I feel both my arms and my hands.
Oh wow, my hands! My wounded arm! They are whole and unharmed!
Last thing I remember is the fire agony of a burning terribly charred hand on one side and the dulled ache of a bullet-wounded arm on the other. What happened? How did I regain both limbs entirely?
I stir and make sounds. And apparently it is enough to bring someone by to lean over me, up-close, and examine me. I blink, attempting to keep my heavy eyelids open.
The stranger looking down at me is an unknown Atlantean. He observes me with an impassive gaze, and then moves away.
“What . . . what happened? Where . . . am I?” I whisper, barely moving my lips.
But the next moment I see two familiar faces. George and Gracie are at my bedside, both rushing toward me. George leans in, grins and presses my arm very gently—yes, my fully functional arm!—and Gracie comes around from the other side to rest her head against my chest and hug me with both arms.
“Gently, gently!” An unfamiliar voice sounds, and I see it is the Atlantean man speaking. I am guessing he is a doctor or a med tech, because he comes to check the IV line in my arm—which I notice only now, because again, I have a fully functional arm there, amazing. “Don’t get her agitated, don’t suffocate her, now.”
“Gee Two!” Gracie mutters, raising her head from my chest.
“Finally!” George says. “Welcome back to the world of the living, Gee Two.”
“George . . .” I mumble. “Oh, thank God . . . you made it. What about Gordie?”
“Don’t worry, knucklehead’s here too. He stepped outside to get food. He’s fine.”
I start to smile in relief. “Typical Gordie. . . . So, where are we exactly?”
“We made it! We’re at the National Qualification Center!” Gracie says.
George pats my arm and hand lightly. “Yeah, and the Atlanteans fixed you up real good. See, all perfect.”
“But—” I say. “What about the bullet wound? And the burned hand, I thought it was all ruined—”
“Apparently they have medical technology we can’t even begin to dream of.” George lets go my hand and adjusts the covers around me. “When the L.A. shuttles came in and they brought you in to the NQC, their medical team took you away—”
“They were taking many others too, all the hurt and wounded Candidates who passed the Semi-Finals, hundreds of people—” Gracie interrupts.
“Yeah, and they took you and worked on you for a couple of hours. Then they told us you were sleeping it off.”
“How long?” I lift my hand that was burned to a crisp and look at the healthy skin and muscle and nails, open and close it, flex my perfectly formed fingers, as though nothing had happened to it. “How long was I under?”
“Hmm, let’s see. . . .” Gracie looks around for a wall clock. “It’s close to eight PM now, so it makes it a day plus three hours.”
“A day?” I say. “Wait—”
“The Semi-Finals were yesterday.” George grins.
“I was out for that long?”
“Yeah, well, you needed the rest, so all good.”
I stir some more, and try to sit up weakly, and feel a sudden stabbing head-rush. Immediately the Atlantean medic who is not too far away, returns. “You need to lie back down,” he says calmly. “Just an hour more, and I take out the IV. Then you’re free to move around or sleep it off—your choice.”
“Wow,” I mutter, and sink back on the pillow. And then I stare at my brother and sister. “So, what happened? Tell me everything.”
In the next half an hour, I listen to George and Gracie speak, laboring to keep my eyelids open, even though my mind is clear and hungry for news.
It turns out we’re somewhere in the Eastern Plains of Colorado, or at least we think that’s where the huge National Qualification Center is located. They don’t tell us for sure, and they don’t tell the public, in order to keep all of us precious Finalists safe from any possible terrorist actions or other threats from the turbulent world outside. . . .
The NQC, George tells me, is the size of a goodly city, self-sustaining and completely enclosed from all sides with seventy-five-foot tall impenetrable steel and concrete walls like a fortress. It is supposed to keep us safe for another month until we train and get ready for the Final phase that will determine our Qualification status.
“Right now we’re in the medical building, their hospital, I guess,” George says. “Yesterday as soon as our respective shuttles brought us here, we got sorted into sick and not-so-sick and then assigned to our final dorms. There are only four dorms here, based on the Four Quadrants, and they are huge—I am talking, each one the size of a mall.”
“Oh,” Gracie puts in. “And we also get to have three days off, to rest and heal and whatever, until the new training sessions begin. So we are all just kind of hanging out.”
“Did you—did you have a chance to contact Mom and Dad?” I speak in a faint voice that sounds awful even to me.
George signs, frowning. “No, still not permitted to do that. They have similar firewalls set up here as they did at the RQC, e-dampers everywhere, so we can’t call out. But they tell us the global situation outside is getting rougher every day, riots, et cetera.”
“So we can just imagine the worst,” I whisper.
“No, don’t . . . just, stop!” Gracie says, putting her hand on mine, and immediately I see her eyes begin to glisten with tears.
“You’re right,” I say, immediately, to humor her. “I am sure Mom and Dad are just fine, things aren’t as bad in Vermont as in some of the other places. . . .”
As I speak, George gives me an intense meaningful look, so that I know he knows I’m speaking for Gracie’s sake. Truth is, I have no idea—none of us have any idea how bad things are, and whether our parents are even alive. . . .
We mutually change the subject, and George and Gracie tell me more things.
Apparently George chose New York for his Semi-Finals, and so did Gordie. They had different kinds of hot zones there, and most of their difficulties involved tall buildings, skyscraper high rises, and crazy vertical flying.
“Then, good thing we went with L.A.,” Gracie says. “Because we both suck when it comes to dealing with heights.”
“Oh, yeah,” George says with a light smile. “I really can’t see the two of you handling a few of the circus trapeze things they made us do in New York City—and I hear it was just as bad for those Candies who picked Chicago. They also had to walk tightropes across buildings and run on narrow ledges in the high winds—”
In that moment Gordie shows up. He’s chewing a sandwich and carrying a drink and a bag of chips. “Hey, Gee Two, you awake!” he mumbles with his mouth full and a sloppy smile, and then comes in closer to bop me on the shoulder, dropping a bunch of chips on the blanket covering me.
“Oh,” I say. “Look who showed up! Gee Three, good to see you, little bro!”
We chat and I take a peek closer, to see that Gordie’s old facial bruise has healed completely—turns out he was slightly hurt during Semi-Finals, his face scratched up by knives and grazed by a bullet, so he too got taken into the hospital and received medical treatment that incidentally also cured his older bruise.
“There’s a huge machine, like one of those full body scanners,” Gordie says, swallowing, then slurping the drink. “You lie down on it, they cover the glass top, and some blue and purple lights go on and there’s this light buzzing sound. . . . You get a little dizzy, and maybe zone out or sleep for a few seconds . . . and the next thing you know, you are all healed! Like, my face got fixed completely, skin and everything, no scars. Nothing hurts. Pretty slick!” And Gordie’s grinning. “I bet it’s the same machine they put you in, to fix you too and reconstruct your hand. They have dozens of them. . . .”
I reach out with my brand new reconstructed fingers to touch Gordie’s cheek. “You look good, Gee Three.”
And then I remember sud
denly, and with amazement at my own self, at how I could’ve even forgotten. “Hey! Who else made it? Oh, lord, please tell me that you saw other people we know! Laronda! Dawn! Logan! Hasmik? Who else? Anyone?”
“Hmm,” George says. “Well, I can tell you your friend Laronda made it, because she came by to check on you when you were asleep. So, yeah, Laronda’s here.”
“Thank God!”
“Yeah, and relax, Logan is here too!” Gracie laughs and tickles me lightly. “He came by this morning. I was here and George was not. He said he’s okay and to tell you he will be by again later. He looked way tired but not hurt—at least not so much that he had to be put in that medical machine.”
A great weight suddenly lifts from me, and I exhale in relief.
Logan made it!
“Oh, and let me think, I am pretty sure there are a few more people we know from our RQC, there’s Greg Chee and Charlie Venice from Red, and I think I saw your other friend Dawn Williams, though not sure—”
“What about that other guy?” Gordie says, loudly crunching a handful of chips he stuffs in his mouth. “You know, that Atlantean a-hole. You said he came by.”
“What?” I mumble.
“Oh, yeah,” Gracie says. “The Phoebos guy, he was here too. Came in first thing this morning, looked at you for a few minutes, said nothing, and left. I was passed out in the chair near your bed and barely noticed him, he was so quiet—kind of creepy.”
My mind is suddenly in turmoil. I turn my head and frown, thinking. So, Aeson Kass came to see how I am doing. . . . Strange.
Or maybe, not so strange. I suppose he has to make sure I’m okay, with my precious Logos voice and whatever it means for them. Not to mention, he has to keep tabs on a potential terrorist. Because, yeah, that’s still hanging over my head.
“He did pull us into the shuttle at the last minute, Gracie,” I mumble. “We should be grateful. Makes sense he’d check in on us.”
“Oh, he definitely came in to check up on you. I don’t think he even noticed me.”
“Well, yeah.” George pats me on the arm again. “She’s his special project with the super duper voice.”
“Teacher’s pet,” Gordie teases.
“He’s not my teacher, and I am definitely not his pet,” I say, raising my voice and finding it steady for the first time. My irritation apparently gives me strength. “I think I’m like an investment of some sort. Besides, he can’t stand me.”
George raises one brow meaningfully and looks away.
“Hey!” I say, slapping the covers with one hand. “What’s that eyebrow thing supposed to mean, Gee One?”
“Nothing.” George shrugs. “I don’t know, whatever.”
“Just, well, you know,” Gracie says. “He does seem to spend an awful amount of time dealing with you, considering he’s one of their top VIPs.”
“I told you, he’s invested in my voice,” I mutter angrily. “They need my voice for whatever reason. So he’s keeping tabs on me. Furthermore, I am still under major suspicion for that shuttle sabotage incident—or have you guys forgotten? These Atlanteans are not just going to let it slide, there is going to be permanent surveillance and inquests until they find the real guilty party.”
“Yeah, you’re right, sorry.” Gracie looks down on the bed covers near my arm and smoothes the edges of the sheet. “Didn’t mean to tease you. Besides, the guy’s too intense and scary to joke about.”
“It’s okay, Gee Four. And yeah, well, he’s just military. I actually don’t blame him for being suspicious, it’s his job.”
We talk some more about other things, speculate about what’s to come in the next four weeks, and who else survived the Semi-Finals. Meanwhile I feel my strength slowly coming back. . . . By the end of the hour when the Atlantean med tech comes to remove my IV line, I am strong enough to sit up in bed and have some yogurt and ginger ale.
Just before ten PM lights-out, Logan Sangre comes to see me. My brothers and Gracie tactfully make themselves scarce and leave us alone in the room, exchanging little smiles.
Logan stands before me, pausing momentarily near the privacy curtain. The low light falls on the lean hollow planes of his cheeks and jaw, highlighting every perfect feature. My heart once again constricts painfully at the sight of him, the fall of his super-dark brown hair, the way his warm hazel eyes seem to be full of sweet honey as he looks at me. . . .
And then comes his heart-stopping smile.
“Logan!” I exclaim, and almost drop my cup of ginger ale.
Thankfully he moves in, just in time to intercept me, takes the cup out of my trembling fingers and sets it aside. He then puts his strong hands around me in an embrace that is hard and gentle at the same time. With a kind of wonder he sweeps my messed-up hair aside, strokes my cheek, and suddenly he is kissing me. . . .
And all at once, I am bursting with wildness. . . . My pulse is racing, and warm electricity mixed with languid weakness fills me as I sink back against the pillow and let him touch me, let him do to me whatever it is we’re doing that makes me forget where I am and who I am and why.
We come apart gasping for air, our lips bruised and sweet and desperate for more.
“That’s enough. . . . You need some rest, Gwen,” he whispers in my ear, then ruins the effect of his own words and kisses me deeply again, on the lips, then on the neck, rubs his face against me, skin to skin, his faint stubble sending more electric pangs coursing through me.
He is breathing fast and his eyes are very, very dark when he finally moves away while I lie trembling, like a puddle of flesh and no bones.
“I didn’t know what I’d do if you didn’t make the Semi-Finals,” he says, looking into my eyes.
“Same here,” I whisper. “But then, I always knew you’d make it.”
He smiles, shakes his head slightly. “You always have such amazing faith in me.”
“How was New York? I heard it was pretty bad.”
“Oh yeah, terrifying.” He makes a short tired laugh sound. “Same goes for L.A., I hear. I also hear stories about a certain Shoelace Girl saving the day multiple times. They say, if it hadn’t been for you, most of the California Candies in La La Land would not have passed the hot zones or the Semi-Finals.”
I make a sound that’s halfway between a snort and a cough. At least it gets my mind off Logan’s sensual proximity.
“How do you feel?” he says.
“Better. Definitely. And I have hands and arms.” I smile. “And you—you look perfect, as always.”
“Oh, boy. . . .” He cringes slightly and I find that he is actually blushing. “No, I had a few scratches—nothing serious that some Atlantean meds wouldn’t fix. They have some amazing tech there, you know? Very interesting stuff.”
And I am momentarily reminded that Logan has his eyes on things in his clandestine ops capacity.
We talk some more, but the mood is gone because I am suddenly very tired.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he tells me at last, seeing my drooping eyelids. “Now, sleep!”
And with a brush of his hand against my cheek he is gone.
In the morning I am up early, after a great night of sleep. I am issued a fresh new uniform and armband, receive back my yellow ID token, and Gracie is there to see me as I am discharged from the hospital building.
“Come on, I’ll take you to your Yellow Quadrant dorm, you’ll need to check in,” she tells me, as we walk through the long sterile corridors of the building with pastel walls and medical personnel wearing grey uniforms and Atlantean four-color armbands.
Outside, the skies are cornflower blue and the morning air crisp. The wind blows in from the plains, and I stand staring at the sheer immensity of the compound I am in.
When George called it a whole city, he wasn’t kidding. Large buildings stretch for blocks in all directions, all multi-story, each bearing a color square designation of some sort. I see rows and rows of connected mall-like structures marked with s
quares that are color solids. And each long structure is interspersed by another that is designated as common area by its four-color square logo.
Candidates, guards, and other compound workers are everywhere, walking from building to building. There are even occasional vehicles that look like patrol cars or delivery vans. The Candies are all mostly aimless like myself and Gracie, wandering around, staring in curiosity around them, while the guards and workers move with a purpose. There are far more Atlanteans in this NQC compound than back at our Pennsylvania RQC-3.
“You’re gonna need a map,” Gracie tells me, taking my arm, as I stand gaping. “Don’t worry, it’s pretty overwhelming, I know, plus you are still a little woozy.”
“No, I’m not,” I retort, with a light smile. “I am just taking it all in.”
“Okay, see how this whole row of linked buildings is all marked with a square red logo?” Gracie points. “That’s the Red Quadrant Dorm. That whole thing. It stretches at least two miles down the line.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, I know. . . . And next you get the building row with the rainbow logo, the one with the hospital we just left, that’s the Common Area number One—one of three such. After it, you’ll see yet another long dorm, that’s the Blue. Then another CA, number Two, then the Green dorm, and another CA, number Three, and finally, your Yellow Dorm. Each one is like two miles long. It kind of blows your mind.”
I shake my head, snorting.
“Every teen in the United States of America who will Qualify is being housed in this place right now,” Gracie exclaims. “Isn’t it wild? And they say every country in the world has a similar NQC for their Candies. Though I bet ours is bigger.”
“Not as big as China’s, I bet,” I say. “Or even United Industan.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re right.” Gracie giggles. “They must have four or five times as many people as we do. . . .”
As Gracie continues to chatter with a mix of nerves and excitement, we walk along the wide thoroughfare street area between buildings, until we reach a glassed-in walkway inside the CA-1 structure. The walkway allows us to cut in perpendicularly through the miles-long structure, since there is no easy way of walking around it, and we end up on the next street and across from the next dorm structure which is Blue Quadrant Dorm.