To some I’m a hero, their high-profile representative from Earth who somehow got lucky and now gets to be the Imperial Consort. A few even remember me from Qualification as Shoelace Girl, since my oddball “fame” has managed to spread around the ark-ships over the past year of our journey. But just as many others share the Atlantean popular idea that I’m dead meat.
“Phooey! They’re totally rooting for you to win the Games, Gee Two!” my sis tells me constantly with a big smile. “It’s all ‘Go, Earth!’ and they think you can kick serious butt in the Games.”
“Yeah, well,” I say with a rueful smile. “They just say this because they don’t know how bad the Games really are. Those who do, know better. . . .”
“Oh, but they know!” Gracie pats my shoulder. “Seriously, at this point anyone who hasn’t been exposed to Grail Games Rage must be living in a sealed box. So, yeah, they think you can do it, against any and all odds, for Earth’s sake.”
I crane my neck at Gracie. “C’mon, everyone is rooting for me? Noooo.”
Gracie snorts. “Well, yeah! And the few jerks who aren’t, are just jealous. After all, you got picked by the Imperial Crown Prince, out of all those fancy Court girls! You, an ordinary Earthie! Those few bad apples who gripe are just a-holes. They don’t know you. And they are W-R-O-N-G wrong!”
“Okay, Gee Four,” I say, humoring her. “Thanks.”
Gracie wiggles her brows. “Hey, don’t underestimate the power of the Earthies! Because they are betting on you in that evil lottery! And I mean, betting that you’ll survive every stage and win the Atlantis Grail!”
Earthies. . . . That’s the new slang term used for us Earth refugees, both by us and the Atlanteans, since the day we’ve landed. Not really derogatory, but not too flattering either.
I snort. “I suppose someone must be betting on me, which explains the 0.002% number in the ‘Survives All Four Stages’ column.”
At the same time as all this mostly negative public opinion intensifies, toward the end of Green Pegasus, and heading into Green Mar-Yan, I meet on a regular basis with Tiago Guu and various pro trainers to get ready for the image aspect of my being a Games entrant. Tiago has promised to interview me on his show Grail Games Daily, but we’ve decided to hold off until the very end, the week before the start of the Games, to give me the maximum boost.
Meanwhile, the dark Atlantean Buddha, as I like to think of Tiago, gives me solid advice and encouragement. And his recommended trainers explain to me the various survival techniques that have been used by past Games winners.
I’m told that Stage One of the Games, nicknamed the Slaughter Stage, is considered to be the worst. It doesn’t vary much from year to year, and is always held in the giant main stadium arena of the Atlantis Grail Stadium downtown. That entire arena is designated as the official Game Zone of Stage One. About every other year, during this first Stage, only bladed weapons of the Red Quadrant are permitted, and used to basically kill off about two thirds of all the participants. It’s a horrifying bloody melee, where swords experts do best—usually members of the Warrior, Athlete, and Entertainer Categories—as they cull the playing field. I can only hope that this year the rules allow all weapons, otherwise I’m completely screwed.
Once past Stage One, my chances of survival go up, simply because there are fewer adversaries at that point, and my personal strengths such as creative ingenuity and intelligence can finally be used instead of brute force.
“It’s simple. You need to survive Stage One, My Imperial Lady Gwen—it’s all there is to it,” says Tiago. And he is echoed by the trainers, and even Gavreel and Krui, the two ex-cons.
I listen to them nervously and try to absorb everything. Some of the survival techniques are genuinely fascinating. One is similar to what Xelio’s been teaching me all along—keep moving, run constantly, make evasive motions, slip, slide, trip, jump, do anything to not get cornered. To that end, participants resort to oiling their bodies in order to be slippery and hard to grasp, wearing pin-cushion body armor, or heat-reactive layers that burn at the touch.
Another method involves creating small nuisances—scattering small marbles on the floor to trip opponents, throwing special chemical compound dust to blind the enemy, releasing swarms of insects, covering one’s body and uniform with DNA-keyed poison which is safe for the wearer but deadly to everyone else.
“How is all this allowed?” I say in dismay. “Isn’t that some kind of cheating?”
Gavreel makes a sound of sarcasm. “Anything goes, My Imperial Lady. Everything is allowed, and nothing is considered cheating, unless you break the Taboo Rules of each stage.”
“Taboo Rules?”
“Yes. Those are the off-limit actions or special instructions that are announced at the beginning of each Stage, and sometimes changed in the middle. Failure to comply can lead to disqualification. They can be different every year,” Tiago says. “For example, a Taboo Rule might say that only one kind of weapon is allowed, or excluded—such as bladed weapons only. Or you may not set foot in a specific part of the arena for the duration of an hour or a day. You may not engage opponents in a specific Category until the alarm sounds. If your uniform is a certain color, you may not stand upright and can only move on your knees, crouch, or crawl until a bell sounds. You may only fight with your left hand. Very specific things, just to increase difficulty levels . . . and entertainment value.”
I am rendered speechless. “That’s just unbelievable.”
My trainers look at me with sympathy.
Krui merely hands me the long metal nail that I’ve been periodically sticking through my palm on a regular basis, in order to build up scar tissue inside the wound entry point and facilitate the piercing—all to create the illusion of my fierceness.
So I pierce my palm again, through the scar tissue—it’s nearly painless now, after all these times I’ve done it, almost absentmindedly—and continue to listen.
“Now, obviously you cannot continue running or engaging in evasive maneuvers for four days straight without rest,” a trainer tells me. “So you need to find a safe spot, claim it, and defend it.”
“And you will need to make friends—in other words, temporary allies,” Tiago adds.
They explain that the Game Zone will have multiple designated Safe Bases—safe spots, protected from all sides, that can act as a kind of “home base” for the Contenders. These cubbyholes, or nooks, or otherwise enclosed areas, will be hotly contested by everyone, because once you get inside and stake claim to it, you become automatically Safe and off-limits to other Contenders for as long as you remain there.
“No one can touch you or harm you inside the Safe Base, unless they breach it—it’s one of the permanent Taboo Rules,” the trainer says. “However you will have to constantly defend your place in it against takeover. People will be trying to lure you outside by any means possible, and once you leave, you lose your spot and your Safe status.”
“Okay, good to know,” I say. “Only, why would I want to leave, ever? I can see myself holing up in one of those for days until that Stage is over. Easy decision!”
Krui snorts. “You will want to leave. You’ll need water, food, medicine, replacement weapons, a place to eliminate. Sure, some people wait it all out, just starve and dehydrate, sit in their own piss and crap for several days—it’s been known to happen, if they get lucky enough not to be smoked out.”
“Smoked out?”
“Smoke grenades. Your opponents will burn noxious things and throw them inside your Safe Base, if they can, so you have to come out or die from smoke inhalation or fire.”
“Oh, damn. . . .” I mutter.
“Oh, yeah.” Krui raises his thick dark brows meaningfully.
“Which brings me back to making friends,” Tiago says, almost cheerfully. “My Imperial Lady Gwen, you are going to have to make some tough decisions very quickly, choose whom you can trust, and decide to make alliances. You will need to gather a few people around you so
that you work together as an informal team, to help keep each other alive. Without such alliances, it is almost impossible to last through the Games.”
I nod. “All right, that sounds good.”
Tiago continues smiling. “Of course you cannot get too attached, My Imperial Lady. After all, you will have to kill them too eventually—but later, toward the end.”
I wince. “Is there any way to avoid killing?”
At this everyone begins to laugh. They laugh for several moments, long enough that I stare at them with reproach.
“Very sorry, but this is a cruel sport, and killing is unavoidable,” Gavreel says, and by his expression I almost imagine he is feeling sorry for me. “You will of course begin by killing everyone in your own Category. It’s the way it is done—everyone in your own Category is your worst enemy, direct competition for one of the Ten Winning Champion slots. So don’t bother to make friends with other Vocalists—if that’s the Category you happen to choose—because that would be pointless. They’ll be planning your demise from the moment they are near you, and will turn on you at the first opportunity, so even a short-term alliance would not work.”
“Speaking of Categories,” Tiago says, “Have you made your final decision as to which Category you will be registering under? My strong recommendation is to choose the least skilled one such as Vocalist or Entrepreneur. The advantage here is having an easier and weaker field of opponents that you must dispatch.”
“Hmmm.” Gavreel says. “There have been times in the past that a deadly competitor such as a Warrior or Athlete registered in one of the White uniform categories, slaughtered their Category competition quickly, and gained an early advantage.”
“True, there’s that,” Tiago says. “But since the Imperial Lady Gwen absolutely must defeat everyone in her own Category to succeed, while she only needs to avoid the other Categories, it’s best for her to go for the logical easy choice.”
I remember all my discussions with Aeson about underplaying my Voice abilities, so I pretend to consider this thoughtfully. “Tiago, since I really don’t have any special skills, I’ll probably take your recommendation and register as an Entrepreneur or Vocalist. But I would like to make this formal announcement during the interview on your show.”
Tiago bows his head graciously. “Of course, My Imperial Lady. And may I say it’s a wise decision. I’m honored that you would share such important news with my audience first, before any other. What a juicy scoop you give me, who am I to refuse? Buhaat Hippeis of Winning the Grail is going to gnaw his knuckles with media envy. Truly, I am at your disposal.”
And so, my Grail Games Daily interview date is formally set for Green Mar-Yan 7, just two days before the Games of the Atlantis Grail Commencement Day.
Chapter 31
There’s really no good way for an Earth Imperial Bride to get ready for an Atlantean media interview. Even with Tiago being a sympathetic interviewer and providing me with the questions several days in advance, even with prepared answers fed to me by my trainers, I am still faced with the great unknown variable—the studio audience and their unscripted questions.
The audience at Tiago’s hugely popular show Grail Games Daily is permitted to actively participate in the interview. Furthermore, it’s an audience that fills a stadium hall, and my interview is not pre-recorded but aired live and uncensored on the Atlantean version of afternoon prime time.
Aeson and I arrive at the designated backstage entrance of the Nebetareon, a round mid-size stadium building topped by a geodesic dome roof, located in downtown Poseidon. The Nebetareon is part of the ultra-modern convention center-like complex that includes the main Atlantis Grail Stadium, also known as the Stadion—which is the centerpiece monolithic structure at the heart of the complex, housing the Atlantis Grail monument—the great square Imperial Kemet Forum or the Kemetareon, the Red, Blue, Green, Yellow Forums, and a number of other lesser stadiums, theaters, exhibit halls, and connecting buildings. It’s late afternoon, and the whole thing is gleaming steel and gold in the sun, under a scalding white sky.
Outside is a madhouse of people and airborne vehicles. The Imperial Crown Prince’s usual security guards accompany us, plus an additional security detail of four assigned to guard me, the Imperial Bride, now that I’ve ventured into the city. We’ve arrived in a multi-hover car cavalcade, and the guards precede and surround us as we enter the building from the back, to avoid the insane crowds that have gathered to attend the live show.
For this appearance, I’ve decided to dress simply, on the advice of all my trainers, in a conservative dark blue outfit—a slim long dress with a high collar and a modest jacket top trimmed in fine gold thread, and sensible low-heeled shoes. My hair has been styled somewhere between Low Court and ordinary Earth girl, hanging loose around my shoulders, and threaded with a few strands of gold and sparkling colored jewels.
As always, Consul Denu and Kem have transformed me with impeccable makeup, both subtle and dramatic, with smoky shadowed eyes and razor-fine eyeliner, faint blush and a deep red lip gloss with a hint of lazuli blue to match the blue of the dress.
Aeson is wearing an equally subdued but formal dark outfit. Even though he will not be appearing before the camera with me, he is here for moral support, and will stand at the entrance, watching me from backstage.
“You’re beautiful, Gwen!” he whispers, as we walk through the narrow winding corridor to the media crew room in back of the stage, surrounded by the Imperial guards. “You will be spectacular and win them over . . . trust yourself!”
I gulp and nod, feeling a dry-mouth sensation caused by nerves, but smiling bravely at my Bridegroom and his sincere admiring expression.
Yes, im amrevu will be watching me. And so will Gracie and Gordie . . . and all my friends . . . and the Imperator and the rest of the Imperial Family, and everyone else—millions of people on the various media live feeds all over the city and Atlantida. . . .
As we arrive in the back room, Tiago is waiting for us. The black Buddha is wearing his typical flamboyant outfit of sparkling metallic red and gold fabric that sends a nod to this season’s fabric style of the Games. His dark face is dramatically enhanced with stage cosmetics, and his eyeliner and brow-color has a pearl-blue tint that sparkles in the bright lights.
“Ready, my Imperial Lady?” he says cheerfully, nodding to me, with a bright grin flashing white teeth. “You know exactly what to do. When you come out, first remember to tap your voice button and then smile and make eye contact with the audience! That’s the most important part, regardless of what you actually say!”
“Yes, okay. . . .” I nod, smiling back at him, while a staffer hurries to attach a tiny acoustic amplification device to my collar.
Tiago winks, taps his own voice amplifier button near his throat, and makes a subtle finger signal to his staff to begin the live-feed recording of the show.
A grand explosion of music comes from the stage, where a live “air band” plays the Grail Games Daily intro theme on floating hologram instruments using touch activated light sensors. I know this, after having watched many episodes of this show in preparation for my appearance. I also know what to expect next. . . .
Tiago prances through the entrance onto the stage, dancing, his huge body floating effortlessly. His jacket sleeves explode with mirror-shard reflections of light, in an illusion of raining glitter, as he moves his arms in rhythm, lifting them up to the screaming stadium audience.
“Hello, all you glorious Grail Games worshippers! Tiago loves you!”
“Tiagoooo! Tiagoooo! Tiagoooo!” the invisible backup singers intone in harmony from all directions, their voices piped in like magic from the walls and ceiling, resounding on immense acoustic speakers into the great vast space of the Nebetareon.
The stadium audience screams in answer.
Standing at the entrance, watching from backstage, I’m suddenly stricken with mindless terror. . . . God help me. . . . How will I ever be able to go out there?
>
As though sensing my fear, Aeson reaches out to take my hand, gripping my fingers fiercely.
For a few seconds, Tiago makes the usual host introductions, not unlike an Earth-style standup comedian, while his band strikes percussion and other instruments on cue to emphasize his speaking points. He speaks both Atlanteo and English, switching back and forth to accommodate the new Earth population audience, as has been the custom recently on all the Atlantean media—lucky for me and all of us who are not quite fluent in Atlanteo.
And then it’s time for my interview. A hovering platform floats onto the stage, with a special seating area.
“My special guest tonight is a sweet surprise,” Tiago says, stepping onto the platform and settling on the large throne-like chair from where he holds his interviews. A similar large empty chair stands across from him, separated by a small round table.
“Can you guess who my guest is?” Tiago says, rubbing his hands together in glee.
The audience roars out various names, including popular Games Contenders.
“No, no, no, my glorious ones, but you’ll never guess! Are you ready? No? Yes?”
“Yes!”
Tiago laughs. “I am honored, no, I am stunned, to be able to bring to you a very special young lady—not merely a lady, but an Imperial Lady—none other than the Imperial Bride herself, Gwen Lark!”
The music strikes, there’s an audience roar, and that’s my cue.
I take a deep breath, and then walk out into the white blinding spotlight, putting a wide smile on my face, and trying not to blink from the sensory overload of thunderous noise and stage illumination, trying not to look out into the roiling sea out there that is the audience. . . .
Tiago gets up to meet me half-way, takes my hand, and helps me onto the platform. He then bows to me in the Courtly manner, gets back in his seat, and gets comfortable.
“Welcome, welcome my dearest Imperial Lady Gwen!” he exclaims in English, as I settle in my chair. “What an honor it is to have you here! We have so many questions for you! May I say, you look delightful!”