As I speak, Aeson looks at me in what can only be mild amazement. It occurs to me, he is not used to anyone contradicting him often, if ever.
Finally he cranes his neck to the side slightly and interrupts my tirade. “Enough. You have expressed yourself, and because you are a civilian and don’t know better, I have allowed it. And now, you will no longer speak on this subject unless you would like to be disciplined again. Is that understood, Candidate?”
I nod. “Yes.”
Aeson’s lips curve into a shadow-smile. It is dark, sarcastic, confident, and very scary. “Good. Now, because you are in an unusual position of not knowing better, and you’ve indeed asked me a logical question, I am going to answer you. But only this once.” He pauses, examining me, my minute reaction.
I remain still, not giving him any excuse.
“The main reason I cannot permit hoverboard use outside the classrooms and training halls is because we cannot afford to let even one orichalcum-based piece of technology to go missing and fall into the wrong hands, and potentially be stolen from this compound. Yes, I know Candidate Dubois is responsible and would never intentionally misplace or misuse the hoverboard. However, he sleeps at night, and cannot be vigilant around the clock.”
I glance at Blayne and he is listening carefully.
“The second reason,” Aeson says, “is that there can be no favoritism displayed in the process of Qualification. If I let Dubois fly around on this thing, even with his legitimate need-based reason, I would set a precedent. Other Candidates would make rightful demands to be allowed equal use of hoverboards, and that’s something we cannot do. There are other reasons, but these are the main ones, and I hope—Candidate Lark—that I have satisfied your need for a logical explanation.”
He grows silent, and watches me again.
“Yes, thank you,” I say in a subdued voice.
“Good. Now, you are both dismissed for today, and I will see you both back here tomorrow night, at the beginning of your Homework Hour. We’ll work from eight to eight thirty. In the meantime, you are not to speak of the nature of this activity to anyone, because again, I want no Candidate speculation about preferential treatment. If asked, you may say you are meeting with Instructors to get help with your homework.”
Blayne nods, and starts pushing his wheelchair to the door. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Kass,” he says.
“Command Pilot Kass is the proper address,” Aeson tells Blayne, but without reproach.
“Sorry, Command Pilot Kass,” Blayne mutters. “Thank you for all the work you put in with me. I am sorry to be taking up your time—”
“No problem.” And Aeson nods at him curtly with what is nearly a smile.
I see that brief fleeting smile and it is remarkable what a difference it makes to the hard angular lines of Aeson’s face. No sarcasm, no provocation, just openness. Like a burst of sunlight, just as quickly hidden by the usual cloud-mass. . . .
“If it’s permitted to ask,” I say, lingering at the door after holding it open for Blayne despite his raised brows. “Why am I here? Why not someone else more suitable to help him train? There are plenty of big strong guys in our dorm who would do a better job.”
Aeson turns to me once, before returning to his observation consoles and plural surveillance screens. He is tall, pale, reserved, and there are definite signs of exhaustion on his face. It’s the only hint that he’d been seriously injured just recently, and may still be unwell—or at least not one hundred percent, healthwise.
“I could tell you it’s to keep an eye on you, Lark,” he says in a bland voice. “But really, there isn’t a particularly exciting explanation. Don’t flatter yourself, you’re not that interesting. The simple fact is, you happened to be here already, and you are sufficiently up to the task. As your Instructors say, you might have something—some quirk, some potential. So now, by all means, show me you are not merely an unremarkable teenager with an inability to keep her mouth shut, and with poor impulse control. Prove me wrong. Now—dismissed.”
And he turns away, leaving me to stare in outrage.
Stunned at his put-down, I exit silently and close the office door behind me. Blayne is nowhere in sight on the walkway. I suspect he found the elevator.
It’s getting late, about an hour before final curfew, and I still need to run a few laps for homework.
Numb and beyond exhausted, I frown and think, and mull over what has just happened, as I walk down to the arena level. Crazy events of the last few days, one after another, have taken their toll on me.
And now—now I am so angry. . . .
He thinks I am unremarkable, with poor impulse control.
I am not that interesting.
For some weird reason, this, more than anything, really stings. I take it so personally that it becomes the worst thing anyone has ever told me. Worse than being bullied and persecuted by the alpha crowd, called disparaging names, being kicked and pinched and having my belongings damaged. Worse—because deep inside, my self-worth hinges on being considered smart and capable and outstanding. I can endure being a clumsy laughingstock, but not having my mental achievements put into question.
Let me confess—teachers, adults who know me, have always gushed over my intelligence, my aptitude for learning, my level of knowledge and critical thinking skills.
I’m an honor student, for the love of Pete! No one, no one has ever called me unremarkable.
I seethe, as I get to the running track, and the anger acts as the perfect seasoning to my bitter running mood.
I take off in one of the lanes, and hardly anyone else is there. Maybe two guys and a straggler girl finish up their jogging laps.
Breathing hard in just a few seconds, I pound the floor of the track, feeling my blisters sting with each awkward step.
Another minute and I am lightheaded, as I stop and walk periodically, then run again, dragging myself forcibly forward and forward.
If only I could escape the thing inside me, the new sense of insecurity, of sudden disorientation.
But all I can do is run.
And then I get back to Yellow Dorm Eight, a few minutes before 10:00 PM curfew, and barely manage to crawl into bed, before lights out.
At least I get to avoid everyone’s questions.
The next morning I am so sickly-tired and emotionally wrung-out, I can barely get out of bed. The 7:00 AM claxon alarm pounds in my head, and I just lie there while the girls’ dormitory comes awake.
“Hey, are you okay there, Gwen?” Laronda leans over me, still in her sleeping shirt, holding her dried-overnight underwear and clothes in a bunch. “What happened yesterday? That awful punishment, what was it? Did you get hurt? What did he do to you?”
I squint and blink up at her and at the overhead light that’s shining directly in my eyes. How stupid was that, picking a bed right underneath the overhead light? Did I really think I’d have time for reading in bed?
Disgusted at myself, I moan and mutter something.
“Hey, seriously, girl, are you unwell?” Laronda bends forward over me and puts the back of her hand over my forehead to check for temperature.
“Nah, thanks, I’m okay, just seriously dead after yesterday.”
“What happened?”
I turn my head and there’s Hasmik, sitting on her bed next to me. She looks tired and unwell, but at least she’s not green.
“Gwen,” Hasmik says. “Gwen, akhchik jan, thank you so much for trying to help me yesterday. I am so sorry you got in trouble. So sorry!” And she leans forward and takes my arm and squeezes it gently.
I smile weakly at her, then make the effort to sit up.
“So, tell us! What happened?” Laronda is relentless.
“I had to stand balanced on one foot and then the other for about half an hour, like an idiot. It was painful hell. And then I had to go up to their offices, was chewed out, and dismissed. Then I stopped by an Instructor’s office for help with homework. That’s about it. It just s
eems like it took forever and I did my running homework at the arena track.”
“Wow.” Laronda shakes her head at me in a motherly fashion. “Poor baby. So how was he? The evil Atlantean prick, whassisname?”
“Aeson Kass.” I shrug, and feel a rush of anger return at the thought of him. “Pardon me—Command Pilot Aeson Kass,” I mock.
“Did he say anything about Disqualification?”
I consider what I should or should not say at this point. “He basically told me to keep my mouth shut and behave in the future. And you’re right, he is a jerk.”
“He’s kind of good looking . . .” Hasmik says suddenly. “A cute jerk.”
I look up. “Oh, please. He’s just full of himself.”
And on that note I pick up my clothes and head to the bathroom.
This is day five of Qualification, and first period Agility class finds me in a rotten mood, a combination of exhaustion, muddled anger, and general nerves. Blayne Dubois ignores me completely as he does his usual hoverboard maneuvers away from the rest of us. It’s as if last night never happened.
I climb the different levels of scaffolding and barely make it across a few rungs of the parallel bars before slipping off, and yeah, yet another stinking demerit is mine.
However, a minor moment of triumph happens during our running laps. Oalla increases the number of our laps yet again, from eleven to thirteen. And for the first time, as I stumble to the finish line, I am not last. Somehow I manage to pass both Janice Quinn and Jack Carell, and frankly I don’t know which one of them gets the demerit.
Wow! It’s a strange and amazing small victory. I think Oalla gives me an interesting look as for once she passes me by to scan another person’s token.
As a result I feel somewhat better as I head to the next period.
Which is Atlantis Tech, and it starts out really boring. Mr. Warrenson goes on and on about the importance of being in tune when making the musical tone commands. He also tests us for pitch perception, using a larger version of the Atlantean sound gadget that was used during Preliminary Qualification back at school to make us repeat the “eeee” sounds. This thing takes up half the desk, and looks like a strange malformed lump of silvery rock on the surface of which occasional colored lights come to life.
“One at a time, please,” Mr. Warrenson says. “Come up here and place your fingers on the surface, right here. Then you will sing a scale exactly like the sound unit does. Listen, then repeat!”
We go up there, one by one, and when it’s done, Mr. Warrenson tells us that although we can all replicate the sounds very well, only three of us in this class have perfect pitch, according to the device.
“Candidates whose names I call, have earned a credit today. Come up here and I will scan your tokens—Antwon Marks, Claudia Grito, and Gwenevere Lark.”
Okay, I admit I did not see that one coming. Especially considering that when it was my turn up there, I barely squeaked out the notes. . . .
But it makes me feel good! Yet another good thing today, to partially make up for all the yuck of the previous days. Not only did I not get a demerit, but a credit—my first one!
I am also majorly psyched on Antwon’s behalf—he totally deserves it with his amazing honey voice, not to mention he’s a great guy. On the other hand, seeing Claudia swagger up there to get her token scanned with a credit puts a minor damper on things. . . .
Soon, it’s lunch hour, and as I walk through the Common Area lounge, my confidence almost back, I see Claudia, Olivia, and Ashley watching me. They balance sitting on sofa backs, legs dangling, and Claudia’s piercings glitter metallic as she taps the sofa with the fingers of one hand. Her upper arms are sleek and well-toned and her shoulders look tough in that black tank top she’s wearing.
“So, Gwen-baby. Perfect pitch, eh?” she drawls mockingly, craning her neck slightly to cut me down with her tough street look. “How about you and me sing it out, later tonight, to see who’s really perfect?”
I stop and look at her. “What?”
“What? What? Hard of hearing? I thought you had perfect pitch.”
I shake my head, not sure how to respond.
“Cat’s got your tongue too?” Claudia is really laughing now, and Ashley and Olivia have their hands up over their mouths in hard, mean giggles.
“She’s obviously deaf and dumb, chicas. That stupid Atlantis audio device really screwed up when it picked her. I bet she mewls when she sings.”
And Claudia makes cat meowing noises at me. Ashley and Olivia pick it up and echo her.
I stand there, genuinely dumbstruck and the cold sickness is back in my gut, twisting like a knife.
A few other hashtaggers show up, including Wade and Derek. “What’s up, what’s happening here?” Derek says, walking up from behind me. He’s sweaty from class and his sharp scent mixed up with aftershave seems to surround me. I cringe away involuntarily, and he notices it and moves in even closer with his big muscular arms, so that I have to step away, which brings me unfortunately closer to Claudia.
“What’s happening,” Claudia says, “is that our girlfriend Gwen here doesn’t want to sing with me tonight. See, we have perfect pitch, both of us, and we’re gonna have us a sing-off.”
“No, we aren’t . . .” I mutter.
“Oh, yeah?” Derek says. “You’re going to sing, Gwen-baby. Because our Claudia says so. And because I say so. You got that?” And he leans in my face with his hard unblinking glare.
“I’m not doing anything,” I say softly. “Get away from me.”
They exchange glances, and then Derek grins at me, baring his teeth. “You’re going to sing, or else. Seven o’clock, outside this dorm, in the back. Be there.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, looking up at him.
“What did you say?”
I feel like I am suddenly short of breath, as they are all closing in on me. Why is there no one else in the lounge when you need it? Where is everyone?
“I said—I cannot sing . . .” I say suddenly. “The audio machine made a mistake. It was an accident.”
“Nooooo,” Claudia drawls. “You can’t take it back, Gwen-baby.”
I take a deep breath, because if I don’t I will pass out. “You know what?” I say.
“What?”
“Screw you!” And with those words I shove past them all and run up the stairs to the third floor girls’ dormitory. I find that I am shaking.
Because of this crappy incident, I end up skipping lunch. I sit on my bed, hunched over, rubbing my arms with both hands, and I think.
Neither Laronda nor Hasmik are around, and there are hardly any other girls on the dorm floor now, since most have gone to the cafeteria.
Oh, how I wish the other Gees were here now! Where are my brothers? Where’s Gracie? For that matter, haven’t they heard about the awful “disciplinary action” against me yesterday, and why haven’t they tried to see me, to make sure I’m okay?
There’s no way I am going to sing.
No one, not even the bullies can make me do it. Especially not to prove a stupid point.
But—what’s going to happen to me if I don’t?
I plop down on the cot and lie there, on top of the covers, with the overhead light glaring directly into my eyes.
The alarm claxons go off indicating time for the 1:00 PM class.
It’s time for Combat.
Somehow I drag myself downstairs to the basement Training Hall.
The Instructors are not there yet. But, just my luck, all the alpha crowd a-holes are here, waiting for me. Quickly I walk as far away as possible, to join another grouping of Candidates, with Jai and Tremaine and Jack Carell. No one else I know is in this class today.
“Hey, Gwen!” Jai gives me the usual white-toothed grin, and then remembers. “Hey, so how was yesterday, the punishment? Did you get in trouble big-time, or what?”
“Not that bad,” I mumble, and tell them the abbreviated version.
“Okay, so it could have been worse,” Tremaine says. “At least that Phoebos guy didn’t put you in lockup or something.”
“Yeah.” I roll my eyes.
In that moment, Oalla Keigeri and another Atlantean girl come into the gym hall.
The new Atlantean girl, it occurs to me, is somehow familiar. I recognize her and her super-short, straight, metallic hair. She was there, the night of the shuttle accident, up on that upper level walkway in the Arena Commons building, walking next to Xelio and a whole bunch of other Atlanteans while we Candies were all having dinner at the “food court” cafeteria below.
This girl is taller than Oalla and more bulky-muscular, with a powerful and at the same time curvaceous physique. Her skin is golden-brown, a mid-tone range between that of the fair-skinned Oalla and the very dark Keruvat who is absent from our class today. Her eyes are a pale hazel color, and she has amazing sensuous lips that are full and naturally pouty-sexy. She wears the same grey uniform as the other Instructors, but her armband is green.
“Attention, Candidates!” Oalla claps her hands and blows her whistle. “Line up!”
We do as we’re told, forming the two opposing rows.
I notice that the person standing directly across from me as my sparring partner for this class is none other than Claudia Grito.
Oh, great. . . .
Meanwhile Oalla turns to the other Atlantean girl and nods.
“Good afternoon, Candidates!” the short-haired girl says in a deeper sonorous voice. “I am Erita Qwas, and I am going to be working with you today in place of Keruvat Ruo who is teaching Combat at Green Dorm Three.”
“All right!” Oalla commands us. “First, we do warm-ups!”
Fifteen arduous minutes of hell later, we are lined up and ready for Forms.
“Today, you will practice actual full-contact sparring Forms which require you to defend yourself and attack your opponent. This means that you will be striking each other for real and not by accident,” Oalla says in a hard voice, pacing in the middle space between our rows, followed by Erita.
“You will begin with the Floating Swan,” Erita responds. “And then you and your sparring partner will take turns with the opposite combination of Second Form, Striking Snake, to attack, and Seventh Form, Running Scarab, to defend yourself.”