I wake up with a start, just before dawn, and get dressed in the dark, pull my hair into a messy ponytail, then slip out and downstairs, then outside.
The sky is turning to pale silver on the eastern edges, as I quickly walk through the street. Soon, my walk turns into a jog. I run in the crisp dawn air, and in about fifteen minutes I am back at the farthest end of CA-2.
It’s just after 6:00 AM. . . . Should I risk checking the airfield first? His shuttle might be landing soon.
Or maybe I need to head directly to the offices and wait at the door of Office #7. . . .
I grow still for a few instants of painful indecision. And then I decide not to waste any time and head directly to the airfield.
Around the corner, the CA-2 structure ends. Immediately beyond the building is an open street space and then the endless row of hangars begin, interrupted only every hundred feet or so with alley passageways between each structure. On the other side of the hangars, the airfield stretches into an immense paved expanse fading in the distance into a tall imposing wall that marks the edges of the NQC compound.
I pause again, considering my next move. Should I linger here and watch for his arrival, or advance forward and walk through the hangars?
To my luck, as I watch the lightening skies, already I can see several Atlantean shuttles approaching. They fall from heaven—grey pinpoint specks that resolve into vaguely oval saucer shapes—and their purple plasma underbellies glitter like cabochon jewels.
Please be on one of them, please be on one of them, I chant silently.
I walk quickly forward, moving through the narrow walkway space between two nearest hangars, past a solitary guard who glances at me but does not stop me.
The first of the shuttles lands, then hovers lightly several feet above the ground, but does not pull inside the hangar. It is one of the smaller models, exactly like the one I entered on that fateful day of the sabotage explosion. . . .
I hold my breath, clutching my fingers until my knuckles are bloodless with tension.
This has to be his, I tell myself. It’s the one closest to his office. It would make sense he would park it here.
The shuttle hatch opens and the auto-stairs descend. It’s open in the opposing side facing the airfield, so all I can see are booted feet descending, then someone coming around.
A man emerges, and I can see long metallic blond hair, but it is not he—the armband is red, and the face, when he turns toward me, is Atlantean but unfamiliar. Meanwhile more people descend, and I stare as two pairs of booted feet come down.
The next one is a woman, also Atlantean, tall, slender, typically beautiful, but not anyone I have seen before. She wears a green armband.
The third man is Aeson Kass.
My heart does a very painful, hard, extreme lurch, so that my throat closes up, and at the same time it feels like I am going into cardiac arrest. . . .
I see him come around, with his usual controlled and confident posture. I see the crisp lines of his uniform, the fall of his pale metallic hair, and the half-turned lean jaw-line with its hollowed cheeks and darkness of kohl-outlined lapis-blue eyes and dark brows.
Once again the crazy myth-thought comes to me, he is Phoebos Apollo descended from the skies in his divine chariot. . . .
And then Phoebos raises his face and looks directly at me.
For a moment he pauses.
And then his face becomes like stone, and he walks toward me.
At the same time I start to race toward him, meeting him halfway from the hangar to the shuttle. And then I stop right before him, breathing hard, and I know my eyes, my expression, it is absolutely crazed, wild. . . .
“Command Pilot Kass!” I exclaim. “Please, I must speak to you! It is urgent! It is about my sister—”
“Candidate Lark.” His cool voice interrupts me. “I received your message.”
“Oh, thank God!” I find that I am trembling.
“We’ll talk in my office.”
Aeson nods to the other two Atlanteans, curtly acknowledges the guard’s greeting, and begins to walk quickly toward the CA-2 building. I hurry at his side, barely able to keep up with his long stride.
We move in absolute silence, crossing the short distance to the offices, and he never once looks at me but stares directly ahead, while I throw quick desperate glances at him, and also say nothing.
It’s as if, for some reason, all of a sudden, cat’s got my tongue. . . .
We walk through the front area lobby, past the guard—a different one—who buzzes the security glass door open as soon as he recognizes Aeson Kass. I follow him, almost stumbling on the anti-static floor mat because I am not watching my feet.
At the doors of Office #7, Aeson takes out a key card and opens the door.
“Come,” he tells me, flipping on the overhead lights. I see basic office space with various consoles similar to what he had back in Pennsylvania, except there is no lounge area here, nowhere to sit but his one high-backed chair behind a wide desk. The console panels line the walls behind him. It’s basically a desk inside a machine room.
I take a step inside.
“Close the door,” he says.
I do as I’m told, and then turn toward him and stand with my hands at my sides, shaking with fine tremors. My hands—what a horrible betrayal of me. . . .
I am suddenly terrified.
Aeson Kass goes to his desk and sits down in the chair. He leans forward, puts his hands on the desk surface, palms down.
What surprises me, in that surreal moment of intensity, is that I can sense he is tense also, by the way he holds his hands—straight, composed, under such an excess of control.
Too much control.
“Speak,” he says. And he looks directly at me.
I begin to talk. Strange halting words come out of me, stumbling phrases. . . . Logic out of order . . . a torrent. “My sister Gracie—Grace Lark—she is only twelve, and she is an idiot. I mean, a complete little fool, trying to impress a boy. She did not mean—she is just a kid who screwed up, was part of a prank that went horribly wrong—no, okay, I mean she wasn’t really part of it, of anything. She just made the wrong decision, and she is completely innocent—”
“Innocent?” Aeson Kass interrupts me and his voice cuts like a blade. “Innocent implies true ignorance. I reviewed the circumstances of her case just now, and she knew exactly what she was doing. Her Disqualification is the direct result of her criminal action.”
“But she is just a stupid little twelve year old girl! A kid! I swear to you, she did not mean to harm anyone!” I exclaim, and my voice starts to lose its resilience. . . . I feel a painful lump gathering, and I know that in seconds I am going to crack, and I am going to bawl. “That chip—she only handled it after getting it from someone else—someone who was really responsible! She dropped it in Laronda Aimes’s pocket, and she didn’t even think how much trouble it would cause for everyone. Can’t you see that it was not malice? It was not intentional! You cannot Disqualify her for something like that! She does not deserve such—”
“Do you know how many other teens—kids just as young as your sister, and far more deserving—have been Disqualified already, when they simply did not pass the Semi-Finals? And what about all those millions of younger children who did not meet the age requirements for Qualification? Or the older ones? Or the rest of the adult population of your Earth? What have any of them done to deserve being excluded from rescue and left behind to die?” Aeson speaks with measured precision. His eyes are tragic.
“No one deserves to die!” I say in a voice that ends on a whisper. “And yes, I know. I know exactly what you’re saying. But—this is my sister. Do you understand? All justice, all fairness, all comparisons can go flying out the window! Because I don’t care. All I know is, I am not going to let my sister go, and I will do whatever it takes to save her!”
He looks at me silently, and the intensity between us is unimaginable
.
“I am sorry,” he says. “There is nothing that can be done. She is Disqualified and she is returning home.”
“No,” I say, and my voice rises in strength. “I do not accept that.”
But as soon as I speak, I can feel it—a prickling sensation along the surface of my skin—I can tell something is different.
There is something definitely strange going on. . . . My voice, it sounds tangible somehow. As though the acoustics of it cause a ripple in the air and a reverb in the walls.
Aeson Kass frowns. He then turns his head slightly, while his gaze remains locked on mine. It’s a strange automatic response, as if he’s shaking off an invisible touch. . . .
“Candidate Lark, what did you just do?”
I frown. “I—what?”
“You just used a compelling power voice on me?” he says, in amazement and rising anger.
“I don’t know what you mean!”
“Oh, I think you do.”
And suddenly I do remember, from one of the earliest Atlantis Culture classes—the discussion of various power voices and how they could be used, among other things, to compel others, and how that was considered unethical, not to mention was highly illegal in Atlantis culture.
Aeson Kass narrows his eyes, and his expression closes off completely. “This has gone far enough. We’re done.” He gets up from his chair and stands before me, pointing to the door.
That’s when I begin to tremble. . . . Suddenly I am so light-headed, so impossibly numb with despair. My breathing becomes so shallow that I cannot hear it. At the same time, those same helpless, disgusting, pathetic tears start flowing down my face, and I am doing it—bawling in front of him in great big shuddering sobs.
At the sight of it, he blinks. I know him enough by now to know that it is his one and only “tell”—a crack in his perfect armor, an expression of vulnerability. A single blink.
“I am truly sorry,” he says quietly.
I continue choking on my tears, and raise my hands to wipe my disgusting face with my sleeves.
“There is also something else,” he continues in a strange voice. “Because of this unfortunate incident with your sister coming to light, you are now formally cleared of all charges. . . . There are no more suspicions regarding your actions in this. Therefore, I owe you an apology.”
I stop crying. And suddenly I look up. My expression is probably crazed—or blazing—or what you want to call it. “No,” I say. “You owe me a life.”
He blinks again. And then he takes a step toward me.
“That is true . . .” he says softly.
“I saved you from that burning shuttle,” I say in a wooden voice drained of all emotion, only driven by single-minded focus.
“Yes. . . .”
“So you owe me! A life for a life! Give me my sister’s life!”
He exhales suddenly.
I stare up at him, breathing fast, waiting.
There is a long pause. . . .
“Okay,” he says unexpectedly, and then returns to his desk. He pushes forward one of the mech arms that extends a console-and-monitor unit, lowering it over his desk surface. And observing the screen, he starts keying in something.
“The Atlantis Central Agency has Disqualified your sister and removed her Candidacy—the entirety of her ID data and all her current points as of yesterday. I cannot reverse the decision, not even with my level of authority, but I can try to reinstate her ID. Grace Lark will be given a new blank ID token and there will be nothing on it, only her name and basic background, vital stats, and residency.”
“What—what does that mean?” I whisper.
“It means—” He looks up at me with a serious expression. “It means Grace Lark will have to earn her place from scratch. She will be a ‘new’ Candidate, with no points and no history. She will be allowed to remain at the National Qualification Center and attend training classes. She will be allowed to participate in the Finals, but without any starting points going in.”
“Oh, but then I can give her my points!” I exclaim with a burst of relief.
Aeson Kass shakes his head. “No. You will not be permitted to transfer your points to Grace Lark. It is one thing I will not allow. In fact, I will set a safeguard on your ID, so that you will be unable to do that—so that you don’t throw your own life away in exchange for hers.”
“But what if I choose to do that, for her?” I exclaim, as the horrible despair returns.
“I do not permit it,” he says. “We need you and your voice—on behalf of Atlantis.”
“But it is my choice!”
“Not entirely—not if your choice affects far more than you or your sister.”
I stare at him, stunned.
He in turn watches me with a careful, unreadable expression.
“But—” I say, as outrage starts to build. “I don’t understand! How can you tell me what I can or cannot do with my own life? Don’t you have a heart? What about basic human compassion? Have you no clue what it’s like to stand by and not help your own family—the people you most care about—when you absolutely have the means to do it?”
As I speak, I notice his face takes on a strange new expression. I simply don’t know what it is, don’t understand it . . . maybe it is not human after all.
He is not human.
“Are you finished?” he says after a terrible pause. His voice has grown low, and very soft, like the slither of a serpent. Its chill makes the fine hairs on my skin stand up in goose bumps.
But like a stupid fool who doesn’t know when to stop, I take a step, nearing his desk, and lean forward and exclaim, completing my humiliation entirely, “Please! I’ll do anything you want me to do! Anything! Just let me help her! Look, I am begging you! Anything you want! Take it! Tell me if there’s anything I can do, anything I have that I can give you. . . ?” At this point, even I am not sure what it is I am saying, what it is I am offering him in my desperation. . . .
We face each other at close proximity, our gazes locked in intensity.
“You have nothing,” he says suddenly, and a faint line of derision comes to his lips. “There is nothing you have that I want.”
Once again I am stunned. “What about my Logos voice?”
“Your voice has value for Atlantis, which is already a given. If you Qualify, we have you.” He pauses, and again there’s that fine subcurrent of disdain. “I thought you were offering something for me.”
“I—” My words trail off.
He is right, what am I saying?
“Look,” he says in a milder tone, after that unbearable pause during which my mind is reeling. “You got what you wanted, Lark. I reinstated your sister, and she has a fair chance of earning back most if not all of her points. Under the circumstances, it is absolutely the best I can do for her—or for you. In fact, I think you should be grateful right now. What do you say?”
I exhale, as general numbness returns, and I am suddenly worn out, depleted completely, emotionally wrung out. There is nothing of me left here, nothing to offer, nothing to barter with. . . . He is right.
“Thank you,” I say.
He nods. “I am glad this is resolved. In the next hour your sister will be discharged, and her belongings returned to her dorm.”
“For real?”
“Yes. Now I strongly recommend you get back to your own dorm and schedule. Strange as it may seem, I have other things to deal with than Lark family drama.”
I nod, then mutter something that sounds like “Okay.”
He watches me as I turn around and move to the door. Just before I step outside, he says, “Before you go—we need to continue your regular voice training. Be here tomorrow night at eight.”
Startled, I glance again at him. “But—I thought you have other things to do?”
“Lark,” he says. “Just be here at eight.”
Chapter 46
On my way back I run into George halfway between the
Atlantean offices in CA-2 and Yellow Quadrant Dorm Section Fourteen.
George looks like he’s been pulled out of bed, or else he hadn’t been to sleep at all, his dark hair standing up in a tousled mess. He is breathing fast from running and his expression is grim. It’s the closest to being panicked that I’ve ever seen my brother be. With him is Logan, equally stressed and serious.
“Gwen! Where’s Gracie? Where is she?” George cries. “What the hell is happening? What has she done? I can’t believe any of this!”
I remember with a minor delay that up to this point George knew nothing about Gracie’s involvement in the sabotage incident. I am guessing, he has just been told by Mia and the others in Red Quadrant Dorm, Section Fourteen.
“It’s okay! Gracie’s okay!” I exclaim in a hurry, putting up my hands in a reassuring gesture. “She will be released! She—they Disqualified her but he—Aeson Kass—I talked to him and he somehow reinstated her, so she is being let out soon—”
And then in a jumbled torrent I explain what happened.
George and Logan stand listening to me, and George regains his breathing. “What an absolutely stupid, flaming ass!—Oh man, Gracie, what an insane fool! How could she do this thing?”
“I know,” I say, and my own temples are pounding from renewed stress. “She’s a stupid little idiot and I’m ready to strangle her, but thank God it’s going to be okay!”
George shakes his head. “Why on earth would she even do it?”
“Get this—she was trying to impress Daniel Tover!”
“What?” Logan says. “What does Daniel have to do with this?”
“Apparently nothing.” I glance at him. “But Gracie has a little girl crush on him, and she thought she’d look cool or something.”
“Great. . . .”
I notice that meanwhile Logan has been staring at me closely, and I am not sure if it’s because of what I am saying, or if he is just worried about me.
“Logan,” I say with a light smile. “It will be all right. Really!”
“It’s amazing that you convinced the hard-ass Atlantean—Kass—to do this for Gracie. Seems to me, he didn’t do it so much for Gracie as he did it for you.”
“Huh?” I say. “I stalked him, begged and pleaded, and gave him every logical—and illogical—argument under the sky. I think I even went a little crazy there, not even sure I remember the insane stuff I said. But in a nutshell I reminded him that I saved him from that burning shuttle, and I think he realized he owes me.”