CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Let me repeat that.

On my mouth.

I’ve just been kissed by Logan Sangre, full-on, lips against lips.

I’ve been dreaming of this moment for the last three years. No, strike that—I’ve been unknowingly dreaming of this moment for as long as I can remember, since I first became conscious that there was such a thing as girls and boys and kisses, and that I was a girl and that somewhere out there was the one perfect boy for me. . . .

Talk about uber-pathetic, I know. . . . The idea of the one perfect soulmate—whether it be girl, boy, or flying chipmunk—is right out of an old-fashioned romance novel (okay, maybe not the chipmunk part, unless he’s a shape-shifting paranormal chipmunk who turns into a sexy tattooed hunk when the moon is full—yeah, you can tell I’m babbling even in my thoughts). Honestly, I should know better. But I can still dream. . . .

Furthermore, I’ve been dreaming of that one perfect boy seeing me and naturally falling in love with me at first sight. And then I visualized what it would be like to have that first magical kiss.

And now, the impossible has come true. My first kiss happened with Logan Sangre, the perfect guy of my dreams.

Okay, no, strike that again. This, just now, was my first real kiss.

Because there was another awful stupid kiss in first grade, a kiss that doesn’t really count except in the technical sense. It happened when a bunch of class bullies gathered around me and another nerdy loser kid—the wimpiest, skinniest, shortest little boy in class, the one who had the huge glasses and the stick arms and whose name I don’t remember—and they chanted “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” as they crowded around us and pushed and shoved the two of us together until the poor boy reluctantly planted a sloppy fish-wet smooch on my mouth. I remember shoving him away immediately and then spitting in disgust, wiping his disgusting saliva from my lips while saying “Eeeow, gross!”

That was my one and only “kiss” experience before the real thing just happened, seconds ago.

Wow. . . .

I had no idea that a boy’s lips could be so soft.

Because his lips that are so beautiful and naturally well-shaped are also soft as a dream as they press against mine with gentle sensuality, sending all kinds of electrical impulses coursing down my body. . . . My lips are now the center of the universe—all feeling, all sensation and focus is there.

Logan draws back, and his hazel eyes never look away. Meanwhile I exhale in wonder, and find that I am trembling.

“What—what was that?” I say like a total fool, even as my lips remain parted still.

He looks at me and then the faintest shadow smile comes to him. “I thought you might like a little support. . . . I felt like it—and like it was what you needed. I hope I didn’t screw up just now? Please let me know if I did!”

“Oh, no!” I blink rapidly, and my lips are still ringing like silent bells from the touch of his against mine. “That was—that was good! Thank you! I mean, it was amazing, and it was—”

“Gwen,” he says. “I really like you.”

I stare, just dumbstruck.

“And maybe I’m wrong,” he continues, “but I think there’s something there too on your end, something between us. I get the sense that you—”

“Yes!” I say. “I do!”

And then I realize how idiotic that sounds—it’s like I just said a formal marriage wow! And now he is probably going to be all disgusted and turned off by my needy clingy response. Oh lord, what have I done?

But apparently I have nothing to worry about.

“Oh, phew!” he says with a laugh, and makes a gesture of wiping fake sweat from his forehead. “Was worried you might not take it well. Or that you may not be interested.”

“I—I really like you too! I’m just amazed you don’t already have a girlfriend or something.”

He shrugs lightly. “I did. Back in St. Albans. She went to our school too, might have been in your class, even. But we broke up a while ago. It was just not working.”

“Oh . . .” I say.

“But, forget her, I want to get to know you.”

“Okay.”

“You’re not with anyone, are you?”

I shake my head side to side negatively, like a giddy fool. Oh, if only he knew!

We resume walking, and Logan’s hand slips into mine.

It feels like lighting has struck me, and it’s coursing back and forth between us, in the spot where our palms and fingers touch. . . .

* * *

I am not exactly sure what happens for the next fifteen minutes. It’s all kind of a crazy happy blur. We get to the Arena Commons Building. . . . We run around the track, and we laugh as he pulls me by my hand at some point when I begin to collapse.

I end up in stitches, gasping from running and laughing at I don’t know what, while he grins and tells me silly funny things as we again race each other.

And then it’s almost eight o’clock.

“Ugh,” I say, with a glance up at the fifth level walkway of the stadium arena, “I have to go.”

He nods. “Go. I’ll be here.”

“Are you sure? It might take a while.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”  There’s a determined light in his eyes that makes my heart warm.

And so I leave him at the track and head upstairs to Office 512 and my grim fate.

* * *

When I reach the upper walkway and knock on the office door, I am worn out from having just run laps. It’s actually good that I am almost too tired to care what Aeson Kass will think or expect of me, because I am still riding the emotional high from hanging out with Logan.

And yet . . . my pulse goes erratic, begins to sound once again in my temples, this time from nerves as opposed to exertion. But my agitation is relatively dull and not as bad as it could be.

Yeah, it really has been a very long day.

No one answers the door, but the light inside is on, visible though the shades. Once again I simply turn the handle and enter.

This time the office is lit up brightly, but although the various consoles and surveillance screens are live, there’s no one at the computer area. I look around and there’s Blayne Dubois on the sofa. He’s holding the familiar hoverboard, while his wheelchair has been moved neatly out of the way against the wall.

Okay, I wasn’t sure what to expect after today’s intense events, but it looks like our secret training arrangement with Blayne is still on. . . .

“Hey.” I approach the sofa lounging area and take a seat next to him. “Where is he?”

Blayne gives me a brief look. “He’s in the other room. Got some kind of important call, had to take it, said he’ll be back in a few.”

“What other room?”

Blayne points.

I stare where he’s pointing and for the first time notice a very discreet doorway that almost looks like it’s a part of the wall, or maybe a utility closet near the end of the sofa.

“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t notice that door. What is it?”

“I’ve no idea. Probably more office space. Maybe it’s his private rooms.”

“I see. . . . Interesting.”

“Not really.” And Blayne turns away from me, flipping his hair out of his eyes.

“Okay—did he say what we’re supposed to do until he gets back?”

“No.”

Well, this is going to be awkward.

I sit, drumming my fingers against the sofa upholstery. Minutes pass.

“I heard what happened today,” Blayne says suddenly. He is still not looking at me but staring at the surface of the hoverboard that he’s holding upright. “Is it true that you actually levitated a whole shuttle just with your singing?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d you do it?”

“No idea. But, I’m hoping that he will explain it to me at some point. That is, if he ever shows up.”

“That’s kind of mind-blowing.”

“Yeah. . . .”

Another long pause.

Blayne stops fiddling with the hoverboard and glances at me. “Did you have anything to do with whoever blew up that other shuttle?”

I frown at him. “No! Of course not! Do you seriously think I’d be involved in something awful like that? Jeez!”

He shrugs. “Whatever. Just had to ask.”

“Did Command Pilot Kass put you up to this?” I say with beginning irritation.

“No, he didn’t have to. It’s just me asking. Not that I really think you did it. If you did, it would be completely unlike you.” And Blayne’s lips curve into the faintest smile.

My mouth falls open. “Okay, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a good thing, Lark. Means I don’t think you’re an a-hole capable of evil villain deeds. You’re pushy and annoying, but not malicious.”

My jaw drops even more, and my eyebrows go up. “Oh really?” I snort. “How well you know me! Jeez, thank you for the compliment from hell!” But I’m grinning.

“Any time,” he says.

“So, how are you doing?” I decide to change the subject and use this opportunity—since Blayne’s not in an entirely asocial mood—to talk to him.

“Fine, great. Insert your own adjective.” He runs his fingers against the matte surface of the hoverboard.

“Have you been practicing any of this stuff back at the dorm?” I say it and immediately realize how stupid my question is.

“How? I don’t have a hoverboard. The best I can do on my own is the hand forms. But there’s no one to practice sparring with outside of class.”

“We can practice together,” I say.

He shrugs.

“No, seriously!” I lean forward. “I need someone to practice with anyway, since looks like I will be doing some extracurricular voice stuff or something. And this way we can keep it low-key and won’t have to explain things to anyone else. How about it?”

Blayne pauses, then after an exhalation, says, “Sure . . . okay.”

“Cool!” I smile at him.

The inner door opens and Aeson Kass comes in from the other room.

Immediately my heart does this weird, hard somersault-lurch-jerk in my chest and the pulse in my temples starts pounding. . . .

Oh crap! Considering how I react to him, at this rate this guy is going to kill me. . . .

But Aeson does not seem to notice how I stiffen up, nor does he seem to care. His expression is indifferent and he appears very, very tired, judging by the hollows around his eyes.

“All right, let’s get started,” he says to both of us, never looking at me directly.

“So,” I blurt. “Does this mean I am still going to continue helping out with Blayne’s practice?”

“Yes, you are.” His answer is crisp and emotionless.

“What about my own practice? You said—”

“After this.” He interrupts me in a hard voice and turns to Blayne.

I get up and stand ready to assist with holding the board. I am mostly ignored.

* * *

It is very strange to be in such near proximity with someone who actively does not want to be around you. As I stand holding the board, watching Aeson and Blayne throw exquisitely precise form-based punches, inches away from my face, I cannot help feeling the new distance between me and the Atlantean.

He never once glances in my direction. All his instructions to me are spoken in a bland voice and accompanied with minimal gestures. At one point when I move in too closely, he stops and tells me to keep back. And again I only see his profile.

Ten minutes later, they finish sparring, and Aeson pauses, while Blayne is trying to catch his breath.

“There is one more thing I need to show you for today, and then we’re done.” This time Aeson turns to me also and I see his gaze flicker over me as he includes us both.

“At some point when you are on a hoverboard or anywhere else you find that you have to support or carry another person in mid-air—especially if the person is hanging off the board and you can only reach and grab them by the hand—we use a technique we call the Grip of Friendship.”

I watch in curiosity as Aeson then demonstrates. “Put out your hand,” he tells Blayne. “Like this, palm down. And you—” he turns to me. “You reach underneath, to clasp his arm above the wrist. The insides of your arms touch. Both of you hold the other’s arm above the wrist.”

I do as I am told. I reach out and take Blayne’s warm hand, slightly slippery with sweat.

“Clasp firmly, and remember well,” Aeson says, looking at our arms and hands held together, and then at our faces. “This hold is similar to what your trapeze artists and acrobats use here on Earth when they hold each other up with arms and hands alone as they swing. It can save your life, and prevent a fall. No other mutual hold or grip is as secure as this one.”

“Got it,” Blayne says, flexing his fingers in the grip then releasing my arm.

I nod. “Okay.”

“Good,” Aeson says to Blayne. “That’s it for today, Candidate Dubois, you can go.”

“Thanks,” Blayne mutters, then turns to his wheelchair.

I watch the now familiar maneuver with which Blayne switches over from hoverboard to the chair. And then he heads out.

I am suddenly alone with Aeson Kass.

* * *

My face hurts from trying to keep it motionless, not even twitch a muscle, as I wait for Aeson to give me his attention.

“What now?” I say finally, while he goes to the console surveillance area and checks the various multi-screens.

He says nothing. Moments pass.

Finally he returns to me, and I notice that he is carrying something in one hand. His gaze is steady and unblinking as he looks at me coldly, stands before me, then opens his palm at chest level before him.

On it, are two small pieces of orichalcum.

“Your first lesson,” Aeson Kass says, and his eyes narrow with the finest trace of hostility that breaks through his otherwise impeccable composure, “is to be able to fine-tune and control the focus of your voice to such a degree that you can perform actions selectively on one object and not the other.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

His gaze bores into me with a dark relentless force that makes me want to retreat—to step back, to blink and look away.

I clutch my fingers slowly, and don’t.

“Levitate only one of these two pieces,” he says.

I suddenly begin to understand. “But—is that even possible? I thought that the keying sequence affects everything made of orichalcum within hearing distance.”

“Normally yes, that would be the case. But an advanced user of the voice is able to selectively manipulate one or more objects without affecting any of the others. Like this—”

Aeson glances down at the two pieces of gold-flecked grey metal. He parts his lips and turns his head slightly toward one of the two. He sings a single, very precise minor note, followed by two others in a chord keying sequence.

Like an ocean swell, the rich deep sound of his voice rolls through me . . . and suddenly it makes my fine hairs stand on end, while I feel goosebumps rising along my skin.

He grows silent then slowly lowers his open palm. I shiver, the echoes of his voice still caressing me along my nerve endings. And I see that only one of the two pieces is indeed hovering in the air before him. The second piece remains inert on his open palm.

“Okay, wow.” I say. “How did you do that?”

“I narrow-focused my sound output. Think of a narrow beam of light, sharp like a laser. Now do the same thing to sound. Each note you make is directed at an object, ‘thrown’ at it.” He points to the sofa. “Here, take these two pieces, go sit over there, and practice for ten minutes.”

I raise one brow, then take the orichalcum from him, and momentarily our fingers touch. At the instant of contact he flinches. And then the turns away and returns to the console surveillance area.

I watch him briefly, but his back is to me and it’s as if I am no longer in the room. So I sit down on the sofa, open my palm and begin singing to the orichalcum.

For several embarrassing minutes I feel like a dork because I am only able to do an all-or-nothing kind of levitation. Both pieces levitate, then I re-set them to “inert” so they drop on my palm, and I start over . . . and over . . . and over.

My voice sounds small and tired. I frequently glance up to see what Aeson is doing, but he is busy with the consoles.

At one point he receives a video call and briefly speaks in cold, authoritative tones in Atlantean with a pale-metallic haired girl. She wears an expensive and exotic looking outfit, against a background of waterfalls and rich emerald greenery that I can just barely see from where I’m sitting. Her tone seems upper-class and bored, and the lilting sounds of her voice are like a sweet running stream. It occurs to me, she is on Atlantis. Right now. She is calling from Atlantis.

The realization acts to stun me briefly. I remember seeing brief video propaganda images of Atlantis shown to us on TV, and the amazing scenery and nature shots. But it had all seemed unreal—until now.

Furthermore, how is that even possible? Shouldn’t there be some kind of time delay? And I am talking major time delay!

I pause momentarily, gathering my thoughts, then resume the singing exercise.

After the face-to-face call is over, another comes in, and this time it’s some Atlantean in uniform against a neutral background. Aeson talks with this guy quickly, and his cool commanding tone does not change. However when the second call is done, there is a sense of something grim and unpleasant that lingers like a foreboding.

Curious, I really wish I knew what they were saying.

Aeson gets up in that moment and approaches.

He stands looking down at me. “Time’s up. How are you doing?”

“Not too good.” I glance up at him, trying not to blink as I hold his icy gaze. “I can make both pieces levitate but not just one.”

“You will keep practicing until you are able to do it. We will continue tomorrow. Now, you may go.”

“Oh, okay. Can I take these back with me to practice in my dorm?”

He makes a sound of disdain. “Nice try. No, Candidate, you are the last person who might be permitted to take anything made of orichalcum anywhere.”

My lips harden into a straight line. “Okay. But how am I supposed to practice without—”

“That would be your problem.”

Anger rises in me, until my head is ringing with it. Oh, the things I could say now! But I don’t. I stiffen, and then I stand up and silently offer up the contents of my palm to him.

He takes the orichalcum from me, making a subtle point of not touching my fingers.

“If working with me is such a hassle for you,” I say suddenly, “why do you do it?”

“It is not a hassle,” he replies, and his gaze pierces me like a hard beam of light passing through glass. “It is a necessity.”

“But you kind of hate me. Why not get someone else to do it?”

His expression is closed up completely, and I cannot read anything in his eyes. “There is nothing personal here, Candidate Lark,” he says after a brief pause. “You are a valuable asset. And as such, you are treated accordingly.”

I snort. “Okay, you know what? What a farce! This whole thing is! If I am so valuable, why don’t you just Qualify me automatically? Pass me up to the front of the line and just Qualify me already.”

He watches me, composed and blank. “That’s not how it works. It is not up to me. I have no final say on the Qualification process. I can make strong recommendations which carry some weight toward your passing score, but that’s all. You still have to go through the Semi-Finals and then, if you advance, the Finals.”

“And who makes these determinations in the first place? Who decides?”

But he shakes his head. “No. We are done talking. You need to go now. Besides, you friend is waiting for you downstairs in the arena.”

I crane my head slightly. “Uhm . . . who?”

Aeson watches me and there’s the slightest hint of something dark and intense underneath the composed surface. “That boy. The one you’ve been running with, and who came with you at least one other time. Who is he?”

“Oh,” I say, and a slightly weird sensation awakens inside me. “That’s Logan. He’s from my high school and he’s helping me run better.”

Aeson nods. “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And on that note we’re done.

* * *

When I get to the first floor arena level, Logan Sangre is waiting for me. He sees me and he smiles, and immediately warmth surges through me. It’s as if everything is right with the world, if only for a brief moment.

“How did it go?” he asks, as we start walking together back to our dorms.

“Better than I thought,” I say with an exhalation of relief. My pulse begins racing once more, but with a giddy good feeling, as it occurs to me yet again, here is Logan, walking next to me, and he kissed me, and he actually likes me! Holy moly!

And then I tell Logan an abbreviated version, because I am not supposed to be mentioning Blayne and his training. Instead I make it out as though my own voice exercises took up all this time.

“He didn’t threaten you with anything else, did he?” Logan touches my back lightly with his palm, sending sweet shivers along my nerve endings, even through the layers of jacket and T-shirt.

“Oh no. Though I did ask him, how come, if I am so valuable to them, do I have to go through all this extended training bull. Why not just Qualify me automatically?”

“And what did he say?”

“Not much. Said it was not up to him.”

Logan raises one brow. “Interesting.”

* * *

I get back to Yellow Dorm Eight and say bye to Logan who presses my slightly trembling hands in his capable strong fingers and leans in closer to my ear.

I think he is going in for another kiss, but he only whispers, while his breath tickles my neck “Sleep well . . . Yellow Candy.” It occurs to me, he knows we are directly in the line of sight of multiple surveillance cameras, so best to tone it down so as not to provoke any anti-dating reprimands.

My heart is racing as I make my way past many staring Candidates in the lounge. I remember once again that yeah, I am kind of famous now, in a weird way, not only among my dorm-mates but probably all around the RQC, as word of my weird voice and shuttle levitation demo is spreading.

It’s been one helluva day.

Upstairs, the girls dormitory floor is no different. Girls glance and whisper and stare at me as I walk past the rows of beds.

“Gwen!” Hasmik waves to me enthusiastically. Laronda and Dawn are sitting on her bed wearing sleeping shirts and undies. They stop chatting and attack me with questions.

“Are you okay, girl? OMG, what happened?”

I smile and tell them, meanwhile noticing how other girls from distant beds look at me as if I’m some kind of alien zoo specimen. Even the alpha mean girls stop their own chatter and glare at me. I can see Ashley and Claudia giving me long killing looks, and then Olivia gets up and purposefully walks by in nothing but a sleek nightshirt and sleeping bra over her super-well-endowed chest, her smooth long legs glistening with newly applied lotion.

“Nice rack on that chick,” Dawn quips when Olivia’s far away and out of hearing. Laronda rolls her eyes and punches Dawn on the arm.

“What?” Dawn says. “I like boobs. Even on a-hole bitches.” And then she gives Olivia another glance.

“Since when do you check out other girls, girlfriend?”

Dawn shrugs. There’s a little shy smile on her face. “Since always.”

Laronda gives a loud snort-laugh and puts her hand to her mouth. ‘Wait, are you—”

“Yeah.”

I get into bed while they’re all still talking and giggling. Suddenly I am deathly tired. But my mind is swimming with so many conflicting emotions—joy and stress, exuberance and the ever-present old twinges of despair that comes from the knowledge of impending apocalypse.

When the dormitory lights go out, I am already on the edges of a fragile dream.

* * *