“So what Standing Score did you guys get?” Hasmik says. “I get #5,023. Not really good . . . I think?”
“Mine’s not that far off,” I say, and I tell them my own score.
Laronda shrugs. “These things are really stupid and sad. I got #3,704, which is nonsense, because I suck at everything.”
“Hey, I suck more.” I grin.
“It’s okay, you all suck,” Dawn says.
Laronda punches Dawn in the arm. “Okay, so then what did you get?”
Dawn shrugs. “Nothing. Same suckage as everyone.”
“No, tell us!”
But Dawn just turns around and waves, as she heads to her first period class.
“Wow, wonder what she got. . . .” Laronda frowns with concern. “Hope it’s not too awful. Poor thing.”
There’s not that much time to blab, so I make my way to my first period, which is Atlantis Culture. This is the last Culture class before Semi-Finals, since tomorrow is actually a free day.
Yeah, imagine that, insane, I know. . . . The Atlanteans actually allocated us a whole free personal day, a sort of mini-vacation before we get to fry in the unholy purgatory that is Semi-Finals. It’s supposed to be a day of rest, a day for us to recuperate . . . pray maybe . . . or party . . . or maybe just sleep in. Tomorrow we get to do whatever it is that will help each one of us prepare for the ordeal.
But first, this class.
Nefir Mekei comes into the classroom and we all stare at him, expecting some last-minute words of wisdom. But all he says is, “Good luck to all of you, Candidates. It has been a pleasure having you in my class and sharing my native world with you.”
He stands before the desk that is filled with scrolls and old books—things he never once referred to or even acknowledged, for all of the last four weeks.
That’s when I raise my hand and just have to ask. “Is there anything in those books we should know? What are they? And the scrolls too, how ancient they must be!”
Nefir glances at me with a blooming smile. It changes his stark, somewhat off-putting usual expression to that of animated welcome.
“Thanks for asking, Gwen. I was wondering how long it would be until any one of you would say something about these old treasures from Atlantis. . . .”
“Oh,” I mumble. “I was wondering from day one, but didn’t think to ask, for some reason.”
“These are copies of copies of copies . . . of some of the original written records that we have brought with us from old Earth. We rescued them from destruction when we first escaped Earth and headed for the precious new habitable world in the constellation of Pegasus that later became known as the planet Atlantis. They are some of the oldest written things known to the homo sapiens race, older than the cuneiform tablets and most of the cave paintings.”
“Oh, wow!” I exclaim, and so do many of the other Candidates in the room.
“For the rest of this class,” Nefir says, “feel free to come up here and look. I hope they might inspire you for the Semi-Finals.”
I spring up from my seat to approach the desk, and I’m the first person there.
Next up is Agility. We gather downstairs in the Training Hall gym, and Oalla Keigeri greets us with a blast of her whistle.
We line up, ready to run laps, but instead it looks like this class is going to be different too.
“Attention, Candidates!” Oalla says, pointing to a large box that sits on the floor near the weights training area. “Since you’ve trained for all these four weeks under the color of the Yellow Quadrant, it’s time you showed your allegiance properly—not only by the color of your token but as a traditional armband worn proudly on your sleeve, as we do in Atlantis.”
We stare at the box and apparently it is full of fabric swatches of yellow.
“Candidates, line up and get your armband! Once you pick up the material, I will show you how to wrap it around your sleeve. Go!”
I follow the rest of the class in line, and when my turn comes, I reach in and select a piece of bright yellow fabric that looks like all the rest of them, a wide ribbon.
We line up again, this time holding our armbands in our fingers.
“This is how you do it—watch!” And Oalla removes her own yellow armband that she always wears, so it collapses into a wide ribbon. She then again wraps it around her left upper arm sleeve twice, then tucks in the ends underneath so that they stick against each other—apparently they have some kind of special bonding edges.
“Remember, left arm! Wrap loosely so as not to cut off your circulation! Make sure that the ends are hidden away and neatly connected underneath! This is how you will wear it over your uniform on the day of Semi-Finals!”
I attach my own armband, feeling a strange sense of suddenly belonging, of being grounded and real. I know it’s a false feeling, and nothing is certain, especially now. But it really brings everything home suddenly. . . .
I am either going to die, or I will be a space-faring Atlantean.
Agility Class is also dismissed early and we go to Atlantis Tech while it’s still over an hour before lunch. Apparently they are compressing the day so that we have the long assembly only remaining to us after the last class ends at noon.
Mr. Warrenson is already waiting for us in the classroom as we come in, and before all the seats are even taken he begins talking.
“All right, folks, this is it, last class before Semi-Finals!” he says in an even more rushed and nervously excited voice than usual. “There are still so many other things I could teach you, to give each and every one of you a decent advantage, but this is all the time we have. This was a crash course in Atlantis sound technology, a practical hands-on approach was all we could do, naturally—”
Mr. Warrenson goes on and on for about five minutes, trying to summarize dozens of sound command sequences, as though he expects to cram them firmly and permanently into our heads at the last minute, yes, if only he just repeats them one more time.
The class begins to space out very soon, but I try to listen very closely to pick up any last minute information.
“Now, you need to understand,” Mr. Warrenson says. “The keying sequence is one of your strongest tools in this. You need to be precise in each note you sing, remember the correct intervals, and do not hesitate! The first person to key an orichalcum object claims it!”
Antwon Marks raises his hand. “What can we expect at the Semi-Finals? Will we be keying hoverboards or anything else, um . . . larger?” And he throws a glance at me.
Yeah, at this point everyone is aware of my so-called shuttle levitation demo. They may not know about my role in saving Aeson Kass and landing his damaged shuttle during the sabotage incident, but they know this. I’m the girl with the “super voice.” Poor Antwon probably wonders if that kind of thing might be on our test.
“I wish I could tell you.” Mr. Warrenson sighs, wiping his balding forehead. “I really, really do. But I am not allowed, and to be honest, I don’t even know the full extent of what’s been scheduled. Common sense should tell you to expect hoverboard use and some keying of orichalcum objects. Anything we learned in our class is fair game for the Semi-Finals.”
There isn’t much more we get out of Mr. Warrenson. Class is over while he still fusses with last minute advice and nervously repeats things we already know as we exit the room.
I turn and notice the look in his eyes as he finally trails off into silence and watches us. It is sad, sympathetic, and gentle. . . .
Mr. Warrenson knows most of us are going to die.
Last class is Combat.
I make it downstairs to the Training Hall early, and I’m one of the first ones there. I look around and there’s Keruvat Ruo and Oalla Keigeri, standing off to the side talking quietly. Their expressions are solemn and serious—even more so than usual.
As the rest of the Candidates arrive, the Atlantean Instructors finally acknowledge us.
“Candidates, line up!”
Oalla blows her whistle.
We rush to stand in the two familiar double rows. By now it’s second nature to assume our still, orderly stances, ready to begin Forms with the Floating Swan.
But once again, something out of the ordinary happens in this last class.
“Today we will go through the Forms drill and then the weapons—the whole thing, only once,” Keruvat tells us. “But first you will learn a new and final Form for your level that is an ancient Salute in Er-Du. The Salute is done as a sign of respect to your equal or your superior.”
“This means,” Oalla says, “that at your stage of Er-Du training, all of you Candidates for Qualification salute only your Instructors and each other. And before Combat, you salute your honorable opponent. However—you do not salute if your opponent has exhibited a lack of honor. And you do not salute your inferiors.”
I take a deep breath and raise my hand. “Who are our inferiors?”
Oalla and Keruvat turn to look at me. “Candidate Gwen Lark, do you really want an answer or are you just being your usual self?” Oalla says.
“I really want an answer,” I say, wondering what in the world is that supposed to mean, “being your usual self,” and why the sudden barb from the Atlantean girl.
“Your inferiors are those who have no training to match yours. That goes for any field, not only Er-Du.” Oalla pauses, as though considering if she should speak any more. But then she decides to continue. “Your inferiors on Atlantis will be most native non-citizens, even though all of you too are immigrating under a non-citizen status. Is that clear?”
I nod—even as she turns away, already ignoring me—even though a dark feeling is gathering in the pit of my stomach. . . . Once more I am reminded of the strange non-equal status of citizens and non-citizens in Atlantis society.
And I am reminded of the Games of the Atlantis Grail. . . .
“Now I will show you the Salute.” Keruvat’s deep voice brings me out of my dark reverie.
The tall dark Atlantean demonstrates the brief Form of the Salute. It consists of four elements.
First, he steps to the side with his right foot, widening his stance, and at the same time brings two fists together, knuckles touching, arms bent at chest-level. Second, he opens the fists, palm out, and touches the tips of the thumbs and index fingers to each other so that the empty space between the two hands forms a triangle.
Third, he closes the two palms together, thumbs still pointing away from the other fingers at a right angle, and draws the “praying” hands closer so that only the thumbs touch the middle of the chest. At the same time he bends his head down so that the tips of the fingers touch the forehead, while bending the knees into a semi-bow.
Fourth, he separates the hands, lifting them outward into a sweeping arc, and returns them palms down at his sides, at the same time as he straightens and brings the right leg back in, feet together.
“This is the Salute of Atlantis! Now, repeat, with me!”
Keruvat and Oalla both do the Salute, facing each other, and all of us attempt to copy their motions.
“Again!”
And we stomp our feet and mimic the Salute, better this time.
“Again!” Third time is the charm.
“You will make the Salute perfectly on the day of the Semi-Finals.” Oalla says curtly. “Now, practice!”
Lunch is an abbreviated affair also, and we only get forty minutes.
We all stampede to the cafeteria. I see Dawn and Tremaine and Hasmik at a table in the back, and join them with my own tray piled with burgers and fries.
This habit of chowing down on huge meals seems to be with us now, because of the amount of calories we apparently burn on a daily basis. No one has gained an ounce of weight even though we’re eating twice our normal amounts, and in some cases more.
Instead, after a month of this boot camp lifestyle, there’s a buildup of muscle. Even I feel the small new muscles in my previously wimpy, skinny arms. And my calves and thighs have new strength and some definition.
“So, what you ladies think of the Standing Score situation?” Tremaine says, with a mouth full of burger. “Any ideas how they’re gonna implement this for the Semi-Finals? Heard any good rumors, at least?”
Dawn shrugs her usual. “Not really.”
“Well,” I say, swallowing my own mouthful of fries. “There’s probably going to be some kind of advantage given to people with the best scores.”
“Keep in mind, they are going to live-stream the whole thing.” Tremaine shakes his head. “So it’s what, death match reality TV? Will we be fighting each other or something, like gladiators in the arena?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Otherwise, why teach us Combat?”
“There are hoverboards too,” Hasmik says.
“So we fight on hoverboards?”
“I hope not,” I mutter. “But hope’s such a bitch.”
“I got a #2,985 Standing Score,” Tremaine says. “It can swing in either direction for me. What about you?”
“You don’t wanna know,” Hasmik and I both say together. Dawn just stares into her plate and chews something.
Claxons indicate five minutes before 1:00 PM, so off we go to the assembly.
It’s a bright sunny day, and the sky is clear, as we pour outside from our dorms, an endless stream of Candidates mingling, our tokens lit up in all four colors.
As I walk, I feel a familiar touch on my shoulder from behind. I turn around, and Logan is smiling at me. He’s wearing his black jeans and T-shirt and no jacket, so the first thing I see are his olive-tanned muscular arms, beautiful and powerful. Immediately I remember the hard feel of them around me during our stolen moments together. . . . His dark hair picks up reddish glints in the sun, which gather into a nimbus of rare secret color. I stare into his warm hazel eyes, and jolts of electricity pass through me. . . . He is so handsome it kills me every time, just to look at him, just to think that we are together.
“Hey, you,” he says, leaning close in to my ear, and suddenly his expression is intense and serious. “I missed you.”
“Hey, you . . . me too,” I whisper. And then his hand briefly slips into mine, pressing my fingers, then releases with a sweeping caress up my wrist—that sends more sweet electric currents coursing through me—and we continue walking, jostled by the crowd.
“What Standing Score did you get?” he asks me.
I tell him my pitiful score and he reaches out and squeezes my fingers again.
“And you?” I am almost afraid to ask this question. I really, really hope Logan’s score is a good one. I couldn’t bear it he got a low score.
Logan takes a deep breath before telling me, and seems embarrassed. “I got #143.”
“What?” I am so excited I momentarily stop walking, and people run into me. “OMG, Logan!” I exclaim, and I’m beaming. “That’s such a great score! That’s amazing! You’ll qualify for sure! You’re like the top—the top whatever!”
I put my hand on his upper arm, feeling his warm hard muscles, and I press my fingers against his skin. . . .
He shrugs, but there’s a tiny smile on his lips. “It’s good, I guess, but again, it doesn’t mean much. These scores are no guarantee of anything, only some kind of an advantage going into the Semi-Finals, that’s it.”
But I am grinning at him, and I am so crazy-happy that he cannot help but stare back at me with his warm regard that turns his eyes to sweet honey. . . .
The Arena Commons super structure is packed with over six thousand people, the whole arena floor, the track, the sidelines, everything. As we arrive, there is standing room only, and I am reminded of the assembly during the first week right after the shuttle explosion incident, when we were called in here and addressed by Command Pilot Aeson Kass.
I wonder briefly where Aeson is now, and whether he will be up there again on that platform addressing us today. And then I wonder why I should even be thinking about him. . . .
; Logan and I attempt to squeeze in closer to the center of the stadium floor. I see my brother George standing with some of his dorm-mates whose names I don’t know, except for one older girl, Amy Calver, a pretty curvaceous redhead with whom George’s been hanging around lately. Their tokens are all blazing green.
“George!” I wave, and he turns and beckons us with his hand. Amy waves also.
“Have you seen Gracie or Gordie?” I ask nervously, pushing past people to reach him. “What Standing Scores did you all get? Mine’s a crappy #4,796.”
“Hey, that’s not so bad,” George says, while his expression is forcibly calm, and I can tell he is trying hard to make me feel better. “Mine is #3,298. Middle of the road, I guess. What about you, Sangre?”
I start to tell him Logan’s amazing score, but Logan gives me a modest and quick “no” look and a meaningful brow raise. He then mutters something about getting by and skillfully changes the subject.
We chat nervously, while the crowd of Candidates grows, and we watch the elevated platform that remains empty. Finally, several Earth officials ascend the platform stairs. There are no Atlanteans among them. Moments later a microphone sounds with reverb in the great stadium space, as one of the officials speaks to address the crowd.
“Candidates for Qualification at Pennsylvania Regional Qualification Center Three. You are gathered here after four weeks of arduous training that has prepared you for the Qualification Semi-Finals. We trust you are in good spirits and good health, because the day after tomorrow will require all your effort, focus and strength. There are some things you need to know in advance of Semi-Finals.”
The man pauses, as whispers pass in waves through the crowd.
“First, you need to know your odds. There are 6,023 Candidates in this Regional Qualification Center. Only two hundred of you will pass Semi-Finals to advance to the Finals. Let me repeat that. Only two hundred Candidates out of six thousand and twenty-three.”
Anxious voices swell in the stadium. . . .
“These are the same odds for all the RQCs across the country and around the world. That’s how many Candidates will compete in the Finals from each of the RQCs. And of those two hundred, only one half—that’s just one hundred of you per RQC—will actually win the final spots on the ships heading for Atlantis.”