CHAPTER NINETEEN

The next morning I wake up to the now familiar 7:00 AM alarm claxons, and I remember that I’ve forgotten to do my running homework the night before.

Ugh, great. . . .

Everyone’s groaning in the dormitory, girls on all sides of me complain, as we start getting out of beds and checking our blisters and pulled muscles.

I turn and look at Laronda who stretches her arms, yawning widely.

“Ready for another day of hell camp?”

“Bring it on!” Laronda replies, with another huge yawn.

On the other side of me, I see the brown-haired girl in the other bed next to mine whose name I still don’t know. She looks very sad and kind of sickly. And she is not moving out of bed.

I decide to remedy the situation by introducing myself. “Hi, there,” I say. “Good morning! It’s funny that we’ve been neighbors for like four nights now, but I don’t think I know your name. I’m Gwen—Gwen Lark.”

“Hi,” she says, and her voice sounds grainy with sleep. “Sorry—my English is not great—my name is Hasmik Tigranian.”

“Oh, yeah?” Laronda says on the other side of me. “Hasmik, that’s a pretty name. What kind of name is it?”

“I’m Armenian,” the girl says.

“Oh, really? That’s pretty cool. I’m Laronda Aimes.”

“Wow,” I say. “Armenia is such an amazing ancient country! I read about it some, it used to be a huge empire at the time of Babylon and earlier, probably all the way back to the time of the original Atlantis, I wouldn’t be surprised. It used to be where Mount Ararat is now, the same famous mountain from the Bible where Noah’s Ark landed after the Flood—”

“Yes,” Hasmik says, pulling back her blanket, and sits up. “But now I am from Boston.” And she gives me a weak smile.

“So, how you surviving this Qualification nightmare?” Laronda is now up and messing around her own makeshift clothesline of hand-washed underwear stuffed around the edges of her mattress that she’s copied from me.

Hasmik sighs then swings her legs out of bed. I see skinny feet sticking out from under her long flannel nightgown. One of her ankles has an ugly bruise and swelling.

“Hey, you should go see a doctor,” I say, pointing to her ankle. “That doesn’t look too good.”

“I know,” she says, then winces as her foot touches the floor. “I’ve already go to doctor. He say I need to rest, but I can’t do that. He gave me medicine, and so I take it. The swelling goes down, but after Combat and Agility class, it hurts my foot again. No time to heal.”

Laronda pauses to stare at Hasmik with sympathy. “That’s awful, girl! You must be in crazy pain all the time!”

“Ayoh, shat tsavumeh . . . I mean, oh, yes.” The girl nods, and now I can see why she looks so pale and sickly. She must be living in agony.

Laronda and I stare at her, pretty much stunned.

Hasmik meanwhile opens a small plastic bag and out comes a medical bandage of sorts. She bends down and starts wrapping her ankle in the bandage, and her face is turning green with pain. Finally she is done, the ankle is secured as much as possible. Hasmik opens a pill bottle and pops one. She then smiles at us. “Okay now.”

“Oh, man, how long can you keep this up?” Laronda shakes her head.

Hasmik sighs again, shrugs. “Don’t worry, I keep going,” she says softly in a steady voice. And amazingly she gets up, without even limping, picks up a change of clothing and heads to the bathroom. “We go to breakfast, okay?” she adds, glancing back at us.

Speechless, we follow her.

* * *

After a quick breakfast downstairs with Laronda and Hasmik, we return to the Common Area lounge to get our daily class schedules scanned.

Dorm Leader Mark Foster passes the hand scanner over our tokens and reads our schedules. Weird, but apparently we all have second period Combat together and it’s going to be held in the Arena Commons building.

“That’s interesting,” Laronda says. “Seems like everyone’s in the same Combat class today.”

“Actually, yes.” Mark Foster looks up at her, and his face is serious. “The entire Yellow Quadrant is going to have Combat together today, in the large Arena. Which means, Yellow Dorms Four, Eight, and Twelve.”

“Three dorms together, wow. . . . How come?” I say.

“Ask your Instructors,” Mark says curtly. “Today, from what we’re told, they are doing some kind of hardcore mass Combat training. First period, Blue Quadrant, second period, you guys in Yellow. Then Red and Green. Everyone has to go to the Arena for this mandatory thing. Don’t be late to that one. . . .”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” Laronda bites her lip nervously and looks at us as we step away and let Mark continue scanning other people.

“Yeah, I don’t either,” I mutter.

Hasmik just sighs.

* * *

I sit next to Dawn Williams in Atlantis Culture class. To be honest, this morning the stress level is so high that I have trouble concentrating and hardly remember what the lecture is about, despite the compelling nature of the Instructor’s usual Storyteller voice.

This morning Nefir Mekei talks much about something innocuous, such as the kind of food they eat on Atlantis. The main takeaway is that because of the abundance of amazingly rich soil for crop production, Atlanteans have evolved to be mostly vegetarian and vegan, consuming a variety of fruits, vegetables, grains, legumes, and vegetable-based protein, especially the upper class citizens.

It is true, Nefir tells us, the non-citizens in the coastal regions of Atlantis consume some locally obtained seafood, but it is done with some distaste and from poverty. Those who can afford it definitely prefer the vegetable-based healthy proteins. And the wealthy citizens have access to fancy and delicious vegetable protein-based meat substitutes that are practically indistinguishable from what we Earthlings might consider premium quality animal meat.

Furthermore, vegetable protein is considered to be the ethical food choice. To kill an animal for sport is a strictly punishable crime. Even to kill as a necessity is looked down upon.

Derek Sunder raises his hand. “So, the big question remains, does that Atlantis veggie meat of yours taste like chicken?”

Snickers are heard around the classroom.

Nefir Mekei pauses and looks at Derek with his slightly creepy unblinking stare. And when I say “creepy unblinking stare,” I mean Nefir, because Derek also has his own creepy stare, except that this time he is getting “out-creeped.”

There is a long pause during which I get the satisfaction of seeing Derek blink first and squirm in his seat.

“Your question is not something I can answer,” Nefir says at last. “I don’t know the taste of your chicken.”

A few more giggles sound and are quickly stifled. A few teens hold hands over their mouths.

But the Atlantean does not smile. “If your chicken is a living creature, then you should not take pride in knowing its taste.”

“It’s just a dumb bird,” Derek says.

“And so are you, turkey . . .” Dawn whispers next to me, without looking up. Her face remains deadpan serious.

I fight very hard to keep my expression neutral, but my lips are quivering. Way to go, Dawn!

Derek must’ve heard, because he turns around and glares in our direction, but ignores Dawn and gives me a long evil stare.

I get a sudden jolt of familiar cold fear and no longer feel like laughing.

But Nefir says, “For the most part, we believe it is neither honorable nor fair to make fun of those who are helpless, or take advantage of those who are weak—regardless of what living species they are.”

“Yeah, well, here on Earth we raise chickens for food and eggs—what else would you call them? Dumbass birds, useless for anything else,” Derek says in an abrasive voice intended to provoke the Atlantean.

Nefir does not take the bait, only watches Derek calmly. “You might consider a living creature a ‘dumb bird.’ On Atlantis, we think differently.” And he does not elaborate.

An older teen girl raises her hand. “Okay, do you have tea and coffee on Atlantis? What do you guys drink? What about soda and carbonated stuff?”

Nefir nods. “Yes, we have similar hot and cold brewed drinks that are made from various plants native to Atlantis. They are not an exact equivalent, but very close. There’s even a cocoa-like plant that is similar to Earth chocolate.”

“What about alcohol? You know, beer, wine, hard cider, that kind of stuff?”

Nefir glances at her, and his expression relaxes slightly. “What do you think? We are human, after all.”

Snickers travel around the classroom once again, and a few guys clap and say, “Yeah!”

* * *

Class ends eventually, and we all head downstairs and then outside, toward the Arena Commons building.

I walk in a big crowd of Yellow Quadrant Candidates next to Dawn, and we manage to pick up Laronda and Hasmik along the way, plus Jai and Mateo and a few other guys we know. I look around, squinting from the morning sun, and see Blayne Dubois rolling along in his wheelchair, just a few steps behind us. The muscles of his arms strain as he quickly turns the wheels of his chair and keeps up with the flow of the crowd. Everyone’s tokens are lit up yellow, and everyone’s way more nervous than usual.

As we approach the AC building, blinking in the sunlight, the ranks of Yellow Candidates swell, as two more dorms join the crowd. At the doors, we see an oncoming opposite stream of Candidates with blue tokens, as they exit the building, making room for us. They look sweaty, dejected, and beaten down after a hard workout. Even the tougher guys among them look worn down. That must’ve been one helluva Combat class. . . .

“This is going to be super duper bad, with a cherry on top,” Laronda mutters.

I glance at Hasmik who’s walking next to me, and she looks pained but quietly determined.

Inside, the stadium portion of the building has been cleared of most of the equipment in the middle, to make room for the Candidates.

Already, double rows are forming, facing each other, stretching from one end of the track to the other. When they come to the end, a new iteration of double rows begins, and then a third one—that’s how many Candidates are present.

“Okay, this is huge!” Jai Bhagat exclaims.

We file in place, and stand somewhere in the middle of the second double row.

“I don’t want to spar with you guys, cause I don’t want to hit you,” Laronda says. “So why don’t we all just stand in this row next to each other, instead of across from each other? That way we would be partnered with someone else to beat and kick around.”

“Good idea,” I say.

“I really don’t want to ‘beat and kick around’ anyone,” Dawn says matter-of-factly, looking almost sleepy. “Sparring would be okay, though.”

“Shut up, girl!” Laronda laughs then punches her in the arm.

“Hey, save it for the actual class,” Mateo says, three persons down the line.

As we talk, other people we don’t know line up across from us. I end up facing some skinny blond girl my age with a perky short haircut.

Moments later, a familiar whistle blows, and we turn in the direction.

Far down the line, on the other end of the Arena, four Atlanteans stand, dressed in the usual grey uniforms. First is Oalla Keigeri, and her long metallic gold hair shines sun-bright. Next to her is Keruvat Ruo, his own closely-cropped head a golden halo, in contrast with raven-haired Xelio Vekahat who stands next to them.

The fourth one is Aeson Kass. He stands with his arms folded at his chest, watching us with a seemingly casual demeanor. And yet, everything about his posture whispers danger.

I feel an immediate twinge of nerves at the sight of him. I don’t know what it is precisely, alarm or terror or something else impossible to define. But immediately I am flashing back to that moment two nights ago . . . his stark bloodied face with its chiseled angles . . . lowered eyelids outlined in kohl, pale gold hair stained with soot and more blood . . . a striking profile backlit by the flames . . . the feel of his hard, muscular body against mine, as I desperately drag him down the rung stairs of the shuttle. . . .

“Attention, Yellow Quadrant!”

I am jerked back to reality by the deep booming voice of Keruvat Ruo. It needs no microphone to carry across the Arena.

“Stand up straight! First, we begin with stretching—feet apart, bend at the waist, touch your toes, then back up, lunge with right leg forward, repeat twenty times!”

I exhale, inhale, and begin the warm-up exercise.

A few minutes later we are done with several series of combo reps. I am panting for air, trying to catch my breath, and so is everyone else around me. But one thing is sure—my muscles feel alive. Blood and energy is rushing through my veins. And although the bone-weariness is still there, it has somehow become a secondary ache, retreating to the background.

* * *

After all, this is day four of Qualification—could it be that my body is getting used to the daily punishment?

However, there’s no time to ponder, because now Keruvat grows silent and Aeson Kass takes over.

“Candidates!” he says, as he begins to pace before our three double rows, while the other three Atlanteans walk behind him. “Today you will show me what you can do! Show me First Form, Floating Swan!”

The arena erupts in movement. Candidates, myself included, scramble to assume the First Position of rest and balance. Hundreds of feet pound the floor—an almost simultaneous motion—to take the initial side-step that widens the stance. . . . Then, arms and hands float, off to the side and straight ahead, fingers forming the precise curvature and sign.

I stand holding the Floating Swan, while I see with my peripheral vision to the right, Laronda stilled in hers, and beyond her, Dawn, Jai, Mateo. On the other side of me to the left is Hasmik, frozen in her stance that is all clean lines, and no one would ever suspect how much pain she is in right now. . . . To the left of her is Tremaine Walters with his long dreadlocks. Directly across from me the blond girl with short hair awkwardly holds her stance, her hand outthrust at me.

Aeson Kass walks the line, still many feet away, and I hear his voice cut like a knife. “Show me Second Form, Striking Snake!”

My extended hand drops away, and I slide into a forward lunge with one foot and at the same time strike forward with the other hand, bringing it around from the side—while all my fingers come together to form the snout of a snake. I feel my thigh muscles quake while my knees wobble. Everyone around me attempts to do the same, and I hear many grunts and shuffles.

Aeson’s voice approaches, sounds closer, somewhere only twenty feet behind me. Its hard rich timbre and power sends echoes through the otherwise silent space of the great stadium hall. “Show me Third Form, Spinning Wind!”

Oh lord, no, I really suck at this one. . . .

I force my body to move, and I begin the wide rapid half-turn into a 360-degree spin, arms out-flung to the sides, moving my hands lamely and trying not to hit Laronda and Hasmik on either sides of me. It’s one thing when you’re supposed to hit someone, but not when you do it unintentionally because you’re a dork.

This is where it all falls apart. As I stagger to regain my balance on return, apparently so do most of the Candidates in the hall.

“Halt!” Aeson Kass roars at us, and it’s like someone shoots me in the chest. I can feel his voice, a tangible weight of fierce intensity.

“Stop, and assume Floating Swan!” he says in barely leashed fury, just a few feet away in the other row behind me. “Shame and disgrace! You are not worthy of being called Candidates much less Atlanteans. You move like a herd of Earth cattle—broken, weak, useless! How badly out of shape are you, considering you are teenagers? An old man on Atlantis can move his dying carcass better than you!”

He approaches, and somewhere past my back I hear his boots striking the floor with angry impact.

I barely dare to breathe, frozen in the Floating Swan, holding my hands and arms in the floating stance, feeling them begin to quake with muscle tension. . . .

And then I hear him make the selections, as he quickens his pace along the rows.

“You! Take one step forward! You! And you! Step forward! You! Step forward! You! Move!”

As he returns to the end of one row and now enters our own row, I hear him say, “Those whom I called forward, will now stand on one foot until I tell you otherwise. If you set your other foot down, you will have to repeat, for twice the time. Now, stand on your right foot!”

As waves of horrified whispers and discontent race through our rows, Aeson continues walking swiftly past us, and makes his selections. “You! And you! Step forward, stand on your right foot!” he points at seemingly random teens who possibly display a less than perfect Floating Swan stance.

I see him approach from the corner of my eye, and he is like a demon. Blazing metallic hair, ruthless closed expression.

Astra daimon. . . .

“You!” He points at Hasmik. Then he passes me, and for a moment I see the flash of terrible dark-blue that is his eyes, as his gaze sweeps over me, and then continues.

Weirdly it occurs to me, how strange it is to see his eyes being open and so alive, as opposed to heavy closed eyelids and soot and blood and smoke. . . .

I blink.

Laronda is safe, and so is Dawn, but Jaideep Bhagat gets to step forward. Poor Jai, he stands on his right foot, awkwardly balancing with his hands.

I glance to my left and suddenly remember—Hasmik, oh no!

Hasmik stands on her one very hurt foot, and I see her eyes begin to glaze over with pain, while her hands are forming into fists.

But Aeson Kass has gone far down the line, and more and more Candidates are chosen to step forward in disgrace.

“Now, switch!” he exclaims, having come to the end of our row. “Stand on your left foot!”

I glance at Hasmik with sympathy as she switches to her other foot in major relief. “Hang in there!” I barely mouth the words, while she nods at me. Her expression remains stoic, but a sheen of sweat is starting to cover her face.

But after having made the round of all our rows, Aeson Kass is not done. “Now, Candidates, those of you standing on one foot, continue to do so. The rest of you, resume Forms! Show me Second Form, Striking Snake!”

Again we lunge, forming hands into snakes. And again I hear Aeson’s relentless voice start making the cruel selections. “You! Step forward! And you!”

“At this rate,” I hiss under my breath, to no one in particular, “all of us will be standing on one foot!”

Laronda silently rolls her eyes in pained agreement.

“Show me Third Form, Spinning Wind! Repeat Form until I tell you to stop! The others—switch and stand on your right foot!”

I gasp for air and move into the 360-degree turnabout. Meanwhile next to me Hasmik makes a single whimper of pain and again puts all her weight on the right foot with its badly swollen ankle.

Again the selections happen, and Aeson Kass stalks our rows like a panther.

“Damn, here he comes,” someone whispers. “What a prick . . .”

“You! Silence or Disqualification! Step forward!”

I watch, staggering after another turnabout, as the boy who got called out is then told to not only stand on one foot but jump up an down while standing on that one foot.

Holy lord!

While that’s all happening a few feet away, things are even worse right here. . . .

That’s because, next to me, Hasmik is turning green, and sweat is pouring down her forehead. The girl is going into shock.

I see her begin to sway, and so I pause my Form. . . .

What am I doing? This is crazy!

I casually step forward, pretending I was also called out, and stand on my right foot. Then I slowly reach out with my left hand, and take hold of her clammy hand closest to me. I feel her desperate slippery grip, then just the tips of her fingers touching mine. . . .

Together we stand, hands just barely touching—just enough to keep us both balanced, and her upright.

But it lasts only for about a minute.

Because next thing I know, Aeson Kass stands before me.

Did I really think he wouldn’t notice? Yeah, Gwen, you idiot. . . .

And then comes the sound of his voice. It cuts through me like fire and ice.

* * *