I see Logan.
He sees me also and immediately heads toward me.
Logan looks sleek and confident as he walks, and in the first instant my heart constricts painfully at how well built and fine he truly is. Every muscle in his lean powerful body moves like music, and he casually turns his head to glance around the room, before his hazel eyes connect with mine.
I feel my breath catch, but I pause and stand stiffly, waiting for him to approach.
With my peripheral vision I see Olivia and Ashley pause their chatter to glance at me. Then they notice Logan, and immediately stare at him in appreciation. And they’re not alone. One by one, other girls look in his direction. Yeah, Logan has that effect on females—all females. And quite a few guys, I might add.
But then Derek with his wide neck and scary tattoo turns around and stares also, and his expression goes stone hard when he notices Logan moving my way.
“Hey, Gwen,” Logan says. Almost regretfully I notice his serious expression and the fact that he no longer calls me “Yellow Candy.”
“Hi.” I look up at him and hastily wipe my sweaty fingers over the front of my T-shirt. “What are you doing here?”