CHAPTER ELEVEN

Nefir utters a clean low note, steady and in a perfect pitch, and the cup-shaped object floats before him like a drifting golden cloud. Nefir walks to the front of the class and stands at the desk. He makes another tone, this time brief and falling, and the cup descends gently and rests on the surface of the desk.

We are all staring at him with open-mouthed attention.

“This is a small replica model of a much larger object that can be found on display in Poseidon, the capital city of Imperial Atlantida. The original stands, more than two hundred meters tall, and marks the first landing site of the oldest colony on the surface of the planet Atlantis.” Nefir looks at each one of us slowly, and his power voice begins to raise the hairs on our skin. “What is it? It is the Atlantis Grail. A symbol of everything our society stands for. Both ancient tradition and new modern innovation. It embodies the spirit of the New World which we inhabit.”

Nefir pauses, then reaches out to draw the tip of one finger against the golden rim of the object. The cup shape itself is wide and somewhat flattened, and appears to be made of smooth solid gold without any distinguishable markings. At Nefir’s touch, the metal makes a pleasant ringing tone, like a small bell.

“Can you hear it? The Grail sings. Even this little one, the poor replica I just rendered for you on a 3D printer up in the main offices of the Arena Commons Building, fifteen minutes ago. Even this one has the echo of the power that is contained in the original.”

We listen closely. It’s true, the echo of the bell tone caused by his touch seems to be still hanging in the air.

Okay, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Honestly, I have no idea what makes me do these crazy things that involve me suddenly flapping my mouth open and talking in class—but I take a big breath and raise my hand.

Nefir’s general gaze focuses on me. “Yes?”

“Is that material real gold? I mean, this replica, and the original? And if not gold, then what is it? What makes it conduct sound—or react to sound, or—” My questions fade into mutters.

Next to me Laronda is looking at me with her eyes rolling.

“You ask interesting questions. But they are better suited for your Atlantis Tech class,” he says. “However, I will answer the first question because it is relevant. Yes, this is the element gold. And yes, so is the original Grail in Poseidon, great ancient city. . . . You might’ve heard rumors that there is so much naturally occurring gold metal on Atlantis that we consider it a base metal—which may seem unusual to you since gold is still so rare and prized on Earth. Well, it is true, gold is overabundant and we do not value it as much as our ancestors valued gold when we still lived on Earth. However we have many uses for it, and it is a profound part of our culture.”

“Oh yeah? Then this homey’s coming to Atlantis!” a boy says in the back row. A few snickers are heard.

 “First, you must prove yourself. You must Qualify.” Nefir looks at the boy with a slow blooming smile.

“You bet!” the kid says with a crooked grin.

“What is your name, Candidate?”

“Dionte Jones, mister teacher. Or you can call me Dion-Z, as in, Zee one and only Diontay, get my parlay?”

More hushed snickers roll through the room.

But the Atlantean is unperturbed. “Qualify, and I will call you what you wish.”

And then Nefir looks away and calmly continues his lecture. I watch him, hoping he will reach for one of the ancient books, but no such luck.

“Atlantida,” Nefir speaks the word so that it sounds truly alien. “Atlantida is the word in our core language that means Atlantis. It is the original name of the continent and of our colony planet, and also the first nation that was formed. Your Greeks had remembered the remnants of our language in bits and pieces, and apparently passed it onward into the ages. And now, ancient words and fragments are all that you have to remember us by, the once-great civilization that was Atlantis.”

I raise my hand again.

This time Nefir looks at me and smiles. “Yes?”

“Is the Ancient Atlantean language mostly a predecessor to our Earth Ancient Greek, or are there also some Egyptian influences in the mixture, and possibly Mesopotamian, such as Sumerian or Urartu? Oh, and what about Sanskrit?”

“What is your name, Candidate?”

“Gwen Lark.”

“You are observant and certainly show a lot of interest, which is admirable. Unfortunately it’s beyond the scope of this class to learn the language or its intricacies, only the most rudimentary basics. However, you are welcome to seek me out and ask me outside of class. The same goes for all of you who have more in-depth questions. Find me in the offices on the upper floor of the Arena Commons building, during your Homework Hour.”

I nod. “Okay. . . .”

“To briefly answer—yes, there are many of your ancient Earth languages that carry in them remnants of Atlantean. After all, we ruled your world, our culture and technology permeated all the Earth continents. But today, I will speak of the structure of our governments.”

A few sighs are heard. But Nefir’s voice picks up in tone, if not volume, to energize and engage. “The oldest nation, Atlantida is an Imperial Democracy. It is important that you know this, because it tells you about our society and our laws. There are other nations on Atlantis that are pure democracies, or hereditary democratic monarchies, and republics. In nearly every instance, it is important that you understand that our government is formed out of elected representatives, and that our rulers—imperial or otherwise—are mostly figureheads, and have no control over the workings of the government or its laws.” Nefir pauses, for emphasis. “The Imperator and the Imperial Family, they are inspirational and ceremonial, and they preside over public spectacle and traditional events. Meanwhile, councils of elected officials run the government. We have no tyrants, no despots on Atlantis. Such a thing is considered an ancient barbaric anachronism. We choose our government. And our laws are fair and just, for all citizens.”

Laronda makes a small sound that only I can hear. I glance at her, and her lips are mouthing, “Yeah, right. . . .”

Another girl, emboldened by my questions, raises a hand. “So what kind of rights do people have? Will we become full Atlantis citizens if we Qualify?”

Nefir pauses. For a moment, his eyes narrow slightly. He is considering his reply carefully. “No,” he says. “Those of you who Qualify for rescue, will not become citizens. Citizenship is not automatic, it is an earned honor. You will enter our society as resident aliens coming under humanitarian refugee status.”

The classroom comes alive with nervous whispers.

Nefir speaks, ignoring the unrest. “As such, you will have all the basic rights accorded to human beings—they include the rights to basic food, housing, education, healthcare, and a chance to work and socialize. However, you will not have the right to vote or advance to the highest elected offices of government. Only citizens can vote. Only citizens can affect and make laws. Nor will you have automatic access to the more advanced privileges of society.”

“Whoa! Whoa!” Dionte Jones speaks up without raising his hand. “Are you telling us we’ll be some kind of lower class, second-hand crappy residents, just because we weren’t born into your society? Are we going to be slaves? Oh, hayyyell, no!”

“Rest assured, there are no slaves in our society. But there are those whom we call non-citizens, and whom you would consider as the lower economic class, and the less privileged—something that is not at all unlike what you presently have here on Earth. It is a natural result of a free society, is it not?”

“All human beings are supposed to be equal!”

Nefir stares at Dionte with a hard unblinking stare. “Are they? You have billionaires and you have beggars. Even in this so-called ‘more developed’ country that you call the United States of America—a one-time superpower that has now slipped in influence to secondary world power status behind your China and United Industan and Great Scandinavia. We are no different. However, we do not pretend to take our natural, native-born privileges for granted.”

He pauses, still looking at the boy, and his expression grows more and more derisive. “All of you who are born here are citizens. You can choose to vote or not, to participate in the making of your society or not—and mostly, you don’t. You can sleepwalk through life and ignore the greater problems around you, as you steep in your own petty personal issues and pass your time casually existing. We, on the other hand have to prove to ourselves, and to others around us, that we will actively make the effort to shape our society and take responsibility for it, always. And only once we do this, are we citizens. In short—everyone has basic rights, but everyone earns their privileges.”

I take a deep breath and raise my hand again, for the third time today.

Nefir shakes his head lightly, but his lips appear to relax as he turns to me. “Yes, Gwen?”

Holy moly, has it already come to this? The Atlantean Instructors already know me by name. . . .

“What can I or any of us do to become citizens?” I say. “Full citizens of Atlantis, with all the privileges, such as the right to vote, and so on?”

There’s a pause.

The classroom has grown perfectly silent.

Nefir meets my gaze with his unblinking stare. “Nothing,” he says after the tiniest hint of hesitation. His voice, if I’m not mistaken, appears to be genuinely sad. “For most of you—or to be precise, for almost all of you—there is nothing you can do to become full citizens of Atlantis. You will arrive on our world, you will integrate into our non-citizen society, and you will live long, average, probably comfortable lives, filled with mediocre achievements. But you will not be stars—you will not shine to the fullest, as would a true citizen for whom there are no limits.”

“Okay, that’s kind of depressing. Actually, it sucks . . .” a girl mutters. “But I guess it’s better than getting hit by the asteroid.”

Nefir glances at her briefly. “I am glad you understand.”

I am still processing this answer. . . . Something inside me has just died slightly at the thought of . . . enforced mediocrity. I don’t know what it is. . . . But it occurs to me, I guess I’ve always unconsciously thought I’d be doing something a little more important with my life, just even a little! As a matter of fact—okay, face it, Gwen—I’ve aspired for something extraordinary, something that might push the limits, and allow me to use my mind to the fullest. . . .

I am crazy! Since when? I guess—since now!

Come on, Gwen, it occurs to me in this moment of tough self-revelation. You know you’ve always wanted to be intellect-smart, and that’s what you ended up being.

Being a physical klutz was a badge of honor. You always cared about learning things. And you didn’t care about stuff like sports or gym class because secretly you’ve thought all of that was useless and a waste of time, not to mention a little beneath you. Stupid physical stuff for dumb jocks . . . while you were going to invent things, learn a hundred languages, or discover ancient mysteries, or somehow change the world. Who needs to maintain a toned body for that? Okay, I know, that last thought is pure irony.

Wow. Maybe the asteroid really should just take me out now. Because if I can’t try to do all these amazing things with my life (with or without fully acknowledging my physical body, because yeah, now I get it), then what’s the use of anything?

I raise my hand, and begin to speak before Nefir even looks at me.

“You said, ‘almost nothing.’ Actually, sorry, you said, ‘nothing for almost all of us.’ So does that mean that for a few of us there’s something? That a few of us can become citizens? How?”

Nefir exhales his breath and watches me with his kohl-rimmed lapis eyes.

I watch him back, look straight into those unreadable Atlantean eyes that I’ve rather grown accustomed to. And I don’t blink. Because this is important for me, really important. . . .

“Gwen Lark, ah-h-h. . . . You really do ask some difficult questions.” Nefir speaks at last. He begins to pace before the desk, and he looks somewhat uncomfortable.

“Technically,” he says, “technically, yes, there is a way a non-citizen refugee from Earth can become a full citizen of Atlantis.” He glances at the golden cup object. “We have an annual event, in honor of the Atlantis Grail. They are Games—Games of the Atlantis Grail. The closest Earth equivalent would be your Olympics. And yet, they are not really the same thing at all. Because the Games of the Atlantis Grail are life-and-death contests of strength, endurance, speed, and pure talent. Contestants compete to win, or to die.”

“Not all that different from what we’re doing now,” I say. “Qualify or die.”

“Oh, no!” Nefir makes a short sound that might be a laugh. “If you think your Qualification is even remotely similar—okay, maybe only in the most technical sense of having life-threatening high stakes—in that case, yes, I suppose it is. But, no—the Atlantis Grail is brutal. The Games include events and tasks of unspeakable difficulty, contests between world-class competitors, master fighters and athletes, master scientists and artists. People train for years before attempting to enter the Games. If any of you refugees from Earth were to enter, you would first have to train—which would take months, years. And even so, you would still lose your lives.”

The class has grown so silent that I don’t think anyone’s breathing.

To bring his point home, the Atlantean finally looks away from me, and now his gaze scans the room. He pauses to consider. “Let’s see—this year’s Games will take place just as you arrive on Atlantis, which would be about six of your Earth months from now. I suppose you could use the time on-board our starships to train, in time for this year’s event . . . in which case, my sympathies are with you in advance.”

Nefir pauses again then puts his fingers on the rim of the golden grail. “Natives of Atlantis die every year in the Games. Thousands of them die—people of great talent and resourcefulness. Good, solid non-citizens who sacrifice themselves for a remote wild dream. Because, out of thousands of entrants, only Ten can win each year. Ten lucky winners who are called champions can gain the laurels of citizenship and all the high tech luxuries that come with it. Furthermore, all the champions’ wishes are granted automatically—anything within the scope of possibility. To be in the Top Ten each year is the fulfillment of everything imaginable.”

“If so many people die, then why do they even bother entering?” someone says from behind me.

“Because the rewards are extraordinary. And because it is human nature—to try and prove yourself.” Nefir shakes his head. “There are exclusive luxuries. There are unique and expensive high-end technologies such as advanced medicine that can work miraculous cures. Basic medical resources for the general population do not offer such treatments. But a champion winner of the Atlantis Grail can demand access to any and all procedures. Some past champions have used their newfound privilege to achieve complete physical transformations, while others have used it to cure family members of all diseases—”

“Can you cure cancer?” I interrupt suddenly. My gut is suddenly churning with a cold strange feeling. . . .

Nefir glances at me. “No. Because what you call ‘cancer’ is not a true disease. It is DNA-level cell damage, an imbalance. A body’s general loss of control over its mechanisms, cell function, and resources. The causes are varied, including genetic predisposition, environmental stressors, and lifestyle choices. But the end result is the same—a body’s surrender to itself. There is no ‘cure.’ What our medical technology can do is remove the cancerous cells already present and then restore your body’s control and general immune functionality—you might say, reset the internal immune clock. But the fight against any new damage remains up to the individual.”

“Sounds like a cure to me.”

“Perhaps.” Nefir looks away from me and faces the rest of the class. “Any other questions on the Atlantis Grail?”

Candidates watch him back with dimmed expressions. I glance to one side of me and see Laronda frowning. And on the other side, a boy is shaking his head in disgust. There are many stunned faces. For the first time, it seems we’ve all suffered a strange blow to our confidence, to our very hope.

This new reality about non-citizenship, now that we know about it, really sucks. I should be dazed and depressed as everyone. And yet—for some reason, my mind is racing. . . .

I am thinking what might happen if my Mom underwent treatment with this advanced medical technology, had all her cancerous cells blasted away, her immunity reset—or whatever it is they would do to renew her body’s defenses.

To make it happen, all I’d need to do is first Qualify, then train and enter the Games of the Atlantis Grail.

And then, finally, I would need to beat out thousands of highly skilled native Atlanteans in unspeakable contests of skill, strength, and endurance, and win the Atlantis Grail.

Naturally I would also need to do all this before the asteroid hits Earth. Then, as a champion, I can make all my demands to have my parents saved and brought over to Atlantis, and Mom can get her treatment.

I start laughing quietly at my crazy self, and end up having to put my hand over my mouth.

 * * *

The rest of the day is a blur of pain and overextended stretched muscles. After Atlantis Culture I say bye to Laronda who heads to a different class. And then I haul my butt downstairs to the basement for torture—ahem, Agility Training. Here I discover that it is possible to feel even more agony and humiliation.

Oalla Keigeri, the Atlantean drill sergeant, makes us run seven laps instead of five. This time the widely spread-out snake of Candidates barely dragging themselves along the perimeter of the gym is even longer than yesterday. A few athletic types make good time around the room—including Claudia Grito who’s once again in my class. I watch her pass me several times—on her third and fourth lap while I am still on my second—and try to keep a wide berth between us. But after this morning’s incident she’s ignoring me completely, and instead showing off her great runner pace.

Everyone else who is not a jock is barely huffing along, and once again I come in dead last, and earn a demerit.

“Have you been running like I told you?” Oalla asks, scanning my yellow token.

“Yes . . .” I gasp, bending over to catch my laboring breath. “But it’s only been . . . one day. I . . . ran this . . . morning.”

The Atlantean girl looks at me hard. “You will run again tonight, and then again tomorrow morning.”

Then for the next forty minutes we practice a combination of hoverboarding around the room, and climbing the scaffolding.

“You will climb all the way to the top tier, run across it, then climb back down to the ground,” Oalla tells us. Then you will climb back up halfway, run across the middle tier to the other end and climb back down. Repeat this until I tell you to stop.”

The class groans. Even guys like Chris who are in reasonably good shape, don’t look too happy.

We start climbing the scaffolding. It’s only been a few moments and I can already barely feel the rungs of the ladder with my fingers as I enter a kind of weird disembodied state of exhaustion. It comes over me as I drag myself up and then barely run across the tall scaffolding strip, trying not to look over the edge down. There are people ahead of me and behind me, and occasionally we collide as someone runs too slow or too fast, and all I see is the back and legs of the person before me. . . .

I lose track of time completely. There is only my labored breathing, a weakness in all my extremities and a dull ache in my gut. At some point I think I am going to throw up, as I stagger and barely hold on to the rungs on my umpteenth way down, almost losing my grip and falling.

Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly see Blayne Dubois. He is also in this class today apparently, and I haven’t noticed, because he is body-surfing the hoverboard high up overhead, higher than the highest level of scaffolding, almost near the ceiling.

Wow. . . . In my daze of exhaustion it occurs to me—how easily he handles the turns, and he is flying fast, super-fast, like a pro, easily, fearlessly. His dark hair is sleeked back from air resistance, and I see his body is arranged flat and compact on the hoverboard, his legs and feet fixed straight, without slipping.

For someone who cannot walk, thus boy has remarkable balance. And the sleek way his hands extend at his sides resemble an Olympic skeleton rider hugging the sled with his body.

I stare at Blayne flying overhead and almost get knocked off the scaffolding as the person behind me runs into me, because apparently I’ve stopped to gawk.

“Sorry . . .” I gasp to the boy behind me and then continue my teetering run forward to the end of the scaffolding where the ladder begins.

“No slacking! Keep going, everyone!” On the ground Oalla is looking up at me, and her voice rings through the training hall.

This goes on for several more interminable minutes.

Next up, Oalla gathers us on the ground and calls down the hoverboards. We stand upright, some of us looking dazed like zombies. Jack Carell, the large heavy boy with blond curly hair, is wiping rivulets of sweat from his reddened face.

“This time you will ride the hoverboards in a wave pattern.” Oalla says, looking at the sorry lot of us, while the hoverboards line up, levitating in rows, six inches above the floor.

“Huh?” Mateo Perez says gruffly, blinking sweat away from his eyes.

“Yesterday, you rode the boards along a flat plane, never rising or falling,” Oalla says. “Today we ride a vertical wave, constantly rising and descending, so that you learn to keep balance on an incline slope.”

Oalla then looks around and up, noting Blayne Dubois who is making a circle pass about twenty feet up in the air, near the ceiling. “Blayne!” she says loudly. “Please come down here for a moment.”

We all stare, some in greater amazement than others, as the “wheelchair guy” as some of the whispering Candidates refer to him, calls out a series of confident commands. Suddenly his hoverboard nosedives, at the same time as it is sliding closer to our group. In the next blink he comes to a stop before Oalla.

Blayne raises himself up on his hands, so that his upper body is elevated while his lower body and legs remain stretched flat on the board. I can see the muscles in his upper arms tense up. He then looks up at her in expectancy, head turned to the side, with a cool expression on his face. His hair is falling over his blue eyes, and his breathing is elevated, but only slightly. “Yeah?”

It occurs to me, Blayne does not seem to be particularly affected by the hot Atlantean girl’s stunning good looks. . . . He appears to be rather indifferent, and you might even say, annoyed. Not much surprise there—Blayne is apparently annoyed by most people.

“Blayne, please demonstrate the wave pattern as I showed you earlier,” Oalla says, looking down at him. Her tone of voice actually goes mild compared to what she uses with the rest of us. Does she feel sorry for him, I wonder?

“Ride the hoverboard from here to the end of the room and back. Use the Rise-Descend-Level command pattern on repeat. Candidates, observe!”

Oh yeah, the sergeant bark is definitely back in that last sentence.

“Sure,” Blayne says. He lowers himself flat, chin to the board, arms and hands stretched out at his sides, tight against his body, assuming an aerodynamic position—and I can see from up-close he is in fact gripping the edges of the board with his fingers.

Then he commands the hoverboard to do a 360 turn to face the back of the room. And then, “Go! Rise!” The board pounces forward and immediately starts sloping up until it is ten feet over our heads—“Descend!” The board is now falling—“Level!” It levitates forward for about five feet.

And then Blayne repeats the command sequence. He is rising and falling like a moving sine wave, a vertically undulating snake, a sleek dolphin gliding through an airy ocean. . . .

Candidates watch with slack jaws as he travels the length of the hall, comes to the end, then returns.

“Nicely done!” Oalla points to the other boards hovering at ready. “Now, all of you, do the same, except you will be standing up.”

“Yeah, right,” a girl mutters.

The class lines up and we begin. The first few hoverboard riders flail wildly, and there are undignified yells as teens barely hang on during the rising and falling stages.

There’s one boy ahead of me in line for the hoverboard, and I stand waiting, with quaking knees, and think about how I am afraid of heights.

This is about to get really bad.

My turn is here. I get up on the hoverboard and find my basic stance. The rubber soles of my sneakers dig into the charcoal gray surface of the board, as if that’s going to help once I start the up-and-down rollercoaster. . . . Ugh.

I take a deep breath. “Go! Rise!”

The board underneath me lurches, and I feel myself lifting up, and at the same time moving forward. I lean in, pressing forward, with my knees bending to maintain the horizontal balance. Three feet, five feet, eight. My sneakers dig into the board and I am wobbling like crazy, hands apart for balance. “Descend!” I speak through my teeth and at the same time squeeze my eyes, as I feel the floor drop out from under me as the rollercoaster plunges. . . . The rubber soles of my footwear begin to slip. . . .

Hold on, hold on, hold on . . . just hold on!

I open my eyes, and it’s a good thing too, because I am about to crash into the floor—“Level!” I cry out in panic, then take deep calming breaths, as I now glide on even ground, six inches above the floor.

And then I do the whole thing over again.

The pattern of rising and falling is strangely hypnotic, and by the fourth time, I still haven’t fallen off, and I am almost beginning to relax—almost. At the apex of each rise, I simply squeeze my eyes shut every time, then say the “Descend” command, then give myself over to whatever universal deity is watching (and probably laughing its head off—if that particular deity has a head, that is—okay, sorry, I am babbling, as you can tell).

Anyway, somehow I turn myself around, arms and hands flailing wildly, and I come back to the starting spot. I stumble off the hoverboard and let the next person get on. At last I let my intense concentration slip . . . and as I do, suddenly I see that people have fallen off their hoverboards all over the room.

Holy moly! There’s Jai, sitting down on a mat and nursing a hurt knee, while his hoverboard levitates crookedly next to him, spun out at a 140-degree angle. A few feet away, further along the mats, I see another kid whose name I don’t know, also off his board and rubbing his legs. Across the room, there’s a dark-skinned girl with braided cornrows who limps and tries to stand up.

And there’s Claudia Grito. She crouches on the edge of a mat, apparently tying her shoelaces, while her board is hovering two feet over her head.

Claudia went down! Yes!

Okay, I allow myself one mean moment of triumph, and then I try to look away, but I think there’s a little smile now that’s stuck on my face.

In that exact moment, Claudia looks up, and I swear, she is staring directly at me. Oh, crud! Did she see me smile?

I pretend I am fiddling with my ponytail, while I notice that Oalla has turned to me with a nod of approval. Amazingly, it occurs to me, I am one of the few people who have not fallen off their hoverboard during the wave ride.

A few minutes later, the last person ends their hoverboard turn, and class is dismissed.

“I will see you here tomorrow, and I want you to practice the things that give you the most trouble,” Oalla says loudly.

I watch Blayne Dubois come down from riding near the ceiling on the hoverboard, and there’s his wheelchair, pushed up against the wall. While the other teens are turning in their hoverboards and walking past him, he directs the hoverboard to stop and levitate higher up than normal, about two feet off the ground and nearly level with the seat of his wheelchair. He pushes himself off the board with both hands, then drops himself into the chair from above, cleverly landing in a seated position.

Next, he arranges his lifeless legs and feet in the chair, and commands the hoverboard away.

I watch as he just sits there, paused, thinking about something. . . .

And then I go up to him. “Hey,” I say. “Did you ever ask them about letting you keep that hoverboard outside of class? You really should. . . .”

Blayne looks up at me. His expression is startled, as if I’d woken him up from a daydream. “Hey,” he says. “Oh, it’s you. Uhm, no. I am not going to ask.”

I feel an immediate jolt of frustration. “Why not?”

“Because it’s none of your business!”

Okay, what is it with this guy?

“Sorry,” I say. “But—look, all I am saying is, this is a great opportunity. And you are kind of good on this hoverboard thing. I mean, really good. You know, you could maybe ask them to borrow it for a little bit each day—”

“Gwen Lark,” he says my name with emphasis, while a frown grows on his face. “You are really getting on my nerves, you do realize? Why don’t you get lost and leave me the hell alone!”

I bite my lip, and shrug. “Okay, sorry . . . Whatever. . . .”

And then, because an unexpected lump starts to form in the back of my throat, and I suddenly feel a familiar pressure in my eyes, I quickly turn around. Before I start crying, I get out of the gym hall and race up the stairs.

* * *