CHAPTER EIGHT

The room where they are going to teach us Atlantis Culture is blessedly just a regular classroom with desks and a whiteboard up in front. The Instructor’s desk is yet unoccupied and mostly empty of gadgets. However, there are, what appear to be, several very old looking books and long cylinders that may or may not be real ancient scrolls. The classics and history professor’s daughter in me is starting to geek out at the possibility.

The room is getting filled up quickly, so Laronda and I take two seats close to the front in the second row. If possible, I would’ve taken first row, following my usual nerdy habit in school, but Laronda is a little more hesitant to be noticed by the teacher. Therefore, row two, where you don’t get to be seen as much while you still get a decent view of the board, is a nice compromise.

At the height of the classroom noise an Atlantean walks in quietly, and continues past the seated Candidates, stopping at the teacher’s desk. He seems to be an older teen, not unlike Oalla Keigeri. Or possibly he just looks that way, generally youthful, because we still don’t have an accurate sense of the Atlanteans’ aging rate compared to our own. And, just like Oalla, he is wearing the grey uniform with a yellow arm-band. His blazing-gold hair is trimmed shorter than most other Atlanteans I’ve seen, but his face is typically handsome in the general way of their ethnicity—not that we really know the full range of ethnic diversity on Atlantis, but so far we’ve seen a pattern that seems to point more and more to Ancient Egypt, or even India, at least in this bunch. Well-balanced features, a somewhat blunt chin with a single dimple, prominent brows, and eyelids decorated in lapis and kohl. The only difference is, his skin is a few degrees darker, a hue somewhere between olive and sienna, so that it is reminiscent of red river clay.

He is carrying a small tablet-like device that looks vaguely alien in the same way that I’ve come to recognize Atlantis tech—the overall shape is imperfect, asymmetrical, unlike the tech gadgets designed on Earth which are usually polished and balanced to appear aesthetically pleasing, smooth, trendy objects.

He places the Atlantean tablet on the desk next to the books and scrolls.

And then he speaks.

“Good afternoon, Candidates. I am Nefir Mekei. I am from Atlantis, and I am going to teach you Atlantis Culture.”

As his words flow, it seems a soft, lilting, almost subliminal buzzing hum has entered the classroom, and echoes are reverberating along the walls. Immediately I feel goosebumps. The fine hairs along my arms begin to stand up on end from the strange tangible sensation of this guy’s amazing voice. It’s grazing along my skin and smoothing it down at the same time, as though honey is being poured over every inch of me, making me alert and receptive at the same time. . . .

I glance to my side and Laronda is equally affected. She is staring at the Atlantean with wide eyes and parted lips. And it seems so is everyone else in the room.

Nefir Mekei looks around at us, his unblinking gaze sweeping the classroom. There is a shadow of a smile on his face.

“What you are hearing now is the voice of a Storyteller. It is one of many things you will learn about us, your distant ancient relatives. In our society on Atlantis we cultivate very special voices—voices that are imbued with power, to a varying degree. Voices that in their inflection have a purpose and a specific task attached. There are voices of Creation, of Force, of Movement, of Command, of Desire. Voices that build skyscrapers, and navigate ships, and dig canals, and heal whatever ails the body. There are so many voices that it would take me several days to tell you the function of each. Suffice it to say, they are voices for everything you can imagine, and even for things you have no words for.”

“Wow,” someone says in the back of us.

“Wow is a good way to sum it up,” Nefir says, turning to the speaker. “You will learn much more in the coming days, but for now, be aware of the Storyteller voice, because you will come to know it very well.”

“What else can you do?” says the boy.

Nefir looks at him and smiles. “I was taught a number of different voices. We all were, since infancy. However, most of us retain the mastery of only a few. Usually we excel at one in particular. It becomes our specialty. Mine is this one.”

A chubby girl with curling red hair raises her hand nervously. “Are you gonna teach us these—voices?”

“I will try. In the very short time we have, you may not be able to learn this skill that takes many years to cultivate. Yes, a few of you might be fortunate enough to discover a basic ability to do a voice or two. But at least all the rest of you will know about it. And you will have some idea of how to defend yourself from—its unwanted effects.”

“Oh yeah?” a brown-skinned Latino boy says, running fingers through his black hair. “What kind of effects? Are you talking about some kind of mind control? Like making people do things?”

The Atlantean pauses. “You might call it that, yes—perhaps. But rest assured, mind control is completely illegal in Atlantis, and misuse of voice is strictly punished and enforced. Potentially dangerous forms of power voice may only be used with the consent of others. Also there are defense techniques that are taught—which I will teach you, as I said. But first—today, our first day, I will tell you some general things you need to know about Atlantis. You might want to take notes—”

The shuffling of papers is heard as Candidates take out notebooks and writing implements, while some people reach out to touch-enable their smart jewelry recording functions.

“—Atlantis is a planet very similar to Earth, technically larger in circumference, but only by a negligible number of your Earth units of distance. It is located in the area of your sky that you know as the constellation of Pegasus, or the Great Square. The sun of Atlantis is slightly bigger and brighter than Earth’s Sol, so daylight is more blazing, and the seasons are longer due to a longer orbit and hence year, the equivalent of 417 Earth days. The day is slightly longer also, the equivalent of Earth’s 27 hours, because Atlantis rotates along its axis a bit slower than Earth.

“The atmosphere is oxygen rich, similar to Earth. Now, we have somewhat less surface water on Atlantis, so there are only two large oceans that cover about one half of the planet, and the rest is mostly green forests and tall snow-covered mountains. Other animal species are abundant. However, unlike Earth, Atlantis is very sparsely populated, with fewer than a billion human beings on the planet, and fewer than seventy national boundaries. There are several main cities—”

I take my usual excessive notes while the general geography lesson goes on. Each time I glance at him, Nefir appears to be speaking eloquently about the most fascinating things ever, and the classroom is hanging on to his every word. Okay, even I know that’s not natural. No one is that interested in surface temperatures and demographics. No one. Especially not some of the less brainy kids . . . not to mention the jocks, or the obvious junkies. (Because, yeah, I can see some of them in this room. I’ve no idea how they managed to pass Preliminary Qualification while being high on some crap.)

Must be his compelling Storyteller voice that’s causing us to pay such super attention.

Before I know it, the hour is up and class is over.

“We will continue tomorrow.” Nefir picks up his tablet device and lightly touches its surface with his fingertip. Immediately all our tokens emit a single bright pulse of yellow light, like a flash, then return to steady yellow. Gasps are heard around the classroom.

“Relax, I’ve just taken your attendance,” he says. His face again registers the same light smile. It’s both wise and curious. And yet I find it slightly obnoxious because it manages to come across as superior.

“Yeesh! Could’ve used a warning!” Laronda blinks, staring at her own token.

“I bet he did it on purpose to mess with us,” I say lightly, putting away my notes. I’m still feeling the happy buzz of intellectual excitement from the lecture I’ve just heard.

And then just as quickly it dissipates. Because I suddenly realize what’s my next and last class for the day.

Atlantis Combat.

* * *

My stomach is in knots as I head back down to the basement Training Gym. I’ve only been here once previously, and I already hate this room with a passion.

This time I notice the presence of mats on the floor—which is both a good thing and a bad thing. Good, because at least if we fall down, there will be padding to break the fall. Bad, because, well, there’s gonna be falling going on.

Ugh. . . .

I stare around the room and see the weights training equipment in the front near the entrance, and the now familiar multi-story scaffolding where somewhere up on top the hoverboards are stashed away. There are about thirty people here so far, and more are coming in behind me. We all look sheepish, stressed, scared—or at least most of us do, and after a quick glance I see there are no familiar faces.

No, I take that back. There’s at least one. Claudia Grito is standing with her arms folded, looking fearless and bored. Her long black hair has been gathered into a sleek ponytail and she’s changed into a tight black tank-top and skin-tight jeans. The bright overhead lights catch like fire in the metal stud piercings in her nose and ears.

Just as I think it can’t get any worse, I see several of the popular hashtaggers from the lobby who had ganged up on Blayne. There’s curvy Olivia and the dark-haired guy with the neck tattoo, and the big blond jock Wade.

The moment they see me they all turn like vultures. I feel the weight of their stares, hear smirking whispers, while a cold numbing thing starts to build and fill me up like a brick. How well I know that cold slimy resident of my gut.

While I freeze, they start casually moving in my direction. Meanwhile, the neck tattoo guy shapes his mouth into a nasty kiss, then licks his lips and gives me a sneer, all without taking his eyes off me. I think that’s gotta be the creepiest worst.

Before any of them reach me however, I am saved by the arrival of Oalla Keigeri. The gorgeous Atlantean girl comes into the gym hall walking in her swift brusque manner. She is followed by two others.

“Attention, Candidates!” Oalla claps her hands together and starts speaking before she even reaches the middle of the room. “Line up!”

Everyone’s milling about, but her ringing drill sergeant voice compels us, so that for a moment I wonder if she’s using a power voice, now that I know about it. The bullies forget me for the moment, and everyone moves in toward her.

“Two lines, one to my right, one to my left! Starting here, now! Move!”

We hurry to do what she says, in a brief stampede. I swear, it feels like army basic training. In seconds I find myself in a lineup with some skinny African American guy with locks I don’t know to my right, and a young Asian girl I’ve never seen before on my left. Meanwhile, across from me are other unfamiliar, frightened faces.

Basically we’ve just formed a gauntlet line. Or maybe a line dancing line. Whatever. There’s roughly two rows of us, facing each other, separated by about ten feet.

Oalla stands at the start of the line between our two rows, and two other Atlanteans are behind her.

“Stand up straight! Feet together! Hands down at your sides! Eyes on me!”

We shuffle and pull ourselves up as straight as possible. I press my fingers against my sides and notice from the corner of my eye the Asian girl to my left is shaking.

Oalla takes a step aside, and the Atlantean immediately behind her walks forward so that at last we can see him. He is very tall, ebony-black, with the darkest skin I’ve seen so far in their kind, but his tightly curled short hair is colored the same molten gold. He is slightly older or possibly our age, extremely good looking, with a slightly heavier cast to his features, and a beautifully toned muscular body encased in the grey uniform that looks tailored on him. Curiously, the armband he is wearing is blue, not yellow.

“Good afternoon,” he says in a deep gorgeous voice. “I am Keruvat Ruo, and I am from Atlantis. Some of you know me already from an earlier Agility class, just as you know Oalla Keigeri who also teaches Agility. Together, we will be teaching Combat.”

“But first—” He nods to Oalla who picks up speaking after him.

“First, before we begin,” she says loudly, “we are fortunate to have with us today an important visitor.”

Keruvat and Oalla both take a step to either side, and we all stare while a third Atlantean walks past them and stops in the middle.

He is not nearly as tall as Keruvat, but now that he is here, his presence overwhelms. Light bronze skin, striking chiseled features. Longish golden hair, of a washed-out metallic hue that seems a shade lighter than the others. He is probably the same age as Keruvat and Oalla, an older teen, or the Atlantean equivalent. His expression is a perfect blank mask, hard and impassive. His eyes, framed by dark brows and a fine tracing of kohl, are fierce blue lapis. His lips are held in a tight slightly disdainful line.

The grey uniform sits well on his toned body, compact, muscular. And yes, it must be said, there is something about him overall—maybe the confident way he stands, the way he holds himself—that makes him strangely, undeniably hot.

Okay, I can’t believe I just said that. But it’s true. . . .

This guy is attractive, and I bet he knows it.

As I am thinking this, I notice also that he’s wearing an armband that is neither yellow, nor blue, red, green, or even rainbow.

It is black.

“This is Command Pilot Aeson Kass, one of the highest ranking officers of our fleet, and astra daimon. Remember well his name, for you will come to know it, even among the other daimon. He is here to observe our class, to observe all of you. This is an honor!” Oalla speaks, glancing around the room, and then looks back at Aeson Kass with a tiny light smile. This is the first time I’ve seen Oalla smiling, and it makes her face more open, more beautiful, if such a thing is even possible.

It occurs to me for just a moment, that Oalla is deferring to him, and it’s a strange thing to see. Meanwhile, Keruvat is looking from her to Aeson, and there’s also a tiny shadow of a smile just wanting to break out.

But Aeson Kass does not smile. “Thank you, Oalla, Keruvat.” His voice is pleasantly low, but very soft, almost tired-sounding, which is probably deceptive. “And now, please proceed.”

Aeson Kass then moves aside and barely nods to the other two Atlanteans. He simply stands, watching us.

Oalla and Keruvat take us through some kind of a warm-up drill. I honestly don’t even know what is happening, but it’s hell and there are just no words. . . . My body is like a puppet, and I am told to move this way and step that way . . . jump up and down, and raise both hands and arms . . . extend my torso and bend forward, then back, and rotate from the waist . . . crane my neck, then drop to the floor and do something else physically unspeakable. A few minutes later I am panting hard, and so are many of the teens around me.

It really sucks to be out of shape. And we haven’t even started anything real yet, this is just warm-up!

“Enough! Now stand! Line up!” Oalla says at last.

I crawl up from some kind of messy sit-up, and stand, breathing hard. My weak knees are buckling under me, still traumatized and shaking from the physical effort of this morning’s Agility Training ordeal. The guy with African locks next to me is rubbing his elbow and I see sweat glistening on his face. He mouths some kind of complaint and grins painfully at me, while I nod back and roll my eyes.

As I’m still struggling to calm my breath, Keruvat goes to an equipment cabinet near the wall and motions to one of the Candidates in line to follow him. The teen and the tall black Atlantean both return carrying a large bulky athletic bag which they deposit in the middle of the room.

Keruvat nods for the Candidate to fall back in line. He then unzips the huge bag, and turns it over to dump out what looks like a whole bunch of netting. Ropes and nets and cords of all sizes and lengths, some twisted, some in great spools. There’s metallic and plastic, and ordinary coarse natural rope, and everything in-between.

“Candidates, take a good look,” he says, pacing around the mountain of netted and loose strands on the floor. “These nets and cords are the basic weapon of the Yellow Quadrant. If you want to Qualify, you will learn to use them to your advantage, in addition to the hand-to-hand combat forms of Er-Du which is our traditional martial art.”

Oalla approaches and picks up a short net, and snaps it open. Turns out, it’s a two-meter wide round woven piece resembling a spider-web, with sizeable gaps between each segment, big enough to draw your hand and arm through it. “This alone,” she says, “can be used to kill your opponent.”

Keruvat meanwhile reaches into the pile of netting to select a single long cord. “And this,” he says, “can serve you equally well.”

Oalla picks up the net and with a lighting motion she flings it at Keruvat, who stands still to allow her the demonstration. “The net is an ancient traditional weapon of Poseidon, the great city of Atlantis, and its origins are the sea,” Oalla says, as she tightens a single rope segment, and suddenly Keruvat is immobilized in an impossible net cocoon. His entire body is encased to his ankles, and his hands and feet bound. “Fishermen used nets to harvest the waters of ancient Earth oceans, and then the tradition was continued on Atlantis. First, they harvested fish, then they learned to harvest men.”

A few surprised exclamations are heard in our rows.

“Now, admittedly, the net and cord of the Yellow Quadrant is impressive on its own,” Keruvat retorts. “But it is a weak weapon against the edged blade weapon of the Red Quadrant, the sword.” Still bound, he makes an equally blazing-fast move, despite his confined state, and retrieves a previously invisible short dagger from his sleeve. He slashes a few times, and in seconds he is free of the net which now lies in torn pieces on the floor.

“Whoa!” some kid gasps in the line nearby.

“Yes, the Red Quadrant sword cleaves the Yellow Quadrant cord,” Oalla says, with a blank hard expression. “But it, in turn, is a weak weapon against the Blue Quadrant firearm.” She draws like quicksilver, and from a hidden holster on her leg comes a small object resembling an Earth handgun. She fires, there’s a soft pop, and Keruvat’s sword goes flying out of his hand from the force of the projectile striking the blade perilously near the grip.

This time there are loud hoots of appreciation all around the gym hall. Some of the guys clap. A few of the younger boys and girls hold their hands to their mouths.

But Oalla and Keruvat ignore the noise around them. Their gazes are locked, and now they are circling each other, in loose sleek fighter stances.

“As you see, the Blue Quadrant firearm trumps the Red Quadrant blade,” Keruvat says, without taking his eyes off Oalla. However it happens to be a weak weapon against the Green Quadrant shield.”

I have no time to blink because Keruvat’s hand streaks for his own hidden gun holster on his thigh. He fires at Oalla—not once, but in a series of sharp staccato pops and the volley fills the hall with recoil echoes.

Holy crap! I cringe, wanting to cover my eyes. . . .

But amazingly, Oalla is standing unharmed. Each time Keruvat fires, she as quickly moves her forearms in a strange shielding stance between her and the bullet projectiles. And now, I see her long grey uniform sleeves are riddled with holes going up her arm and all the way to her shoulder.

Okay, what is she, some kind of freaky comic book heroine? Super duper bullet-resistant wonder? She should be seriously hurt, maybe even dead!

But Oalla raises her hands and arms to show us the torn sleeves and bullet holes, and then she pulls up her uniform sleeves, rolling them up past the armband, to her shoulders.

Her hands, from the wrists up to just below her armpits, are encased in some kind of skin-tight braces, made of a silvery metallic material. I am guessing it is not ordinary fabric. However, it is discreet, and amazing in the sense that it can be worn easily and inconspicuously underneath long sleeves, like body armor. The bullets—small round pellets of metal—are stuck like pearls to the material of the braces.

This time most of us are too stunned to make a sound.

The African locks guy next to me silently mouths, “Oh, f— me!”

“As you can see, I am unhurt,” Oalla announces in a loud voice, still holding up her hands and arms to the room. “Every bullet has been stopped and adhered to the arm shield. Underneath, my skin might show a few light impact bruises tomorrow, but that’s about it.”

“Before you lose your nerve completely,” Keruvat speaks up, starting to circle Oalla once again, “you need to realize that while the Green Quadrant shield might defeat the Blue Quadrant gun, it is a weak weapon and no match for your own Yellow Quadrant cord!”

Keruvat flings himself toward Oalla, and this time the cord is back—the same one he’s been discreetly holding all along, apparently balled up in one fist. He makes a series of strange coordinated hand and finger movements and the cord becomes a sequence of short loops that he’d single-handedly shaped and twisted with the fingers of one hand, because there’s no other explanation for it.

In seconds, the loops are thrown then tightened around Oalla’s arms in their braces, and her hands are effectively tied together before her in an intricate net-like knot.

She stands with a shadow of a smile, hands bound, while Keruvat holds the end of the cord and nods at her. He then flicks his wrist and the cord handcuffs come apart with a single tug. Must be sleight-of-hand, because honestly, even looking at it, I have no idea how he did that!

This time everyone in the room is clapping.

Off to the side, Aeson Kass claps also. He then continues to observe, arms folded at his chest. I glance at him and note the continued impassive expression, hard and cold and impenetrable like a wall.

Oalla rubs her arms lightly along the bullet-covered braces, then pulls down her sleeves. “You have just learned the basic tenet of Atlantis weapons combat. Yellow cord trumps Green shield trumps Blue firearm trumps Red blade, which in turn trumps Yellow cord. It’s an eternal circular balance—a Great Square. Somewhat like your Earth game of paper-scissors-rock. We in Atlantis study all four weapon forms, but ultimately specialize in one, depending on which Quadrant we embrace.”

She paces between our rows, fierce and commanding.

A frightened girl raises her hand. “Seems amazing, all of this. How much of the weapon fighting are we supposed to learn? I mean, there’s so little time. . . .”

Oalla turns to look at her, and the poor girl almost cringes. “A valid question. And yes, there’s hardly enough time to master weapons and combat techniques in just a few weeks. For that, you will need years. But there is enough time to determine if you have the potential to become proficient. Those of you who can prove your potential, will Qualify.”

“But suppose for a moment—what if you have no weapon?” Keruvat speaks in turn. “What if there’s no netted cord, no gun, no sword, no shield at your disposal? Then all you have are your bare hands, your body, your speed, strength, and stamina. And, don’t forget, your voice and your mind.”

“And that’s where the ancient martial art of Er-Du comes in,” Oalla says. Unexpectedly she turns around and her gaze seeks Aeson Kass. With a bow of her head and a smoothly gliding hand movement, she motions to him. “With your permission, Command Pilot Kass, may I have the honor, daimon?”

We all stare.

Aeson’s face does not show any reaction, not even a motion of an eyelid, not a blink. A pause. And then he nods lightly. And he approaches.

For some reason I find that my breathing has pretty much stopped. I stare, mesmerized, as I see Aeson and Oalla fall seamlessly into a pliant combat stance. Although Aeson is much taller, they appear evenly matched. Feet are slightly apart, knees loose, backs straight. Their hands start at their sides, then sweep upward like wings, then fall back to float in the air at shoulder level, in a strangest kind of warrior dance.

They circle each other and take wide steps, parallel and opposite to each other like chess pawns starting out their strategic movement across a chessboard. Their fingers make complex signs, hands and arms continue moving with strange grace, from unfurled wings to snakes, to swans, shaping intricate figures in the air before them.

In the next instant, Oalla strikes. She is a serpent, or a scorpion bringing down its tail. Her hands flash forward, and are met and blocked effortlessly by her opponent. Aeson seems to be barely moving, so casually and lightly he steps, and his hands flash out, arms bent at the elbows, then twisting to escape impossibly, coming together and apart in intricate contortions, easily avoiding Oalla’s fierce hand strikes.

I bite my lip and continue to hold my breath.

Their hand strikes rain down, faster and faster. . . . And now, kicks are added to the mix. Oalla takes a running leap and does a roundhouse kick, narrowly missing his chest, while Aeson lunges to the side and away like an eel, then returns with his own kick. It lands and sends Oalla flying along the slippery floor, away from the safe landing area of the mats. She recovers easily with a back flip, and springs back up. Immediately she goes into a spin series of kicks and punches that move so fast she appears to be spinning into invisibility like a top.

Aeson Kass matches her effortlessly, strike for strike. . . .

It is all happening so fast now, faster than any martial arts combat sequence I’ve ever seen, even in those SFX-enhanced ancient Hong Kong action movies where people fly on hidden wires, seemingly by magic. I can no longer tell what’s going on.

I also momentarily wonder if either of these Atlanteans is actually human.

No way on God’s green Earth—or on Atlantis—will I, or for that matter any of the Candidates, ever be able to do anything even remotely close to what’s being demonstrated here before our eyes. This is insane!

Then just as unexpectedly they come to a stop. Their feet are planted in wide stances, hands held in pliant beautiful final forms, palms of one hand touching their opponent’s while the other hand floats. Their gazes are unblinking and they stand looking at each other, with only slightly elevated breathing to mark their impossible exertions.

A pause.

Then Oalla breaks away, lowers her palm and then lowers her head in a small bow, then steps backward. “My profound thanks, astra daimon.”

Aeson Kass nods to her, and straightens, stepping out of his own final form. “A pleasure as always, daimon Oalla.”

“Wait, what? She’s a daimon too? What’s a daimon again?” The dreadlocks guy next to me whispers, and I throw him a quick glance, raising my eyebrows and widening my eyes to indicate cluelessness.

Bad move.

All three Atlanteans turn in our direction, and suddenly the dreads guy and I are both being scrutinized by three intense stern gazes.

“You ask what is a daimon,” Keruvat says. “We are astra daimon. We are the elite of the Star Pilot Corps, who have mastered our disciplines and excelled beyond the rank expectations of the Fleet.”

Oalla glances at Keruvat, followed by a fleeting glance at Aeson. Then she again looks at us—at me in particular. “The astra daimon answer to no one but their own. We are a brotherhood and sisterhood, the best of the best. To be chosen as one of our brethren, a Pilot must earn the honor. The astra daimon have mastered the disciplines of at least one of the Four Quadrants. See this band on my arm?” She points to the yellow armband on her sleeve. “These are not mere ‘dorm colors’ as you might have seen on some of the other Instructors. It is a symbol of my chosen discipline and Allegiance to the Yellow Quadrant.”

“As mine is to the Blue Quadrant,” Keruvat says, pointing to his own blue armband sleeve.

“And what about him?” the guy with locks next to me speaks up suddenly, motioning at Aeson Kass. “Is he some kind of black ninja?”

A few stifled giggles and nervous titters are heard.

Aeson’s expression does not change. Everyone stares at the black armband on his sleeve.

Oalla addresses locks. “Your name, Candidate?”

“Who? Me?” the kid with the locks says. “Yeah, okay. I’m Tremaine—Tremaine Walters.”

“Tremaine Walters, you think this is funny?” Oalla says. Her voice is hard as flint.

“Uhm, no . . . sorry.”

“The black color of his armband means that this astra daimon has died on our behalf. He has given his life once for the Fleet and his brethren, and he was brought back, and we are forever indebted to him—all of us, indeed, all of Atlantis.”

Keruvat adds, “A black armband is the highest honor, and is usually earned posthumously—after death. Command Pilot Aeson Kass is a rare exception. He is one of the few in our history who has the right to wear the black armband while living.”

I hold my breath, and so does, it seems, everyone else in the gym hall. Tremaine’s jaw drops.

“All right, any more questions, before we proceed?” Oalla scans the room, glancing down the two rows of Candidates.

In that moment, some crazy brain thing makes me open my big fat mouth.

“Yes, I have a question . . .” I say, raising my hand tremulously. And then the words just come pouring out, because I am in the blab zone. “Why? Why all this? Why must there even be Combat? Why do we need to learn to fight, and hurt, and possibly kill other people, in order to Qualify for just being alive? Doesn’t Atlantis have some kind of organized legal system so that the average citizen doesn’t need to engage in violence? I mean—”

It’s gotten so quiet you can hear the hum of the air conditioning.

Everyone is staring at me.

And I mean, everyone.

 Oalla watches me with an intense scrutiny, and Keruvat’s expression is curiosity.

But it is Aeson Kass who speaks.

“You ask why we are required to fight?” The Command Pilot looks at me directly, and I feel his gaze like a tangible thing, as though a bright searchlight is suddenly shining at me and through me. “In Atlantis, we believe in taking responsibility for ourselves. As you learn to fight, you learn to defend yourself from physical harm. You acquire a powerful self-preserving skill set, and a specific attitude. This attitude carries across to other aspects of your life. So that you can defend yourself from other less tangible but far more dangerous things that can break you—not just your body, but your spirit. Things such as deception, corruption, disparagement, coercion, false accusation and persecution. Subtle evil things that undermine you. And if you can maintain the inner ability to defend yourself against influence, you can build a purpose in your life that no one can take away from you.”

He pauses momentarily, still looking at me, holding me like a fly caught in amber, in the overwhelming power of his gaze. “In Atlantis, we believe that purpose is the most important virtue. You can lose your freedom, your health, your honor, everything you love and care about. And yet, if you still have your purpose, you have lost nothing.”

He ends, his words falling like bright ringing things. “Does that answer your question?”

Silently, I nod. . . . For the first time in like ever, I, who usually talk in class and competitively argue with all my teachers, I who have geeky amazing opinions to offer and theories to elaborate or dispute—I’ve been rendered speechless. Why? I’m not sure exactly, but for some reason the things he just said kind of blew my mind. I feel like I suddenly understand why—why Combat.

As I stand thinking this, his cool gaze leaves me. Aeson Kass turns away and nods once to Keruvat and Oalla. In the next breath, he has forgotten me and now observes the rest of the Candidates.

I exhale. . . .

Next to me Tremaine raises his eyebrows and gives me a “wow” look. On the other side of me, the Asian girl whose name I don’t know makes brief sympathetic eye contact.

And then we forget everything because Oalla Keigeri shouts a command.

“Candidates! You will now learn the basic forms of Er-Du! Watch and follow me!”

She strikes a simple wide stance opening form, and suddenly we all move, copying her. A few feet down the line, Keruvat falls into the same opening form, moving elegantly like her doppelganger.

I step forward, and raise my right hand, lamely trying to repeat what the two Atlantean Instructors are doing. My hand is shaking, my wide stance is unsteady.

I seriously hope that, whatever he might be doing, Aeson Kass is not looking at me right now.

* * *