“I don’t know,” I say in a wooden voice. “I don’t know how I managed. I think no one knows, not when it’s happening. You just do what you can, that’s all.”
“Brave words of wisdom, Gwen, very well said.” The anchor nods. “And yet, the question remains for many of our viewers—how is it that you came up with so many clever solutions to what seemed to be impossible problems?”
“They weren’t, not really . . . clever, I mean. They were actually kind of crazy and not even well thought out. Stupid, you might say.” I pause, feeling like a fool before an audience of millions. “But—with all factors put together, they worked—for the circumstances. It’s like—you know that old myth about the bee? That, according to ‘physics,’ a bumblebee is not ‘aerodynamic’ enough, is not supposed to be able to fly—it just does because it doesn’t know any better? Well, that’s all nonsense. A bumblebee flies just fine! It flies according to physical laws, only different ones, because it itself is different, using other complex variables for its flight method—for example, something called ‘dynamic stall’ comes into play. . . . Anyway, what I did wasn’t clever but kind of all over the place, using everything at my disposal . . . like the bee. It’s like—if you move fast enough and just the right way—if you do some things quickly and desperately enough, hoping they don’t have time to fall apart on you—you can make the seemingly impossible happen. And it’s not ‘before it knows any better.’ It’s before the whole unstable construct falls apart. Move fast enough and you can walk on water. . . .”
The anchor claps his hands, nodding at me with a brilliant smile. I’ve just babbled him to death, but he is loving it.
“Gwen Lark, I had no idea you’re such a wonderful science geek! Whatever you just said there—wow! You must get straight A’s at school, am I right?”
I blush, feeling my cheeks start to burn. “Yeah, mostly,” I mutter.
“Aha!” the anchor exclaims. “No wonder you came up with all these wild solutions! Tell me, and our audience, do you think these are the exact specific qualities that the Atlanteans are looking for? Because it’s still the big question—what do the Atlanteans want? Someone like you? A clever bright young lady who can solve tough problems?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I think they want people who don’t give up. Because that’s the only way to Qualify. And if you give up—you don’t.”
The anchor asks me a couple more specific questions and I answer. And then, “Well, Gwen, I must say it was a delight, so glad we caught up with you here at the National Qualification Center. Your parents must be so proud! I’m sure they’re watching. Would you like to say something to them before you go?”
My heart, my breath, my pulse, everything goes into overdrive. I gulp, and a lump begins to gather in my throat. “Yes!” I say in a mad rush of joy. “Mom, Dad, we are all okay! Gracie, George, Gordie, we are here and we made it! Please stay safe! Love you always!”
And then I am done.
I get off the media platform and Logan waits for me. I am shaking slightly from the nerves, the emotional overload, so he takes my hand, and we walk away down the street where I lean over the side of a building to get a grip on things.
“Okay,” I say. “Logan, thank you. Admittedly, I wanted to kill you at first, for putting me on the spot. But then I got it, I know why you did it. . . . It gave me a chance to say something to my parents, something that might actually get to them. At least now they’ll know we’re okay, at least for the moment!”
He smiles lightly, and his fingers run up my wrist and arm. “You’re welcome. I figured this was a good opportunity for you.”
And then I tell him about Gracie.
Immediately our light mood changes.
“Come on, let’s walk,” he says.
And once we’re on the move, we discuss, in quiet careful voices.
In a nutshell, Logan tells me to keep it quiet. Not a word to anyone else.
“Not even George?” I ask, with a grim expression.
He shakes his head. “If George knows nothing, he can be perfectly honest if he ever has to deny something—if he gets questioned.”
“Do you think that might happen again? Didn’t they question all of us like half a dozen times?”
Logan’s hazel eyes watch me seriously. “Anything can happen. Incidentally, have you seen Command Pilot Aeson Kass recently?”
“Not since the Semi-Finals.”
“If you see him again—which I have a feeling you will—be very careful. Because now you are in a position to lie. Your sister’s unfortunate confession has just made you a knowing party to her actions.”
“I don’t care about that,” I say. “I care about Gracie and keeping her safe!”
“I know you do. But what I’m saying is, you will now have to lie, and he will see right through you.”
I frown.
“Gwen,” he says gently. “You are not the best liar. . . .”
“And you are?”
“Better than you.” And suddenly he smiles cockily at me.
I punch his arm with a loose fist. But he catches it, and holds my fingers, stroking them until a jolt of warm electricity travels down my arm.
Chapter 43
That night I dream about being seven or eight years old again. It’s a warm spring day and our parents have taken George and me to the Huntington Gardens in San Marino, California. Little Gordie and Gracie are with a babysitter, while we get to spend the day walking through amazing gardens and staring at paintings in the gallery.
As dream logic goes, I wander and somehow end up alone in the gallery room that houses the two most famous paintings at the Huntington. “Pinkie” painted by Thomas Lawrence hangs in a great hall directly facing, on the opposite wall, “The Blue Boy” by Thomas Gainsborough. The two Thomases painted their unrelated subjects years apart, and yet they seem to have a magical emotional connection, and fit together like a mated pair. . . .
I know, I am just a kid. . . . But that’s the kind of kid I was—staring at art was fun, and I remember being in awe at the fact that I was in the same room with them, like being in the presence of two classical celebrities.
And now, in this dream, I look up, and Pinkie, whose real name is Sarah Barrett Moulton, looks down at me from the distance of the eighteenth century. Only, her face changes and now she is a different Sarah . . . she is Sarah Thornwald and her open eyes are stilled in death and accusation. . . . And when I turn around in sudden terror, feeling a ghostly prickling on my back, there’s The Blue Boy—only now he’s the Blue girl whom I killed, and the Blue girl is watching me, looking at me with an absence of life, of sight, an empty vacuum that is somehow more terrifying than intensity. . . .
The morning claxon alarms peal and I am torn away from the terror—I wake up, and it is 7:00 AM, the first day of training here at the NQC, and I am lying in a cot, and somewhere out there an asteroid is blazing through space on its way to end the world.
The horrible dream is gone, only its ugly sickening residue remains.
And the grim reality.
The Candidates assigned to Section Fourteen—both from the girls’ and boys’ dormitory floors—are called to gather on the first floor in a lounge area that’s similar to the Pennsylvania RQC-3. Except this so-called common lounge is just one small part of the miles-long “airport terminal” portion of the huge Yellow Quadrant Dorm structure.
Our Section Leaders stand ready to explain our final four-week training here at the NQC. I recognize only some of them as Dorm Leaders from the other Yellow Dorms, but feel relief to see two out of three of our own Yellow Dorm Eight DLs, Gina Curtis and Mark Foster. However, the third DL, John Nicolard, is not here, because apparently he did not make it through the Semi-Finals. . . . The sobering news hits home again, a reminder of the precariousness of all our positions here.
Section Leader Carlos Villa blows the whistle to call us to order—and at the same time we hear numerous ot
her such whistles going off all through the endless lounge terminals, as other Sections get ready to be briefed.
“Attention, Section Fourteen!” Carlos says in a loud strong voice. He is a large muscular guy with dark hair and prominent biceps. We crowd around him and the other Section Fourteen Leaders, at the same time as we throw nervous glances at each other, to see who else of us is here, who made it, whom do we recognize. . . .
Who, from Pennsylvania RQC-3, is still left in the running.
I stand next to Dawn, Hasmik, Laronda, and the guys—Tremaine, Mateo, Jai. Looking around, I see several other familiar faces of Yellows. Yes, there’s Claudia, and unfortunately I see the familiar tattooed thick neck belonging to creepy Derek Sunder, before he turns around and notices me and gives me a cynical stare. So, Derek, the A-list a-hole, made it. And so did Wade Ruthers apparently, and a few others of the alpha bullies.
On the other hand, I see in the back of our Section crowd the familiar wheelchair, and then get a glimpse of sloppy dark brown hair mostly covering a boy’s eyes.
Blayne! Blayne Dubois made it!
I am stunned. . . . I am also so unbelievably happy all of a sudden, as if a dark burden has lifted from me, one I didn’t even know was there. It occurs to me that, despite all the time spent together, all the hours of specialized training, and seeing how well he was progressing, I never quite had enough faith in Blayne, never expected him to make it this far. And the ugly doubt had been there in the back of my mind, causing my time with him to seem surreal and doomed—in my own stupid head.
And now, Blayne has proven me wrong, and I am so full of “happy” that I am ready to burst.
I start to edge toward him, and wave my hand enthusiastically, but Blayne does not see me through the crowd. And besides, Laronda pulls me on the uniform sleeve, because the Section Leader is telling us important stuff and I should be paying attention.
“Listen up, everyone!” Carlos continues. “You are all here because you have proved yourself capable of basic survival. And now the final stage begins where you train twice as hard to prove that you meet the advanced criteria for Qualification. Let me warn you in advance, it’s going to be brutal. The Finals will take place four weeks from now, at an undisclosed location, and in that time you will have continued your training in Combat, Agility, Atlantis Culture, Atlantis Tech, and a fifth additional track which will involve Water Survival and Swimming.”
Waves of stressed whispers travel the crowded space, as Candidates take in this latest news. I can hear people around me start to groan.
“Oh, no . . .” Hasmik says. “I cannot swim very well!”
“You’re not alone, girl,” Tremaine mutters. “I think this brother’s gonna sink.”
“Come on, man, don’t say that,” Jai replies. “We’re gonna learn, we’ll get better, we have four weeks!” I glance at Jai and notice that his ever-present smile has been toned down recently. Jai looks existentially tired these days, and I think I like him better that way. No more jolly smiling serial killer vibe.
Carlos Villa turns to another Section Leader. This one is Shontae Smith, an older brown-skinned teen with a do-rag on his head, who picks up and continues: “You will attend five classes every day. And yeah, your schedules will be scanned every morning as previously. But the big difference is, this time you’re all working in teams. Let me repeat that, you will be divided into teams for a lot of the stuff you have to do! There will be some tasks you do on your own, but others will be counted as group tasks. So yeah, that means that there will be group credit and individual credit. Now, you might wonder what kind of teams I’m talking about. Wonder no more—your Section is your Team! Let me repeat that—your Section, Section Fourteen is your Team! Congratulations, you are now officially Yellow Quadrant Team Fourteen!”
“Great.” Laronda looks at us and rolls her eyes. “I always wanted to be drafted.”
“Furthermore,” Shontae says, “you all will be assigned points. Each one of you gets one hundred starting points. In order to pass the Finals, you will need to have over one hundred points at the end of the Finals Day.”
Carlos speaks again. “Now, let me explain points. Starting today, every Candidate is assigned points that can be reduced with demerits, or increased with credits, at the discretion of your Instructors, for the four weeks of training. You can check your points total every day when you get your ID tokens scanned. That sum total is what you take with you into the Finals. And you will have the chance to earn additional points during the actual Finals competition. However, during the Finals, your accumulated points become your personal property. You can decide to keep them all in order to Qualify. Or, you can share them with others—let’s say, if you have more than enough. For example, a portion of your points, or the entirety, can be transferred to the team as a whole or to other individual team members.”
Hands shoot up. “What does that mean, exactly?” a boy asks.
“It means, that during Finals, your remaining points are to do with as you please. More details will be given on the day. But for now you need to be aware how important these points are. And you also need to know that your fellow team members and their Qualification chances are important too, and there is a team score that will make a final difference to your fate.”
“Sounds insanely complicated,” Dawn whispers to us.
Laronda again rolls her eyes and puts up her hand. “Girl, don’t even begin. I am trying to tune out most of this baloney right now before I go craaaaay-zee.”
Section Leader Gina Curtis—our own former DL—picks up where the others leave off. “Okay, now we need to talk about Water Survival and Swimming, or Water SAS for short as we’ve come to call it. There are three huge, twice as long as Olympic-size and extra-wide swimming pools located in each of the Common Area structures. Your Water SAS classes will be held there, and during Homework Hour you may practice swimming there. You may also practice swimming in the smaller pools that are located in all the dorms—up to you, first come, first served. Your Instructors will give you more info on that in class. If you have any questions, come talk to any one of us later, individually. And now, we’re done! Please get your ID tokens scanned for your daily schedules. Your first class starts in fifteen minutes!”
Fifteen minutes later, I am standing at the edge of a truly immense and long pool located inside the CA-3 structure. Yeah, lucky me, I got Water SAS as my first class, and none of my friends did. . . .
The pool is rippling gently, throwing off pale aqua shadows against tiles, and the enclosed roof overhead is a translucent ceiling many feet above, letting in a diluted amount of sunshine through tempered shaded glass.
About forty more Candidates are gathered here, and we are all wearing unisex swimming trunks, with the addition of tank tops for the girls. No pretty swimsuits or bikinis here. We grab whatever we’re given in the back of the hall at the showers and lockers section. And what we’re given is this plain grey colored stuff, probably made of the same orichalcum fabric as our regular uniforms.
Our Instructor is a tall willowy Atlantean with the usual metallic gold hair who introduces himself as Qurume Ateni. However, his blond mane is gathered behind him in a tight multi-segmented ponytail that resembles a loose braid.
“Good morning!” he tells us in a pleasant tenor voice, getting right down to business. “First thing you must do is put your hair up if it’s long. Tie it, braid it, do whatever you need to get it out of your face. Otherwise you will end up tangled in your own seaweed.”
So, I think, the guy has a sense of humor. That’s a first.
“What about swimming caps?” a younger girl with long blond waves asks.
Qurume glances at her and raises one dark brow. “What about them? There are a few swimming caps available in the back, but not for people with hair as long as yours. Get it tied, or better yet, get it shaved. In fact, shave every square inch of your body, and then come back here when you’re sufficiently aerodynamic.”
&n
bsp; “No!” the girl exclaims with a frightened look.
“Relax,” the Atlantean says. “You can do absolutely nothing and still take this class.” And then he winks at her with a shadow smile.
Yes, this guy definitely has a sense of humor.
“First thing we’ll do today is discover how well you can swim. You will simply do a lap all the way down the length of this pool. The pool stretches for one hundred meters, so there’s plenty of time for you to collapse and drown and clear out a lane for the next person.”
“Jeez, what a jerk . . .” someone whispers behind me.
I turn and there’s Zoe! She’s standing right behind me, and smiling. I instantly flash back to Los Angeles, and my mouth parts, and my jaw probably drops.
I am so insanely glad to see her. . . . But because I pause and freeze like a dork, Zoe cranes her head and whispers, “Gwen! Remember me, Zoe? It’s Zoe Blatt!”
“Zoe!” I whisper back. “Of course! I am so glad you’re okay, you made it!”
“Yeah, me too!”
Meanwhile the Instructor continues talking, ignoring our loud whispers even though I am pretty sure he heard us. “As you can see, there are twelve lanes. You will enter the pool twelve people at a time, so please line up before each starting block.” He pauses, and this time he throws Zoe and me a sarcastic glance, then moves on to extend the disdain to the rest of us.
“As far as swimming stroke,” he continues, “do whatever you can. Use whatever style you feel most comfortable with. Or don’t. I am just as interested in observing you at your worst stroke possible, even if it is your only one. Which is to say, I am not interested at all, but here we are. . . . You must swim and I must teach you.”
The Atlantean’s mouth quivers and he maintains his deadpan expression.
A few minutes later we’re all splashing in the water.
And then for the rest of the hour we do some long, boring freestyle laps to build endurance. Qurume walks along the edges of the pool, back and forth, and looks at us closely, giving occasional form and breathing advice and comments, which turn out to be very astute.