CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

In the morning, the Dorm Leaders drag us out of bed just as the wake-up alarm claxons go off. I come awake to the loud voice of Gina Curtis and then the additional shrill sound of her whistle, as she’s moving through the Girl’s Dorm floor.

“Attention! Good morning, everyone! Time to get up now, move it, ladies! Up, up, up! A big day today!”

“Awww, nooooo!” Laronda moans one bunk over. And similar groans of pain can be heard from all around the room.

I shudder, pull the blanket over my head and grimace at the pain that’s coming from every single tormented muscle in my body.

And then like a cold pail of water the sobering memory of the previous night hits me hard. . . .

“Move your rear ends, get in the bathrooms, get dressed, and be downstairs by seven-thirty AM! No breakfast! I repeat, no breakfast! Dorm meeting!”

“What’s going on?” a girl asks. “Is it something to do with that shuttle crash accident?”

Gina Curtis turns in her direction with an angry frown. “You can bet your sweet ass, it has everything to do with the tragedy of last night! Now, move it!”

I drag myself up and check the condition of my makeshift laundry “clothesline” around the mattress. My underwear managed to dry overnight, but the T-shirt and jeans are still a little wet. I can wear them and let them finish air-drying while on me. My socks however are still soggy, so with a grimace I put on my only other unwashed pair, because there’s just no way I’ll survive the day of new exercise without socks on my blistered feet.

Why am I thinking about underwear and socks?

I grab my clothes, run to the bathroom past other girls, as we push and shove to take care of our morning business.

I keep my head down and brush my teeth at the sink when I hear some familiar voices.

“I heard that three at least died,” Olivia says to another girl whose back is turned. Claudia is next to them, as they stand taking up real estate in front of the mirrors and two sinks.

“Yeah, well, serves the Goldilocks right . . . I won’t be shedding too many tears—” the girl hisses, then turns around and sees me staring.

“Shut up!” Olivia nudges her. “Quiet, idiot! Don’t let anyone hear you talk that way, or they throw you and me both out of here, and you can kiss Qualification goodbye!”

“You didn’t hear anything, Gwen Lark,” Claudia says, with an intense glare in my direction. “Unless you want me to brush your hair some more, you get my meaning?”

I shake my head, and look away, and quickly finish my business without saying a word. To be honest, I hardly care. . . . I think I’ve forgotten to be afraid of these alpha girls because of what has happened overnight, and it has given me a strange, new, serene perspective—a sense of cool desperation that is eclipsing all my other usual emotions that would otherwise be overwhelming me right about now.

My mind is going over and over the events of the previous night. . . .

Emotionally numb and yet clear-headed and focused, I come downstairs, and the first floor Common Area and lobby is packed with Candidates from our dorm. Dorm Leaders Gina Curtis, John Nicolard, and Mark Foster are standing in the middle of the room and they don’t look too happy.

“All right, attention!” Mark Foster raises his hand for silence.

“Last night, two Atlantean shuttles were involved in a serious incident here on the airfield,” John Nicolard says. His face is grave. “There was an incident on takeoff. One of them, carrying three passengers, exploded in flight, for reasons unknown, killing everyone on board. The second, carrying one pilot, crash-landed. The person in the second shuttle was injured but was fortunately treated by our EMTs on the ground. He was then taken up to the closest Atlantis starship for their advanced medical treatment via an emergency transport that was called down on his behalf. He is expected to survive, but I have no details on his present condition.”

“In short, this is a very serious situation,” Gina picks up speaking. “The airfield is off limits for the day, for cleanup. Furthermore, they are treating it as a possible crime scene. An investigation is going on right now, and we are told, there’s a very good chance that this was not an accident but that the shuttles were tampered with. Which means that this whole RQC compound is going to be under possible criminal investigation—all of us, all of you. If it’s determined that there was sabotage, and if any of the Candidates are at fault, then let me just say, I would hate to be that person or persons who are the guilty party.”

“If any of you here had anything to do with it,” Mark Foster says loudly, “they will find out. They will find you, and you will face criminal punishment, and an Atlantis trial in addition to Disqualification. You cannot hide. Strong recommendation—turn yourself in now. I sincerely hope none of you in this room were foolish enough to be involved with any kind of terrorist group.”

“All right, next order of business is, because of the incident, your schedule for today is rearranged,” John Nicolard says. “You will have fifteen minutes to grab some breakfast and then you will have your first two classes as per schedule. However, at one PM, right after lunch, there will be a general assembly for all Candidates in the Arena Commons building. Be there promptly! Now, come up and get scanned for your schedules.” 

We move in a crowd to get our tokens scanned. I am cold, clear-headed, sharp as a razor. Emotionally detached, I am moving on auto-pilot, as I then do a five-minute breakfast, and head to my first class.

 * * *

“Passion—Aggression—Anger—Force . . .” Nefir Mekei recites in Atlantis Culture class. “These are the qualities of the Red Quadrant. Together they embody the Red Cornerstone of Atlantis. Repeat after me!”

We echo his words, speaking in unison. The entire class is somewhat beaten down this morning, as we are still reeling from the events of the night before and the new vague threat of punishment hanging over our heads.

But the Atlantean Instructor does not show any emotion, or for that matter any normal living expression on his face. Usually reserved, today he is an absolute blank, as he paces before the desk covered with old scrolls and books that he never bothers to open. Only his Storyteller voice continues to mesmerize and keep us alive and attentive.

“Leadership—Control—Reason—Analysis . . .” he intones calmly. “These are the qualities of the Blue Quadrant. Together they embody the Blue Cornerstone of Atlantis.”

We repeat in unison.

“Endurance—Patience—Resistance—Strength. . . . These are the qualities of the Green Quadrant. Together they embody the Green Cornerstone of Atlantis.”

I watch Nefir’s composed face, and the unblinking stare of his kohl-rimmed eyes. I wonder if he knew the people who died in the shuttle crash. Of course he had to know them! Maybe they were his friends. Maybe he is grieving them even now, and does not show it. . . .

“Creativity—Originality—Curiosity—Inspiration . . .” he concludes. “These are the qualities of the Yellow Quadrant—your Quadrant. Together they embody the Yellow Cornerstone of Atlantis.”

Nefir pauses.

The class watches him, waiting. No one is asking questions, not even me.

“Your lesson for today is to think about what these qualities of the Four Quadrants really mean, and what makes them Cornerstones. Your homework is to memorize them. That is all.”

And with those words, Nefir Mekei grows silent. He then walks out of the classroom, with half an hour of lesson time still remaining, leaving us alone.

For the rest of that class we sit stunned, a few of us whispering nervously.

No one leaves the class early.

* * *

My next class before lunch is Combat. I get down to the basement gym hall and stand waiting with the others for our Instructors to arrive. No one’s using the exercise equipment.

“Wow, I hope our Instructors are okay,” Jai Bhagat says. He comes up to me, and with him is Mateo Perez.

I nod. “Yes. . . .”

“Any news on what actually happened?” Jai asks, pacing anxiously. “Who was on that shuttle?”

“I bet they’ll tell us during the assembly,” Mateo says.

“Where were you when it happened?”

I start a little. “Who, me?” Damn . . . why is Jai asking this? “I just got back to the dorm after running at the big track in the Arena Commons. I barely saw the sky flash white in the window—”

“Oh yeah, it was kind of awesome SFX, in a sick way!”

I frown at Jai and his crazy grin. Is he for real? “Don’t say that.”

“She’s right. Better keep your mouth shut, for everybody’s sake.” Mateo gives Jai a hard look, and turns away, sticking hands in his pockets.

Jai’s face goes serious for a moment. He appears hurt. “Hey, just saying . . . I mean it was like, neat optical effects, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Just—don’t say it out loud, moron.” Mateo turns back around and glares at him. “People died. And because of it, we might all be screwed now. What if they punish us and auto-Disqualify this whole RQC?”

A new freezing chill runs through me. . . . Mateo is right. The repercussions for what happened might be worse that any of us can even imagine. And it’s just the beginning.

Moments later, Oalla Keigeri and Keruvat Ruo enter the Training Hall.

Seeing them I feel a sudden wave of relief. The fact that these two could have been on that first shuttle is hitting me hard.

The two Atlanteans look different today. Their faces are hard and impassive, and Oalla, especially, is cold as ice.

Without any preliminaries, the Atlantean girl blows her whistle and we line up in two opposing rows without needing to be told.

Oalla and Keruvat stand in the middle of the room, looking at us.

It’s as if they are trying to see through us, to read our thoughts and minds, and learn our deepest secrets.

“Attention, Candidates!” Keruvat says in his deep voice, and it carries in echoes through the very silent gym hall. “Before we exercise or train today, we will observe a Moment of Honor for those who died a senseless death yesterday. In Atlantis, we sing farewells to our dead. Now, listen, and follow us.”

And then he sings. It is a single base note, a low D Minor, and he holds it, while Oalla sings the same note, only an octave higher.

One by one we echo them, singing the same note in different octaves, our voices naturally choosing whatever frequency is most comfortable, until the room is filled with one great big sound of harmonic grief.

It is said, D Minor is one of the saddest notes of all, and I agree.

It is also my favorite.

I open my mouth and pretend to make a sound, but today, nothing comes out.

* * *

I should be more exhausted than I am after Combat class—but I’m not—as I head upstairs from the basement floor to the first floor Common Area. Maybe all that endless exercise is having a positive endurance effect at last on my untrained wimpy muscles. After all, this is the third day here at the RQC. Or maybe it’s the fact that I am still reeling after what happened last night, and what I did. . . .

I walk through the lobby wiping my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand and think. I could try to go look for Gracie and the other Gees. Somehow the emo tantrum that Gracie threw last night got completely overshadowed by the incident that followed. Normally I would follow up with my kid sister, especially considering I have no idea what happened to her after she took off and left us in the Arena building.

But apparently there are other more pressing concerns. As I glance around the lobby and note quite a few Candidates from my dorm hanging around the sofas—which constitutes half the alpha crowd, including that jerk with the tats, Derek—the outside doors open and I see Logan.

He sees me also and immediately heads toward me.

Logan looks sleek and confident as he walks, and in the first instant my heart constricts painfully at how well-built and fine he truly is. Every muscle in his lean powerful body moves like music, and he casually turns his head to glance around the room, before his hazel eyes connect with mine.

I feel my breath catch, but I pause and stand stiffly, waiting for him to approach.

With my peripheral vision I see Olivia and Ashley pause their chatter to glance at me. Then they notice Logan, and immediately stare at him in appreciation. And they’re not alone. One by one, other girls look in his direction. Yeah, Logan has that effect on females—all females. And quite a few guys, I might add.

But then Derek with his wide neck and scary tattoo turns around and stares also, and his expression goes stone hard when he notices Logan moving my way.

“Hey, Gwen,” Logan says. Almost regretfully I notice his serious expression and the fact that he no longer calls me “Yellow Candy.”

“Hi.” I look up at him and hastily wipe my sweaty fingers over the front of my T-shirt. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” he says.

“Oh?”

“How are you?” His face is composed, but there is something new there, a repressed anxious expression hiding underneath the casual facade.

“I’m good,” I say. “Just had Combat class. And you?”

It’s becoming obvious that this is not a simple social call.  And when he’s asking, “how are you,” I think he means, “are you okay after last night?”

“You want to go grab something to eat now?” Logan nods in the direction of our Yellow Dorm Eight cafeteria.

I nod woodenly, and we go inside the noisy food hall with the overpowering smell of chili and hot dogs in the air.

As we stand in line getting our trays, Logan leans down close to my ear and says, “This is probably the easiest place to talk, with the solid noise cover.”

I glance up, and our faces end up barely inches away.

“I wanted to make sure you really are okay after yesterday,” he says softly, putting a plate with two chili-dripping hotdogs on his tray.

“Thanks.” My hand holding my own plate is a little unsteady. “I am fine, really. And I appreciate you asking, but you really didn’t have to go out of your way like this—”

“I’m not.” He frowns lightly. “This is not me ‘going out of my way’ bullshit. This is the least I can do, after what you went through. I needed to make sure you are dealing with it.”

“Yeah. Well, I am. I mean, what is there to deal with, really? I woke up and my voice is a little hoarse with the smoke inhalation, but that’s about it.”

We move through the line, loading up foodstuff on our plates, then find an empty table.

“Okay, and you haven’t mentioned anything to anyone, right?” He takes the seat next to me.

“Uhm, no, of course not. . . .” I stiffen up. Seriously, what kind of dork does he think I am? “Remember, I was the one who asked you to keep it quiet.”

He nods. “I know. But under the circumstances, it helps to have someone else to remind you, gently, because this is tough, if you have to bear it all alone.”

“Okay, what am I bearing, exactly? I didn’t do anything wrong!” I hiss at him through the large bite of hotdog that I’ve put in my mouth and forgot to chew.

“Sh-h-h-h . . .” he says, with a shadow smile coming to his lips. “Keep it down.”

I guess that could refer both to the noise level and to the heaping amount of food that’s presently sitting motionless in my mouth. I seriously need to get over this nerd habit already and remember to chew and swallow before speaking when I am nervous. At least I didn’t spray his face with chunks of hotdog and spittle. Eeow, me! So very attractive of you, Gwen Lark. . . .

But he seems unfazed. “Yeah, you did nothing wrong—in fact, the complete opposite, you did something amazing. But remember what I said, you don’t want them to associate you with any of it at all, good or bad. It’s just as this morning all our Dorm Leaders warned us—there will be witch hunts. And if we’re not careful, they may come for us, for whatever unfounded reason.”

I chew and swallow, then hurriedly wipe my mouth with a napkin. I stare at Logan, and find it hard to respond. “So what should I do—or not do?”

He pauses, looks at me intently. “First, we need to get our story straight.”

“What story?”

“The story about what we were doing at the time it happened—where we were, etc.”

“Okay. Well, I already told a couple of people here that we just got back to my dorm after using the Arena track, and that we only saw the explosion from the window.”

Logan nods thoughtfully. “Okay, that should work. The other thing is, we need to say we walked a different route, without even passing the airfield. Here—I drew this on the map, where we walked.” He pulls out a folded sheet that has the familiar map of the RQC campus. Pushing his tray aside, he sets it out on the table and shows me the literal path we took in reality, and then the alternate path we will tell people we took—one that bypasses the airfield by three buildings.

I look at the map. “Wow, you really are thorough. And—is this really necessary?”

“Yes, if we want to keep our stories aligned. The key is always in the details. I recommend you memorize this—just in case.”

“What about all the surveillance cameras everywhere? Won’t they show us . . . not being where we say we were?”

Logan exhales, pausing. “Yeah, that’s one possible problem. . . . However, if we stick to the basic story with most people, it may never come to it. So let’s not give them any reason to be suspicious in the first place. The good thing is, the alternate route we are going to say we took is packed with pedestrian traffic, with tons of Candidates walking there. So, even if they check their footage, it would be hard to be sure if we were there or not.”

“Okay, but what about those guards yesterday?” I whisper. “They will remember me, and probably you too—and what about the surveillance cameras around the airfield?”

He shakes his head. “I doubt the guards will have a solid recollection of us, especially considering your face was a bloody mess, and I came to the scene moments later, so it may not look like we necessarily were together. And as for the cameras there, I’ve thought of it, yeah—but the super great news for us is, supposedly the first shuttle explosion blast caused a shock wave that took out a lot of electronic equipment nearby, so nothing was being recorded from that point on!”

“Wow,” I say. “If it’s true, that’s really good. But—this is still kind of nuts. And you are more than a little paranoid. But, okay.”

Logan gives me a crooked and awfully charming smile that does not really disguise his serious eyes.

In that moment, for some reason, the image of the unconscious Atlantean from last night comes to me. . . . The lean face of Aeson Kass, eyes closed, soot and blood everywhere.

“I wonder if he is okay,” I say.

Logan knows exactly whom I mean.

“Supposedly he is. But—we should soon find out.”

“Find out what?”

Both of us look up, and Laronda is here, and so is Dawn Williams.

How much have they overheard?

The girls put their trays down next to ours, and pull up chairs. So long, private conversation.

“Find out what’s going on at that Assembly after lunch,” I say, and casually stick the campus map in my pocket. I then immediately regret doing it, because Laronda, perceptive girl, gives me a meaningful look and raises one brow. Now she probably thinks we’re passing cutesy love notes or something.

I sigh, thinking it’s better than the alternative.

Belatedly it occurs to me, I just had lunch with Logan Sangre, and it doesn’t even count as a date.

* * *

After lunch, we all walk en masse to the Arena Commons building. Logan is still with us, so Laronda gives me cute stares, and then exchanges glances with Dawn. Fine, let them think we’re turning into a “thing,” Logan and I. Yeah, right. . . . Sigh.

It’s a bright sunny March day, with the definite signs of spring thaw in the air.

Endless groups and bunches of Candidates converge from all the directions, and for once their tokens are all mixed up, red, yellow, blue, green.

Just as we approach the Arena Commons super structure, four specks of radiance burst down from the sky, like falling meteors. A few stifled gasps of fear sound from every direction. Everyone stares up, mostly in nervous expectation, and watches the Atlantean shuttles decelerate smoothly and then hover down and disappear in the general area of the landing airfield. Fortunately, there is no mishap this time.

“Look at them!” Dawn says. “Coming down in force, I bet. Wonder who it is.”

“Probably more VIPs.” Laronda shields her eyes from the sun-glare, as she stares over the roofs of the buildings.

“Wonder if they have police forces?” I mutter. “Law enforcement. Military or otherwise.”

Logan gives me a look. “Considering that human nature is the same screwed up mess on Earth as it is on Atlantis, yeah, they do—or so I hear. Their cops are called Correctors.”

“Creepy,” Dawn notes.

“Absolutely.” Logan glances at her briefly. “I also hear they are far more scary and ruthless than our own homegrown equivalent.”

“Great. . . .” Laronda shudders. “Just what we need on this planet, more cops. And not just any cops, but scary alien cops.”

“We didn’t get around to study their legal system yet in Atlantis Culture class,” I mutter. “What untold pleasures await us. . . .”

Logan again gives me a brief look.

We enter the Arena Commons and it is packed. Every walkway on all the upper levels, and every square inch of the floor below, including the several sections of bleachers, track, and the areas around the equipment in the middle of the great stadium space is taken up with Candidates from all the twelve dorms of the RQC.

The crowd is huge, and in many places people in grey uniforms and various colored armbands are seen keeping order—Dorm Leaders, security guards, and various adults who are officials. We are jostled closer inward by the stream of incoming teens, as more and more people arrive in the Arena building.

For the first time, it occurs to me, we are, all of us from this particular region, gathered in one place. Candidates for Qualification, together we can fill an ocean . . . or at least a sizeable lake.

And just to think, this is just one RQC out of thousands across the country and around the world.

Talk about fierce competition for each spot!

Everyone’s eyes are eventually drawn to one raised platform near the end of the stadium. On it, a group of Earth officials stands, looking serious, like a bunch of school principals. Someone tests a powerful stadium microphone, and then a man steps forward and speaks, after clearing his throat. The sound of his voice hits the space powerfully and creates a reverb.

“Your attention, please.”

Waves of noise pass around the stadium, then quiet down.

“Candidates for Qualification at Pennsylvania Regional Qualification Center Three. You have been asked to gather here upon the request of the Atlantis Central Agency which has been notified of yesterday’s tragic incident. As many of you know already, three Atlanteans lost their lives yesterday, and one was injured. After the investigation conducted immediately following the incident, the ACA has strong reasons to believe the shuttle explosion was not an accident but was in fact an act of sabotage, and hence an act of terrorism against this institution, and indeed against all of you, potential Candidates for Qualification.”

Noise rises again in the stadium.

“Oh, crap,” Laronda whispers next to me.

The speaker continues. “The ACA will therefore initiate a full high-level investigation starting immediately, and has sent down a special team to that effect.” He pauses, and in that moment a group of nine Atlanteans is seen, ascending the stage. Their hair gleams metallic gold from the distance so it is easy to tell them apart from the Earth officials.

I stare intently, watching for familiar faces, and can barely make out maybe one or two Instructors, but mostly these are Atlanteans I have not seen before.

I watch their armbands, an even mixture of yellow, green, blue, and red.

One of them is black.

My insides do a kind of painful summersault, and something grips me with an unbelievable wrenching force. . . .

Aeson Kass stands among them, and he is upright, appearing absolutely healthy and unharmed—oh my lord, he is entirely unhurt. Indeed, his figure is confident, straight-backed and full of that same familiar leashed power that I’ve come to associate with him. And his face—from this distance it is hard to tell his expression, but I am willing to bet it is as cold and hard as stone.

My jaws literally fall open. Or is it figuratively? Whatever—in this moment even grammar fails me.

Seems, I am not the only one. . . . Everywhere around me, furiously nervous whispers sound, and I can hear the mutterings of “Phoebos” and “Aeson Kass” and “wait—isn’t he the one who was injured?”

I feel a squeeze at my arm, and it’s Logan. He is holding me, and pressing my arm meaningfully, and his expression is intense.

I nod barely to indicate I get it. Show no unusual emotion, no response.

And yet, even Logan cannot keep his face completely straight. A frown and stunned shock is there, somewhere.

While we speculate and stand there, staring in confusion, Aeson Kass steps forward on the platform and takes the microphone.

“Candidates,” he says—and his voice is exactly as cold and powerful as I somehow expected it to be. Gone is the soft calm timbre that I first heard during our brief exchange in my very first Combat Class, which he graced with his presence and in which he explained to me why Atlanteans must learn fighting and self-defense. Now he is all hardness and force, and for a moment I wonder if he is using a power voice.

“You are here because in the coming days not only will you continue your Qualification training, but you will be observed closely for evidence of criminal activity. Yesterday, three brave and remarkable human beings lost their lives. Three of our finest Fleet Pilots. Three of my beloved friends and brothers. They lost their lives, and I regretfully, once again—lived. Had I not piloted the second shuttle separately, I too would now be dust in your atmosphere.”

Aeson pauses. His words that have been ringing out like falling hammer blows, cease. If I did not know better, I might guess he is having trouble speaking. . . .

The stadium is in silence.

“Their names—their names are Chiar Nuridat . . . Felekamen Gori . . . Tiliar Vahad. Remember them well, for they died serving the Atlantis Fleet and serving you. Pilot First Rank, Chiar Nuridat, Allegiance to Red Quadrant, nineteen years old, seven years in the Fleet . . . Pilot Second Rank, Felekamen Gori, Allegiance to Yellow Quadrant, sixteen years old, five years in the Fleet . . . Pilot First Rank, Tiliar Vahad, Allegiance to Blue Quadrant, nineteen years old, seven years in the Fleet, astra daimon—my brother, not by blood but by heart.”

He pauses again. His voice never breaks but he stands up on the platform so motionless he could be an effigy. His face is blank—only his body is frozen in grief.

I glance away and see Logan’s face, which shows a wealth of emotion in that instant. It occurs to me, he must be thinking of his own brother Jeff, a real brother by blood, who is soon going to die in the service of his country.

And then Aeson Kass speaks again. “These brave Pilots lost their lives because a tiny crucial part was removed from the flight navigation console on their shuttle. This part is a program chip, smaller than the tip of my finger. We know this because all our vehicles transmit their operational status during flight—and so we knew exactly what was wrong. It was removed, and the shuttle was effectively disabled once it had reached a certain altitude and level of thrust. There were no means of recovery once the critical parameters were reached. A cascade reaction was initiated as a result, and the shuttle exploded.

“The same part was removed from my own shuttle. The only thing that saved it—and me—from a similar cascade and explosion was that I had not yet reached that specific altitude and thrust. And while I tried to regain control of the shuttle, it went into an unrecoverable spin that ended with me unconscious on the ground. I have no recollection, and no explanation, short of a miracle, as to why and how my shuttle landed without me. But in the process of this investigation, I fully intend to find out.”

As I listen to him say this, I find I am trembling with suppressed emotion. What that emotion is, I am unsure. But it makes me want to jump out of my own skin. . . .

Logan notices my state—he can probably feel me shaking, because his hand is still tightened around my arm. And he watches me with concern.

Meanwhile Aeson Kass continues speaking.

“Know, that whoever is responsible for this coward act of sabotage and blatant murder, will be apprehended. If the persons responsible are present in this room—know that you will be found, and you will have to answer to me.” His final words fall like blades slicing. Aeson glances behind him and nods to the other Atlanteans standing on the platform. They step forward in unison while he moves aside.

“We are the Correctors assigned to this investigation,” one of them says, approaching the microphone. “You will get used to our presence on this campus. If you are stopped and questioned, you may not refuse or resist, on pain of Disqualification and incarceration. If you cooperate and are not found guilty, you will have nothing to worry about. As of this moment, we assume control of this Regional Qualification Center, under the supreme authority of Command Pilot Aeson Kass. He will have final say and final judgment. All else falls within our individual jurisdiction.”

The Corrector falls silent and retreats a step from the microphone.

Aeson Kass, who has been watching impassively, moves forward again. He speaks in conclusion—and is ruthless: “Candidates, you are now dismissed.”

* * *

“Okay, that was terrifying.” Laronda turns to me as we exit the Arena Commons super structure. “One thing I don’t get—how come he looks so strong and healthy?”

“Who?” I glance at her and avoid direct eye contact with Logan.

“He! That scary hottie VIP guy—Aeson Kass, ‘Phoebos,’ or whatever his nickname is.”

“Call sign.”

“Whatever.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I don’t know.”

“He should be beat up or something, don’t you think? Walking on crutches maybe. Bandages, scratches, anything!” Laronda muses out loud. “They say they carried him on a stretcher yesterday, all bloodied up. So how come he’s all recovered like that? Is that even human?”

I’m wondering the same thing. But then I think of what I know of Atlantean high-end medicine. The kind that’s available for their citizens only. . . .

“If they took him up to their starship and treated him with their high-tech medical equipment overnight, then it probably explains it. They must be able to work miracles!”

“You’re telling me!” Laronda continues to make her eye-popping face.

Logan takes the opportunity to interrupt. “Well, ladies,” he says, with a glance at the crowds of Candidates moving past us. “Have to apologize but I need to run. I see some people from my dorm walking right over there who I need to see, and then, my next class—so I will see you all later. All right?”

He looks at me as he ends speaking, and I nod silently.

“Bye, Logan!” Laronda drawls with a smile and a glance from me to him and back again.

I bite my lip. “Sure, see you later.”

Dawn just waves at him.

And Logan disappears in the crowd.

I wistfully stare in his wake and wonder what’s up.

* * *