They stampede out of the hall.
Oalla turns to us in the meantime. As we stare in amazement, she walks up to the dessert table and picks up a messy chunk of cake. “Okay, I am not a big fan of this cloying sweet stuff that you eat here on Earth, but I think I can have one for the occasion,” she says, looking at me with a crafty, amused expression.
Holy lord! Humorless drill sergeant Oalla is human, and furthermore, she is amused! I have never, ever seen her like this. . . .
“Oh, and Happy Birthday, Shoelace Girl,” Oalla tells me, as she bites into her cake.
And so, for the next few minutes it looks like the party is still on. My siblings and friends exhale in relief and then crowd around the dessert stuff, and everyone starts to giggle and talk louder than usual. Even the people “hiding” behind exercise equipment come out eventually. Oalla talks to a few of us casually, as she chews a small bit of cake.
“Candidate Lark,” Oalla says, turning to me, and her kohl-lined beautiful eyes are somewhat cool. “As you can see, I’m cutting you some slack here. But it’s not for you.”
I watch her, not sure how to respond.
“It’s for all the rest of them,” she says, nodding at the room in general. “Look, I get it. You are all letting off steam, because it’s what happens in a situation like this. It’s like before going into battle. . . . On Atlantis, people celebrate hard before they have to do something where there’s a good chance they will die.”
“I—I think people on Earth do that too.”
She nods. “Exactly. So, we’re not unlike in that sense.”
“Okay.”
Oalla continues to look at me, and I do not look away, do not cringe from her direct, hard gaze.
There’s a strange little pause.
“You still have your special voice training later tonight, don’t you?” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. I am a little surprised she knows about it, but then, why not? Apparently Aeson Kass and the other Atlanteans talk about us in detail. So yeah, she would be informed of my ongoing schedule. Besides, they’re all astra daimon, and there are probably many things they share in general. . . .
Oalla looks at me closely. Not sure what she is trying to see, but the weight of her scrutiny is almost tangible. “Only two more times left—for your voice training,” she says, watching me. “And then, Finals. I think you and I are going to have a little talk before Finals—but not just yet.”
“What do you mean?”
But the Atlantean girl simply nods at me with her composed unreadable expression, and then starts to move away. “Enjoy your party, Lark, everyone. And, thanks for the cake.”
And she exits the Training Gym hall.
Ten minutes later, the party is still going strong. Sure there’s no booze, the last pitiful crumbles of cake and cookies are gone, and there’s no music or pretty much anything else you get at teen parties. But the people are here, and that’s what counts.
And yeah, I have a whole bunch of mismatched shoelaces in my hands. I stand grinning, and Laronda says, “So, whatcha gonna do with all of them?”
“Make a really long cord super-weapon of the Yellow Quadrant?” Gracie giggles.
“Hmm, I could do that, I suppose.” I tickle Gracie. “But—don’t you guys all need them back at some point? I mean, it’s not like you can run to the store to buy new ones. . . .”
And then I glance at George with an uncertain smile. “So, was getting the one point demerit worth it?”
“I think it was,” my older brother says matter-of-factly, as he rubs his hands together to wipe the cookie crumbs off his fingers.
“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Dawn adds with a single wiggle of her brow.
“Okay, then,” I mutter. “As long as you guys don’t regret it.”
Logan takes my arm in that moment, and pulls me away. “I have your present,” he whispers, leaning near my cheek.
I turn my face to him, smiling with a flush of excitement. “What?”
Logan reaches in his pocket, and after a small strange pause, takes out his knife. I recognize the small penknife—it’s the one he’s always fiddling with, playing with the blade in his fingers whenever he is abstracted.
“Here, I want you to have it,” he says, handing me the knife. “It—it belonged to my brother Jeff and he gave it to me before he went on . . . assignment.”
“No!” I say, looking down at the knife with a sudden jolt of emotion. “I can’t take that! I know how much it means to you.”
“Please, keep it. . . . It’s my birthday gift to you,” he says, watching me with serious, intense eyes. “Sorry it’s not much, but I think it will come in handy. Might even protect you during the Finals—who knows? In any case, no arguing with a gift, okay?” And he puts it in my hand so that his fingers close over mine, lingering momentarily.
“Wow, okay . . .” I say. “Thank you!” And then I give him a swift deep hug, regardless of any surveillance cameras.
A lump is building in my throat and this time is does not let up.
Soon enough the party is over.
Chapter 50
After that, time gets all weird, really. . . . And the two days before Finals fly by in a blink. They give us the last day to rest, just as they did for Semi-Finals. No classes on the day before, just sleep in, wander around, take advantage of whatever freedom remains. There’s also the media presence as they once again allow news crews into the huge NQC compound. But this time there is heightened security, because supposedly the global situation outside has grown even more turbulent, as the world is rioting, and we’re told it’s all for our own protection. . . .
During my last evening of voice training with Aeson Kass, I finally manage to sing the complex set of tones that rearranges the quantum molecular structure of an orichalcum object to make it something else. Aeson watches me as the transformed lump of metal falls to the surface of the desk, dead and fried.
“Good work,” he tells me. And I can tell by the glimmer of something lively in his otherwise reserved expression that I did well indeed.
And then it’s time for me to go.
“No final advice?” I say with an excess of composure, turning to glance at him, while my pulse hammers in my temples.
“Stay strong and focused,” he says softly. “I know you can Qualify. Simply do what you always do best.”
“And what’s that?”
“Be yourself.”
And with those words Command Pilot Aeson Kass looks away from me, and I see only the austere line of his lips and his stark perfect profile. Whatever is—or was—in his eyes in that moment is hidden now, as he returns to his machine consoles.
Our classes are done.
On the morning of the Finals, the alarm claxons go off an hour early. We’ve been told to expect a 6:00 AM wakeup, but it still feels abrupt, sickening, terrifying.
I open my eyes to bright overhead lights and groaning or silently terrified girls waking up all around me. . . . I don’t really hang out with the two girls in the beds to the right and left of me, Annie and Blair, and so we merely exchange momentary glances of solidarity between near-strangers, wishing each other luck. We will likely never see each other again, and with luck or without it, we will probably all be dead in a few hours.
Well, this is it.
Today is the day I learn if I live or die. Or at least so I’m told. Nothing is known about Finals. . . . Nothing. They’ve managed to keep it a secret.
The day before, there were no general assemblies. This NQC compound is so huge that there is simply no way to fit all of us in one stadium anyway. So instead we got briefed in our specific Sections throughout the day and evening. Section Fourteen had a meeting at night, and our Section Leaders gave us very minimal and mysterious information on what to expect on Finals Day.
“First thing tomorrow morning, you will get up, get dressed and come down here to the section lobby by 6:30 AM to get your ID tokens scanned.
Your final points will be tallied and announced. These are the points with which you will be going into Finals. At this juncture you will also be given your official team designation for the Finals—remember it well.
“Then you will have less than fifteen minutes to eat. And at 6:45 AM, you will exit your dorms and go directly to the airfield.
“Arrive no later than 7:00 AM. Proceed to board the Atlantean shuttles according to your team designation. Further instructions will be given once you are on-board. And that’s about it, good luck, Section Fourteen!”
After that meeting, no one’s in the mood to do anything, including sleep, even though it’s near curfew. I remember running over to briefly see Gracie and my brothers, just to give them final squeezes and hugs, and possibly to be in the same room with them for the last time. I remember asking them about their points and then repeating their numbers in my head like a mantra, all evening. Gracie has over 70 points at this moment, which is good and hopeful. . . .
At some point, yes, there was Logan. I know we kissed, hard and desperate, in the shadow of a doorway, just before I went upstairs to my sleeping floor. Logan has decent points, 204 as of last tally, so I tell myself I needn’t be worried about him.
And now—now it’s Finals morning.
My head is spinning with queasiness and lack of sleep after an almost sleepless night, as I get dressed, adjust my Yellow Quadrant armband over my uniform sleeve, and then come down to the ground floor to get scanned and learn part of my fate.
I see Laronda and Dawn and Hasmik running down the stairs, and we all go together.
On the ground floor “airport terminal” lobby, the crowds are thick. Sections are getting processed simultaneously, as far as the eye can see in both directions, for the next two miles of floor space. Our Section Leaders stand grimly, scanning everyone and announcing our status and rank.
When it’s my turn, Section Leader Shontae Smith passes the handheld over my token and tells me I have 185 Final Points, and I am assigned to Team USA Fourteen-C.
I stand aside to let Dawn get her turn, and meanwhile there’s Laronda who apparently has 189 points and is on my team, Fourteen-C.
“What does that mean, I wonder?” I mutter. “What’s Fourteen-C?”
“I got Fourteen-D,” Hasmik says. “And I have 106 points.”
We all turn to Dawn. “Okay, girlfriend, what did you get?” Laronda says, poking her arm. “And no hiding your numbers this time!”
Dawn shrugs. “You asked for it. 201 points, Team USA Fourteen-A.”
“Okay,” I say. “Sounds like A is the highest points scorers. Then probably come the B’s, which none of us are, then the C’s, that’s two of us, and finally D.”
“I am the lousy D, I know, I not too good,” Hasmik mutters, as we all hurry to get food in the cafeteria.
“Hey, you guys all better chow down,” a Candidate we don’t even know says in the food line to everyone in general. “This could very well be our last meal, like ever.”
“Great,” Dawn says.
But hey, he’s right and we all eat, because it makes good sense to do that, and really, we never know.
Fifteen minutes later, after scarfing down breakfast eggs, orange juice, and who knows what other stuff—and mostly gagging on the food since no one is really hungry—we rush outside. There, in the dawn light we jog in the direction of the distant airfield two miles away.
“Wow, chicas, look up!” Dawn says, as we move quickly down the street. We look at the sky and it’s full of Atlantean shuttles. They are like dark floating marbles, balloons and circles, polka-dotting the sky in the direction of the airfield. I know that up-close many of them are huge, and that these are oversized freight transport shuttles, not the small passenger personal flyers like the ones the VIPs use. But it still looks surreal to see them like that, all gathered here in the same general five-mile radius in the skies above the NQC.
“So, any ideas where we might be getting shipped out?” Laronda says, breathing quickly as we run.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Dawn replies.
Hasmik just runs silently next to me. I give her a sympathetic look, because neither one of us can run all that well, even now after two months of training. But, at least we can manage to keep up without falling apart completely.
When we get to the airfield, we are overwhelmed.
The crowds of Candidates here are amazing. Everyone is here. And I mean, everyone—Candidates, guards, news vans and media people running around taking image feeds and photos and setting up last-minute projection anchors. Up-tempo music is playing through network studio speakers, and holograms announce the events in artificially bright voices.
The closest transport shuttles hover three feet off the ground, while other shuttles wait their own turn, hovering about fifty feet directly above. Candidates are already boarding them. . . .
We glance around, lost momentarily, overwhelmed by the ocean of teens, adults, general humanity.
And then we see the large fluorescent orange signs. They show the Section number followed by letter designations. We are all Team USA here at the NQC, but there are at least a hundred Sections, likely more, and we wade through the crowds looking for ours.
Toward the back, we finally find Section Fourteen, with four shuttles, one for each letter designation.
Here we say an unreal, numb goodbye to each other. . . . Dawn and Hasmik proceed to A and D, while Laronda and I go together to the hanging staircase leading up to the hatch for shuttle C.
As I start to go up the rung stairs, I sigh. . . . At least I have Laronda with me on this one. As far as I can guess, Gordie is probably somewhere on shuttle A with Dawn and Logan, George is on B, and Gracie is on D with Hasmik.
May luck be with all of them . . . with all of us.
“Candidate Gwen Lark!”
Through the noise of the crowds, I hear my name called and I turn around, even as I’m about to enter the shuttle.
Oalla Keigeri is standing on the ground near the ladder. The wind stirs her metallic strands of hair, and in the morning light it seems to glow like a halo of pale fire around her composed face.
I pause, in surprise.
Oalla motions with her head. “Come down for a moment. I have something to say to you.”
My gut feels a stab of worry. Other Candidates are jostling behind me, but I back up and return to the ground.
I stop before Oalla, and we are evenly matched in height. “Yes? What is it?”
“Candidate Lark,” she says, as we stand aside somewhat, to let other Candidates pass on their way to the shuttle. “I’ve been considering whether or not to say anything at all, but I feel, after all, I must.”
I look at her in expectancy, and my blood pressure is rising.
“I am not doing this for you,” Oalla says quietly, so I can barely hear her above the din. “I am doing this for him . . . Command Pilot Aeson Kass.”
“What? What do you mean?” Now my turmoil is indescribable.
Oalla pauses, looking away from me, and gathering herself—for something, I don’t know what. “Look, there’s little time, and this is not something that is said easily. And the only reason I do say it, is because it is only fair. If you Qualify, you will learn it soon enough anyway. But if you don’t—if you don’t make it—I think it would be right for you to know . . . he would want you to know.”
“Please, just tell me!” I say, as the numbing cold rises inside me.
“Remember that time, weeks ago at the pool, when it was very hot, and we were all swimming? It was then that you said something very loudly as we were walking by—Command Pilot Aeson Kass was walking past you. . . . You said some cruel things about ‘eyeliner’ and ‘hair dye’ and something about ‘vanity.’”
I start to frown. “What?”
“You raised your voice and made damn well sure he heard you. . . . Well, he did. And it affected him—it hurt him, deeply.”
Now I??
?m reeling. “What? Oh! But—I didn’t think it would—I mean, I am sorry! They were just words, silly words, I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, I think you meant it, precisely. You meant for him to hear it. Or you wouldn’t have spoken.” Oalla shakes her head at me in cold, implacable disapproval. “And now, Candidate, you might wonder why any of this matters, why I bother to tell you this trivial thing as you’re about to go to your possible death.”
I stare at her as she points to her own golden hair.
“See this?” Oalla says. “Yes, you are absolutely correct to guess. It is gold metal dye, and I wear it proudly to show my respect and loyalty to Kassiopei, the Imperial Family of Atlantida. It is my choice, and I make it willingly. And so is this—”
She pauses and points to her eyes, an unusual shade of turquoise blue, outlined in dark kohl. “This is my mark of respect also, as I wear our traditional colors in solidarity with the Imperator.”
“Okay . . .” I mutter. “So it is true then, that the hair color and eye makeup are traditionally and culturally important to you, not just for looks. . . . I am truly sorry to have offended—I feel awful now. I did not think . . . I was in a strange stupid mood and I really did not think—”
“I am not done,” Oalla interrupts me in a hard voice. “As I said, it is my choice. The hair color, the eye decoration—vanity or tradition, it is my choice. Command Pilot Kass does not have that choice. His hair—did you maybe notice it looks a little different from the rest of ours? Just a tiny microscopic difference in lightness, a purer, more fragile gold? Well, because it is not hair dye. It’s his natural hair color.”
I listen, and suddenly my breath stills. . . .
“And his so-called eyeliner?” Oalla continues. “The dark ‘line’ that runs around his eyelids? You think it’s vanity? Have you any idea that Kass is the most humble, self-negating individual I know? No, it is not paint, and neither is it a permanent tattoo. It is natural also—he was born with it. It’s a part of his DNA, a unique ancient physical trait that runs in his family, was there for ages, long before Atlantis the Earth continent sank and we left for the stars.”
“So what are you saying?”