“Looking for you,” he says.
“Oh?”
“How are you?” His face is composed, but there is something new there, a repressed anxious expression hiding underneath the casual facade.
“I’m good,” I say. “Just had Combat class. And you?”
It’s becoming obvious that this is not a simple social call. And when he’s asking, “How are you?” I think he means, “Are you okay after last night?”
“You want to go grab something to eat now?” Logan nods in the direction of our Yellow Dorm Eight cafeteria.
I nod woodenly, and we go inside the noisy food hall with the overpowering smell of chili and hot dogs in the air.
As we stand in line getting our trays, Logan leans down close to my ear and says, “This is probably the easiest place to talk, with the solid noise cover.”
I glance up, and our faces end up barely inches away.
“I wanted to make sure you really are okay after yesterday,” he says softly, putting a plate with two chili-dripping hotdogs on his tray.
“Thanks.” My hand holding my own plate is a little unsteady. “I am fine, really. And I appreciate you asking, but you really didn’t have to go out of your way like this—”
“I’m not.” He frowns lightly. “This is not me ‘going out of my way’ bullshit. This is the least I can do, after what you went through. I needed to make sure you are dealing with it.”
“Yeah. Well, I am. I mean, what is there to deal with, really? I woke up and my voice is a little hoarse with the smoke inhalation, but that’s about it.”
We move through the line, loading up foodstuff on our plates, then find an empty table.
“Okay, and you haven’t mentioned anything to anyone, right?” He takes the seat next to me.
“Um, no, of course not. . . .” I stiffen up. Seriously, what kind of dork does he think I am? “Remember, I was the one who asked you to keep it quiet.”
He nods. “I know. But under the circumstances, it helps to have someone else to remind you, gently, because this is tough, if you have to bear it all alone.”
“Okay, what am I bearing, exactly? I didn’t do anything wrong!” I hiss at him through the large bite of hotdog that I’ve put in my mouth and forgot to chew.
“Sh-h-h-h . . .” he says, with a shadow smile coming to his lips. “Keep it down.”
I guess that could refer both to the noise level and to the heaping amount of food that’s presently sitting motionless in my mouth. I seriously need to get over this nerd habit already and remember to chew and swallow before speaking when I am nervous. At least I didn’t spray his face with chunks of hotdog and spittle. Eeeew, me! So very attractive of you, Gwen Lark. . . .
But he seems unfazed. “Yeah, you did nothing wrong—in fact, the complete opposite, you did something amazing. But remember what I said, you don’t want them to associate you with any of it at all, good or bad. It’s just as this morning all our Dorm Leaders warned us—there will be witch-hunts. And if we’re not careful, they may come for us, for whatever unfounded reason.”
I chew and swallow, then hurriedly wipe my mouth with a napkin. I stare at Logan, and find it hard to respond. “So what should I do—or not do?”
He pauses, looks at me intently. “First, we need to get our story straight.”
“What story?”
“The story about what we were doing at the time it happened—where we were, etc.”
“Okay. Well, I already told a couple of people here that we just got back to my dorm after using the Arena track, and that we only saw the explosion from the window.”
Logan nods thoughtfully. “Okay, that should work. The other thing is, we need to say we walked a different route, without even passing the airfield. Here—I drew this on the map, where we walked.” He pulls out a folded sheet that has the familiar map of the RQC campus. Pushing his tray aside, he sets it out on the table and shows me the literal path we took in reality, and then the alternate path we will tell people we took—one that bypasses the airfield by three buildings.
I look at the map. “Wow, you really are thorough. And—is this really necessary?”
“Yes, if we want to keep our stories aligned. The key is always in the details. I recommend you memorize this—just in case.”
“What about all the surveillance cameras everywhere? Won’t they show us . . . not being where we say we were?”
Logan exhales, pausing. “Yeah, that’s one possible problem. . . . However, if we stick to the basic story with most people, it may never come to it. So let’s not give them any reason to be suspicious in the first place. The good thing is, the alternate route we are going to say we took is packed with pedestrian traffic, with tons of Candidates walking there. So, even if they check their footage, it would be hard to be sure if we were there or not. Of course if they check the footage for our actual route, that might be a problem.”
“Okay, but what about those guards yesterday?” I whisper. “They will remember me, and probably you too—and what about the surveillance cameras around the airfield?”
He shakes his head. “I doubt the guards will have a solid recollection of us, especially considering your face was a bloody mess, and I came to the scene moments later, so it may not look like we necessarily were together. And as for the cameras there, I’ve thought of it, yeah—but the super great news for us is, supposedly the first shuttle explosion blast caused a shock wave that took out a lot of electronic equipment nearby, so nothing was being recorded from that point on!”
“Wow,” I say. “If it’s true, that’s really good. But—this is still kind of nuts. And you are more than a little paranoid. But, okay.”
Logan gives me a crooked and awfully charming smile that does not really disguise his serious eyes.
In that moment, for some reason, the image of the unconscious Atlantean from last night comes to me. . . . The lean face of Aeson Kass, eyes closed, soot and blood everywhere.
“I wonder if he is okay,” I say.
Logan knows exactly whom I mean.
“Supposedly he is. But—we should soon find out.”
“Find out what?”
Both of us look up, and Laronda is here, and so is Dawn Williams.
How much have they overheard?
The girls put their trays down next to ours, and pull up chairs. So long, private conversation.
“Find out what’s going on at that assembly after lunch,” I say, and casually stick the campus map in my pocket. I then immediately regret doing it, because Laronda, perceptive girl, gives me a meaningful look and raises one brow. Now she probably thinks we’re passing cutesy love notes or something.
I sigh, thinking it’s better than the alternative.
Belatedly it occurs to me, I just had lunch with Logan Sangre, and it doesn’t even count as a date.
After lunch, we all walk en masse to the Arena Commons building. Logan is still with us, so Laronda gives me cute stares, and then exchanges glances with Dawn. Fine, let them think we’re turning into a “thing,” Logan and I. Yeah, right. . . . Sigh.
It’s a bright, sunny March day, with the definite signs of spring thaw in the air.
Endless groups and bunches of Candidates converge from all directions, and for once their tokens are all mixed up, red, yellow, blue, green.
Just as we approach the Arena Commons super structure, four specks of radiance burst down from the sky, like falling meteors. A few stifled gasps of fear sound all around us. Everyone stares up, mostly in nervous expectation, and watches the Atlantean shuttles decelerate smoothly and then hover down and disappear in the general area of the landing airfield. Fortunately, there is no mishap this time.
“Look at them!” Dawn says. “Coming down in force, I bet. Wonder who it is.”
“Probably more VIPs.” Laronda shields her eyes from the sun glare, as she stares over the roofs of the buildings.
“Wonder if they have police forces?” I mutter. “Law e
nforcement. Military or otherwise.”
Logan gives me a look. “Considering that human nature is the same screwed up mess on Earth as it is on Atlantis, yeah, they do—or so I hear. Their cops are called Correctors.”
“Creepy,” Dawn notes.
“Absolutely.” Logan glances at her briefly. “I also hear they are far more scary and ruthless than our own homegrown equivalent.”
“Great. . . .” Laronda shudders. “Just what we need on this planet, more cops. And not just any cops, but scary alien cops.”
“We didn’t get around to study their legal system yet in Atlantis Culture class,” I mutter. “What untold pleasures await us. . . .”
Logan again gives me a brief look.
We enter the Arena Commons and it is packed. Every walkway on all the upper levels, and every square inch of the floor below, including the several sections of bleachers, track, and the areas around the equipment in the middle of the great stadium space, is taken up with Candidates from all the twelve dorms of the RQC.
The crowd is huge, and in many places people in grey uniforms and various colored armbands are seen keeping order—Dorm Leaders, security guards, and various adults who are officials. We are jostled closer inward by the stream of incoming teens, as more and more people arrive in the Arena building.
For the first time, it occurs to me, we are, all of us from this particular region, gathered in one place. Candidates for Qualification, together we can fill an ocean . . . or at least a sizeable lake.
And just to think, this is just one RQC out of thousands across the country and around the world.
Talk about fierce competition for each spot!
Everyone’s eyes are eventually drawn to one raised platform near the end of the stadium. On it, a group of Earth officials stands, looking serious, like a bunch of school principals. Someone tests a powerful stadium microphone, and then a man steps forward and speaks, after clearing his throat. The sound of his voice hits the space powerfully and creates a reverb.
“Your attention, please.”
Waves of noise pass around the stadium, then quiet down.
“Candidates for Qualification at Pennsylvania Regional Qualification Center Three. You have been asked to gather here upon the request of the Atlantis Central Agency, which has been notified of yesterday’s tragic incident. As many of you know already, three Atlanteans lost their lives yesterday, and one was injured. After the investigation conducted immediately following the incident, the ACA has strong reasons to believe the shuttle explosion was not an accident but was in fact an act of sabotage, and hence an act of terrorism against this institution, and indeed against all of you, potential Candidates for Qualification.”
Noise rises again in the stadium.
“Oh, crap,” Laronda whispers next to me.
The speaker continues. “The ACA will therefore initiate a full high-level investigation starting immediately, and has sent down a special team to that effect.” He pauses, and in that moment a group of nine Atlanteans is seen, ascending the stage. Their hair gleams metallic gold from the distance so it is easy to tell them apart from the Earth officials.
I stare intently, watching for familiar faces, and can barely make out maybe one or two Instructors, but mostly these are Atlanteans I have not seen before.
I watch their armbands, an even mixture of yellow, green, blue, and red.
One of them is black.
My insides do a kind of painful summersault, and something grips me with an unbelievable wrenching force. . . .
Aeson Kass stands among them, and he is upright, appearing absolutely healthy and unharmed—oh my lord, he is entirely unhurt. Indeed, his figure is confident, straight-backed and full of that same familiar leashed power that I’ve come to associate with him. And his face—from this distance it is hard to tell his expression, but I am willing to bet it is as cold and hard as stone.
My jaws literally fall open. Or is it figuratively? Whatever—in this moment even grammar fails me.
Seems, I am not the only one. . . . Everywhere around me, furiously nervous whispers sound, and I can hear the mutterings of “Phoebos” and “Aeson Kass” and “wait—isn’t he the one who was injured?”
I feel a squeeze at my arm, and it’s Logan. He is holding me, and pressing my arm meaningfully, and his expression is intense.
I nod barely to indicate I get it. Show no unusual emotion, no response.
And yet, even Logan cannot keep his face completely straight. A frown and stunned shock is there, somewhere.
While we speculate and stand there, staring in confusion, Aeson Kass steps forward on the platform and takes the microphone.
“Candidates,” he says—and his voice is exactly as cold and powerful as I somehow expected it to be. Gone is the soft calm timbre that I first heard during our brief exchange in my very first Combat Class, which he graced with his presence and in which he explained to me why Atlanteans must learn fighting and self-defense. Now he is all hardness and force, and for a moment I wonder if he is using a power voice.
“You are here because in the coming days not only will you continue your Qualification training, but you will be observed closely for evidence of criminal activity. Yesterday, three brave and remarkable human beings lost their lives. Three of our finest Fleet Pilots. Three of my beloved friends and brothers. They lost their lives, and I regretfully, once again—lived. Had I not piloted the second shuttle separately, I too would now be dust in your atmosphere.”
Aeson pauses. His words that have been ringing out like falling hammer blows, cease. If I did not know better, I might guess he is having trouble speaking. . . .
The stadium is in silence.
“Their names—their names are Chiar Nuridat . . . Felekamen Gori . . . Tiliar Vahad. Remember them well, for they died serving the Atlantis Fleet and serving you. Pilot First Rank, Chiar Nuridat, Allegiance to Red Quadrant, nineteen years old, seven years in the Fleet . . . Pilot Second Rank, Felekamen Gori, Allegiance to Yellow Quadrant, sixteen years old, five years in the Fleet . . . Pilot First Rank, Tiliar Vahad, Allegiance to Blue Quadrant, nineteen years old, seven years in the Fleet, astra daimon—my brother, not by blood but by heart.”
He pauses again. His voice never breaks but he stands up on the platform so motionless he could be an effigy. His face is blank—only his body is frozen in grief.
I glance away and see Logan’s face, which shows a wealth of emotion in that instant. It occurs to me, he must be thinking of his own brother Jeff, a real brother by blood, who is soon going to die in the service of his country.
And then Aeson Kass speaks again. “These brave Pilots lost their lives because a tiny crucial part was removed from the flight navigation console on their shuttle. This part is a program chip, smaller than the tip of my finger. We know this because all our vehicles transmit their operational status during flight—and so we knew exactly what was wrong. It was removed, and the shuttle was effectively disabled once it had reached a certain altitude and level of thrust. There were no means of recovery once the critical parameters were reached. A cascade reaction was initiated as a result, and the shuttle exploded.
“The same part was removed from my own shuttle. The only thing that saved it—and me—from a similar cascade and explosion was that I had not yet reached that specific altitude and thrust. And while I tried to regain control of the shuttle, it went into an unrecoverable spin that ended with me unconscious on the ground. I have no recollection, and no explanation, short of a miracle, as to why and how my shuttle landed without me. But in the process of this investigation, I fully intend to find out.”
As I listen to him say this, I find I am trembling with suppressed emotion. What that emotion is, I am unsure. But it makes me want to jump out of my own skin. . . .
Logan notices my state—he can probably feel me shaking, because his hand is still tightened around my arm. And he watches me with concern.
Meanwhile, Aeson Kass
continues speaking.
“Know, that whoever is responsible for this coward act of sabotage and blatant murder, will be apprehended. If the persons responsible are present in this room—know that you will be found, and you will have to answer to me.” His final words fall like blades slicing. Aeson glances behind him and nods to the other Atlanteans standing on the platform. They step forward in unison while he moves aside.
“We are the Correctors assigned to this investigation,” one of them says, approaching the microphone. “You will get used to our presence on this campus. If you are stopped and questioned, you may not refuse or resist, on pain of Disqualification and incarceration. If you cooperate and are not found guilty, you will have nothing to worry about. As of this moment, we assume control of this Regional Qualification Center, under the supreme authority of Command Pilot Aeson Kass. He will have final say and final judgment. All else falls within our individual jurisdiction.”
The Corrector falls silent and retreats a step from the microphone.
Aeson Kass, who has been watching impassively, moves forward again. He speaks in conclusion—and is ruthless: “Candidates, you are now dismissed.”
“Okay, that was terrifying.” Laronda turns to me as we exit the Arena Commons super structure. “One thing I don’t get—how come he looks so strong and healthy?”
“Who?” I glance at her and avoid direct eye contact with Logan.
“He! That scary hottie VIP guy—Aeson Kass, ‘Phoebos,’ or whatever his nickname is.”
“Call sign.”
“Whatever.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I don’t know.”
“He should be beat up or something, don’t you think? Walking on crutches maybe. Bandages, scratches, anything!” Laronda muses out loud. “They say they carried him on a stretcher yesterday, all bloodied up. So how come he’s all recovered like that? Is that even human?”
I’m wondering the same thing. But then I think of what I know of Atlantean high-end medicine. The kind that’s available for their citizens only. . . .
“If they took him up to their starship and treated him with their high-tech medical equipment overnight, then it probably explains it. They must be able to work miracles!”