As I’m reeling with all these conflicting thoughts spinning through my mind, the interior door opens and Aeson Kass emerges. He looks very grim today, a gravity that seeps through his usual controlled exterior. In contrast, there is something careless about the way his uniform has been unbuttoned on the top button, so I can see his bronze tanned throat. My eye is drawn there, as I watch the lean muscles of his neck, and the perfect jaw-line.
His glance falls on me briefly and he looks away so quickly that I almost wonder if I missed something. “Let’s get started,” he says, addressing Blayne. “This is the last session and there is much last-minute material we need to go over. First, I am going to show you a few evasive movements that are non-combat strategies but will come in handy. And Lark—you watch also.”
Aeson explains to us a hoverboard strategy called Rainfall that involves free-falling with one’s board on top of other people’s boards mid-flight, and a variation called Hail where you actually abandon and jump off your board to land on the other person’s.
“These are racing strategies that were not covered in your Agility Class.”
“Will we need them tomorrow?” Blayne asks, after a pause, while I listen with elevated interest.
“You might.”
“Wait—will we be racing?” I say.
Aeson glances at me sideways then returns his attention to Blayne. And he does not answer my question.
Or, maybe his non-answer is more eloquent than the alternative.
Holy moly! Yes! We will be racing in the Semi-Finals! I think suddenly.
We do some final sparring, then Blayne is allowed to go, with a handshake from Aeson. “Good luck, Candidate Dubois,” the Atlantean says genuinely, and there’s a shadow of a smile on his lips. “You will do fine.”
Blayne nods, mutters his thanks in a strange, almost flustered tone, and then transfers himself back into his wheelchair.
“Rest well tomorrow,” Aeson tells him, as Blayne rolls out of the office, shutting the door behind him.
And now there’s only the two of us, once more.
It’s the truly strange time of the night, every night—as it has been for close to four weeks—as I find myself in a peculiar state of tense intimacy with Command Pilot Aeson Kass.
Time for my voice lesson, whatever it’s going to be, this one last time. And if I am to listen to Logan, I should pay special attention so that I can tell him “all about it” later.
Well, this is going to be rather awkward, considering I am already withholding some things about my (and Blayne’s) training from Logan and everyone, and now I will have to withhold some of my intentions from Aeson Kass. Okay, that may not be the same thing, since intentions are personal and private anyway. . . . Who is he or anyone to judge what’s inside my head?
And yet, it still feels kind of wrong to have these “additional intentions” in my interaction with him, even if I am not lying outright.
Gwen Lark, the double agent. Yeah, right.
As I think these idiotic thoughts, Aeson gives me his full attention. His deep blue eyes with their exotic fine outline of kohl darkness—eyes, which for some reason he keeps averted from me most of the time, even when he gives me direct instructions—are suddenly trained on me. . . .
And immediately I feel a strange energy charge pass through my body, as I meet his rare gaze directly, and I am once again faced with his overwhelming presence.
Before he says anything, I blurt out, “Command Pilot Kass, may I ask a question?”
“What?” He watches me, and there’s instant suspicion in the way he starts to crane his head slightly, without taking his gaze off me.
“I realize this may be the only chance I have to speak to you about this, but—what is it exactly about my voice that makes it different enough to be a Logos voice? I know there are awesome singers on Earth who have more power and volume, and others who might have more precision. So, what makes mine what it is?”
He exhales, as if he’d been expecting a more difficult question and is relieved to answer this instead. “Your voice has a certain subtle expressiveness. Combined with just the right amount of tonal precision and force, it becomes a power voice. It’s a matter of all the elements coming together in just the right way. To put it simply, your voice is charged with the power of focused intent.”
“Thank you for the explanation,” I say carefully.
He shrugs. “Common knowledge on Atlantis, actually. You could have asked your Culture Instructor.”
“I wasn’t sure. I felt it more appropriate to ask you.”
“That’s fine. Now, we need to discuss what is going to happen the day after tomorrow.” Aeson walks over to the sofa and sits down, then points to the spot next to him. “Take a seat.”
I do as I’m told, sitting down next to him rather stiffly, keeping my hands folded in my lap. There are about five inches of space between us on the sofa cushions.
He leans back and puts his hands behind his head, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly, then straightens again, but looks straight ahead and not at me, as though musing. “All right, first—your Standing Score. It is on the low side. That’s a disadvantage going in.”
“I know.” I purse my lips.
“However your trained voice is a huge advantage which can balance things out otherwise.”
“Okay. . . .”
“So now let’s take a look at what other elements there are. Your Combat skills are above average, mostly in hand-to-hand Er-Du. But with weapons, not so much. Furthermore, your Yellow Quadrant native weapon is too complex which makes it a natural disadvantage. Try not to use it.”
I nod.
“Your endurance, agility, speed, and strength are sub-par and are your main weaknesses. You will be going up against some very physically advanced, agile Candidates who are faster, stronger and more resilient than you.”
“Yeah, I know I am screwed,” I mutter.
He glances at me in that moment and there’s a flicker of something lively in his expression. “Not necessarily. Because you have one possible and obvious strategy that I strongly recommend you employ.”
“What strategy?”
“Simply avoid everyone and everything.”
I frown and stare at him.
“Avoid any unnecessary interaction and confrontation,” he elaborates. “I cannot tell you exactly what you will be faced with during the Semi-Finals—don’t ask me how or why, but suffice it to say that if you know anything specific in advance, it is grounds for immediate Disqualification, and yes, they have the technical means to discover if you know. But I can tell you what general course of action will best serve you. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, I think so. . . .”
“Good, you are smart enough to figure out the rest on your own. Use all the voice techniques I taught you, if the opportunity presents itself. And no, they cannot Disqualify you for advanced technique knowledge, so you are safe in that respect.”
“I see.” I glance down and nervously pick my nails as I listen, which is an annoying stress habit of mine.
“That’s about it,” he says softly, after a pause.
I look up, and see him looking at me. There’s a strange expression on his face. “Try to stay alive, Candidate Lark.”
“Are those your parting words of wisdom?”
“It is entirely in my interest that you Qualify,” he replies in a neutral tone. “So, yes, such is my parting advice. I will likely not see you again, unless you pass the Semi-Finals.”
“That must be a relief for you,” I mutter with a frown, looking back down at my nails. “Sorry for all your trouble and your time spent with me.” And then something makes me look up and add, “I know you still don’t believe me, but I had nothing to do with the shuttle disaster. I can swear to you I have not—I mean, not sure if you guys even swear on Atlantis. . . . And I am sorry with all my heart for the death of those three Pilots and friends of yours who were on that first shuttle—?
??
“No. You do not speak. Do not ever speak of them to me.” He cuts me off in a voice like razors.
“I am sorry!”
“Enough. That subject is closed between us. The criminal investigation is still on-going, and you are a prime suspect. Your voice is the only thing keeping you here.”
There’s a strange bitter lump that starts to form in my throat, and it’s choking me.
No, I am not going to cry.
Not in front of him.
So I steel myself and get a grip and control my breathing. “Command Pilot Kass, I will not take up your time any longer. Since we are done, am I allowed to go?” I say coldly.
For an instant, we look at each other in silence. It takes all my effort to stay composed, but I make damn sure neither one of us blinks first.
“Yes,” he says. “You may go.” And then he gets up and simply turns away from me, returning to the other end of the office and his surveillance consoles.
I stand also and watch his blond hair, his proud straight back.
“Goodbye,” I say suddenly, after I cross the room and pause at the door. “I am sorry about everything, sorry for your pain, just sorry—regardless what caused it. May you find what you’re looking for, here on Earth, and when you get back to Atlantis.”
Okay, I have no idea what I just said. It is strange and surreal and it just comes out of my mouth, and I cannot stop it.
But it is so bizarre that it makes him stiffen and turn around to look at me one last time. “Go,” he says, and his blue-eyed gaze meets mine with cold intensity. “Do me a favor and Qualify.”
Chapter 31
Not sure if I remember what happens the rest of that evening. It all blurs in my mind, maybe because my emotions are so messed up right now. Logan walks me back to my dorm but we don’t say much of anything, and then he tells me to sleep tight. . . .
I get up to the girls’ dormitory floor and it feels like Friday night, even though I don’t even know what day of the week it is—they’ve been keeping us so cut off from everything normal this past month that we’ve lost track of days—but it feels like a party. We all know tomorrow is a precious free day, so everyone’s talking, laughing, squealing, a few pillows get thrown—as if there’s no tomorrow. Which is not that far from reality.
Laronda’s already in bed when I get to my cot. She looks grumpy from trying so hard to ignore the general ruckus. “Seriously, how many times and how many ways must it be said? This is not summer camp, girlfriends. Cut out the happy.” She rolls her eyes at me, pulling her blanket up to her chin.
“Yeah, I know. . .” I say. “How are you? I think I’m going to bed early too.”
“Haayyl, yeah,” she says. “Tomorrow, I’m sleeping in—waaaay in. Like, all day. Anyone touches me, and they die!”
“I’m with you.” I get under my own blanket and squint up at the bright overhead light that’s striking right in my eyes.
For the hundredth time I think, I really should’ve picked a different bed on that first night. Yeah, I am such an idiot.
When I wake up the next day, there are no claxon morning alarms. Furthermore, it is not morning. The noonday sun is shining brightly in the large glass windows, and for the first time in weeks I am not sick to my stomach with queasy sleeplessness, and I’m actually well rested.
Wow, I’ve slept past noon!
And apparently I am not the only one. Most of the beds all around the hall are still occupied with sleeping girls. A few are stretching and yawning. Most others are quietly turning over or just lying there in a kind of blissful stupor that is worthy of a weekend.
And so I stretch and yawn too, then get up and pad softly to the bathroom, then come back to my bed and lie right back down again.
Screw breakfast or lunch.
I turn over to my side, pull the covers over my head, and fall back asleep.
When I wake up again it is late afternoon. This time half the beds are empty, though I admit that there are still people sleeping or lounging around. I get dressed and go wander the dorm downstairs. It’s close to 3:00 PM. I suppose I should go look for my siblings. But I am in a strange, lazy, “relaxed” zone where everything is moving at a crawl, including time.
It’s like, at this rate, if I tarry and move slow enough, tomorrow will never happen.
Because tomorrow is it—Semi-Finals Day.
I am hungry and thirsty but I’ve slept through the first two meals, and it’s still more than a couple of hours until dinner. So I decide to go walk outside.
No one I know seems to be about—Laronda, Hasmik, Dawn, the guys. Wonder where they all are? A few lazing Candidates in the lounge give me uncurious glances as I pass by. A couple of teens stand before the smart-board wall with stressed looks, looking up Standing Scores for the umpteenth time. The alpha crowd is nowhere to be seen either.
Outside is a crisp afternoon, slightly windy, and my ponytail immediately becomes a mess of loose airborne tendrils. Candidates are walking past me, tokens lit up in all four colors, and no one’s in a hurry today. A stream of humanity seems to be moving in the vague direction of the Arena Commons super structure and the airfield.
“What’s going on?” I ask a girl Candidate with a green token.
She stares at me as if I’ve crawled out from under a rock. “They’re setting up the media feeds for tomorrow,” she says. “All the journalists and media people have been let in to the compound for the first time, and they’re mostly over at the AC Building.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay. . . .”
“I’m heading to the airfield to see the other half of them setting up the huge smart walls and hologram projection stations for TV interviews.”
“What interviews?”
The girl really wants to roll her eyes at me at this point. “Our interviews! Who do you think? They’re going to be interviewing random Candidates, and probably those who make it. Whatever, go see for yourself.” And she hurries past me.
I pause, standing with the wind tearing at my hair.
And then I start walking in the direction of the airfield.
Before I even get there, I can see the skyline near the Arena Commons Building has a different look. There are tall rectangles of stadium smart screens looming up in places where they hadn’t been previously, and more are being put in position around the airfield perimeter. Helicopters are circling. The distant barbed wire fence that demarcates the compound is silhouetted against large semis and trucks and smaller vans outside, and it all looks like an ant hive out there, beyond the boundary.
I recall hearing that there are parents of Candidates supposedly camped out around the perimeter, in addition to the media, and everyone is staring at us, and waiting . . . waiting for the big event to start. Who knows how long they’ve been there, but now it’s less than twenty-four hours remaining. . . .
As I walk together with many other curious Candidates, there are guards everywhere, in the usual grey uniforms, and they are not interfering, but definitely observing the newcomers who are now on the inside of the fence.
I stare at the harried looking news crews—journalists and cameramen, gofers and various technicians, as they move about, carrying equipment and network workstations, setting up hubs for their own network broadcasts.
Off to the side, near the edge of the airfield, there’s a new platform that has been set up, and a small group of Candidates is being recorded and photographed by several different networks. A very tall, very fit and athletic Asian girl and boy, probably seniors, who might be related, stand in the center of a major network logo backdrop while camera lights flash around them. They appear almost bored, and have a definite cool, kick-ass attitude about them. Both are beautiful and muscular, so alike they could be twins, and both have short spiked blue-black hair and glinting smart jewelry that sparkles in the bright lights. Their ID tokens shine blue.
“Who are they?” someone asks behind me. “How come they are getting special treatment?” r />
“That’s Erin and Roy Tsai,” a guy I don’t know mutters. “They have the two top Standing Scores in the RQC. She’s #1, and he’s #2. Brother and sister.”
“So they’re our main competition?”
“Yeah. And those others are also all top ten or something.”
I look closer, and recognize only one Candidate from my own Yellow Dorm Eight, a smart-looking dark-haired boy my age with a street-tough stare. I think his name is Ken Fisher. Apparently he has a Standing Score of #6.
Several others are notable. A petite girl with bright red hair down to her waist seems to pose for the cameras, her brilliant smile flashing white teeth, as she tosses flirtatious looks in all directions. Her name is Isabella Saltwater, her token is as flaming red as her hair, and her Standing Score is #9.
Next to her is a tall burly older teen, Samuel Duarte, with huge muscular arms and wide shoulders, and a sharp attitude. His token is green, and his Standing Score is #8.
I pause to stare, among the crowds of Candidates, as these select top Candidates are getting all the attention. Turns out, there are more platforms behind this one, one for each of the major networks, and on each a few elite Candidates are getting interviewed or filmed.
After a few more minutes of this, it really gets to be depressing. It turns out, although I really should be getting to know my competition, I really don’t want to hear them brilliantly answer personal questions on national TV in over-confident and sometimes-snotty voices. And I really don’t want to see them with their perfectly toned bodies and cocky grins. Honestly, I just want to get as far away from here as I can and just shut off my gloom-riddled mind. . . .
So I turn away and start walking back to my own dorm, wondering where my siblings are. I’m also starving, and dinner can’t come soon enough.
In fact, I am ready for this whole day to just be over, and for the nightmare of Semi-Finals to begin. Maybe because there are no other obligations on this day, the dark doom thoughts and eternal stress simmering in the background takes the opportunity to rise to the surface now, with nothing to take my mind off it.
Back home, Mom and Dad are probably in our living room right now. Dinner is already cooking. Mom has just taken her meds and is quietly resting on the sofa and Dad is in his deep chair, leafing through his reference books and lesson notes. . . .