Compete (19 page)

“Oh, yeah?” I smile, wiping away the moisture in my own eyes.

“At the end of the Finals, Dawn kind of saved my butt!” Laronda says. “When that cavern explosion happened, and then we were all flying up through that long terrifying chute up to the surface of the Atlantic Ocean, Dawn kept me and Hasmik both from bumping into the walls. She made sure we flew straight, and then we all sort of held each other and our hoverboards close together, and we all got out! Next thing we know, we’re in an Atlantean shuttle, all of us Qualified, and rising up into Earth orbit!”

I laugh with joy. “So where are they now?”

Laronda rolls her eyes. “Both chicas went Civilian on me! Can you believe it? They’re together on Residential Deck Four!”

I shake my head and grin.

“I mean, Dawn,
Dawn!
” Laronda continues. “She’s all tough and has the best scores, and then she goes and becomes a Civilian! She told me she has no interest in fighting or butt-kicking and just wants to make it to Atlantis and settle down in peace, study biology and agriculture, and maybe raise the Atlantean equivalent of chickens!”

I giggle and Laronda snorts. We continue talking for a few more minutes until I realize what time it is.

“Oh, crud!” I exclaim. “I have to go! I have to see Command Pilot Kassiopei!”

“Huh? This late?” Laronda raises one brow.

“Yes, it’s my voice training.” I figure, since Laronda already knows all about my special Logos voice, it makes no difference if I tell her I am still getting voice lessons. But just in case, I warn her: “By the way, please don’t mention it to anyone else, okay? About my freaky power voice, I mean. The CP wants me to keep it discreet.”

“So, one-on-one private lessons with a yummy-hot commanding officer who’s also a prince, eh?” Laronda again raises one very meaningful brow and then wiggles it. “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed.”

I bite my lip, and she bursts out laughing.

I
t’s almost 8:00 PM when I come rushing up to the CCO. It’s the evening shift for the crew, and the guards at the doors have been changed. These two new ones don’t know me, so I have to explain myself and then one of the guards calls the CP via his wrist device, then waits for verification.

At last I am allowed inside.

As I walk in, I see Aeson Kassiopei standing up behind his desk, and he is in the process of turning off several screens and retracting the swinging mech arms back away from his work surface. I manage to catch a glimpse of one before the display goes blank, and it appears to be a news feed of Earth, a scene of urban chaos and orange flames and burning buildings. On the bottom of the screen the marquee strip in English has the words “nuclear reactor sabotage” and below it, something like “orange alert terror threat.”

I stop in my tracks and stare. Aeson turns in that moment, seeing me, and immediately my pulse awakens and begins to pound in my temples at the sight of his cool clear gaze, his dark lapis-blue eyes trained on me impassively.

“Take a seat,” he tells me without any other preliminaries.

“Was that Earth?” I ask nervously, feeling a wave of cold enter my gut. “What is happening there?”

“Nothing . . . it does not concern you.” His answer is soft, and he does not look at me, while he continues to turn off the equipment.

“But—I just saw everything burning!” I exclaim.

He pauses to glance at me. “Don’t. . . . Don’t look, don’t
think
. It is not something that can be helped, and it does not help you to dwell on it.”

“How can you say that?” My lips part and I take a step closer. “It’s Earth! My family is out there! My
home
, everything!”

“I know.” He stands motionless, watching me. “But your home is now here, and on Atlantis. You have to let go.”

“Easy for you to say!”

“No, actually, it is not.” He points to one of the four visitor chairs before his desk. “Now, please sit. We have work to do.”

I frown, and step across and sit down in the closest chair.

He takes a deep breath and sits at his desk also. I watch his profile, the tired hollows of his lean cheeks, the fall of his golden metallic hair. It has been a long day for him too.

He then reaches for a small box, which I recognize to be the familiar sound damper box containing orichalcum pieces—it’s the same box we’ve been using to train with, back in Colorado.

I stare at it as though it’s my last connection with Earth. Which is nonsense, but it’s how my mind is working now, attaching significance to little things.

“How was your first day?” he asks me suddenly, as he opens the box to take out several charcoal-grey pieces with fine gold flecks. Orichalcum is like fool’s gold—or better to say, magician’s gold—sparkling with hidden yellow under bright lights, and dull grey the rest of the time.

“Okay . . .” I mumble, still frowning, angry at his refusal to speak about Earth. “The classes were fine. I think I’m going to enjoy Pilot Training, and Culture.”

“Good. And what do you think of your two fellow Aides? Not counting this morning’s incident, any work issues?”

“Gennio is great. He’s been helping me with many things. Anu is—”

At my hesitation, I notice Aeson Kassiopei glances at me briefly, and the corners of his mouth almost imperceptibly turn up. “Anu is Anu,” the Command Pilot says. “He’s a bitter pill to swallow at first, but you will get used to him.”

I make a small sound of sarcasm.

But now he’s all business. Ignoring my reaction he points to the orichalcum that’s sitting on the desk surface before us. “Today’s voice lesson will involve temperature. You will learn to change the quantum state of orichalcum to heat it up and cool it down.”

I sit up straight with interest. “You can do that?”

He notes my heightened attention and continues. “In your Earth physics terms, it involves
quantum harmonic oscillation
—but not exactly. There are many additional parameters involved in eliciting this particular thermal reaction via acoustics. For now, all you need to know is that you are influencing the vibration frequency of orichalcum.”

“Wait! Is this similar to those awful burning batons during the Semi-Finals?” I recall with a shudder.

Command Pilot Kassiopei watches my growing dismay at the memory of the hellish Qualification ordeal I went through . . . those last moments of Semi-Finals, with me holding on to the burning baton with one hand and to my sister Gracie with the other (that other hand was attached to my wounded arm, with a bullet lodged inside), as we rose up in the air toward the shuttle over Los Angeles. That baton—it had burned my hand right through to the bone. . . . If not for the high-end Atlantean medical technology that restored my limb after Semi-Finals, I would have no hand right now. In fact, I might not have
both
hands.

“Yes, it’s a similar process,” he says. “The batons were keyed on a more complex level, to remain cool and inert when submerged in water, but to heat up when in contact with air. Today, you will attempt a much simpler variant.”

He looks down at the small lumps of orichalcum and points to one. “This one,” he says. “Watch.”

And then he sings a complex note sequence in his rich deep voice, the sound of which sends electricity through me and makes the surface of my skin pucker up and my fine hairs stand on end.

The piece of orichalcum rises, floating a few inches over the top of the desk. And then it starts to glow. The change is imperceptible at first, but with each passing second the metal glows brighter, from deep red to white-hot.

“Put your finger close to it but don’t touch,” Aeson tells me. “Can you feel the heat?”

I move my hand toward the levitating piece. Just as he described, I feel radiating warmth, then significant heat coming from the flaming orichalcum.

“Yes . . . wow. . . .”

I keep my hand raised, my fingers trembling, as I stare in wonder.

“Careful,” he says. “And now, this—to stop the thermal reaction.”

And he sings again.

When the sequence is done, I note the way the burning piece starts immediately to fade in brightness. This cooling process seems to happen much faster.

“Can I touch it now?”

“In a minute. Still too hot.” And he continues looking at the floating lump of metal.

I look up suddenly, because a strange other memory comes to me. And I just have to ask. . . .

“Command Pilot Kassiopei,” I say softly, watching his averted eyes, the amazing thick fringe of his lashes. “Back then, during the Semi-Finals, when you were in that shuttle in the very end. . . . You put your bare hand directly on the burning baton and pulled us inside—what command did you use to make the baton cool down instantly, so you could hold it?”

Aeson does not respond at once. Instead, I note he grows somewhat still. “I didn’t use any command. There was no time,” he says at last, in a tone that might be almost careless.

For a moment I don’t process the meaning. And then I
get it
, and I am stunned.

“Oh my God . . .” I whisper. “You mean you
held
it while it was still
burning
and you pulled us in? What about your hand? What must have happened to your own hand? You burned your hand, didn’t you?”

He looks up in that moment, looks into my eyes. His gaze is clear and profound and filled with intensity that cuts through me like a shaft of light.

“Hands can be repaired,” he says. “You know it for yourself.”

My lips part as I stare at him in wonder. “How badly was it hurt?”

“It was repaired. It doesn’t matter.”

But I don’t relent. “Oh, wow! Thank you! I had no idea at what cost you saved our lives!”

But he simply nods at the piece of cooling orichalcum floating in the air between us. “Lark,” he says. “Your turn to make it burn.”

A
bout fifteen minutes of singing later, I am still unable to elicit the quantum thermal reaction necessary to create the heat. While I practice, Aeson opens up a console and starts working on something. Periodically I glance up to watch his face in quarter-turn, the composed fine angles of his lean jaw, the way he presses his lips into a controlled line as he focuses on the work before him.

At some point I must have paused way too long, and spaced out while looking at him. Because without taking his eyes away from his task he says, “Stop staring and continue. There is nothing here of any concern to you.”

I feel an instant flush of heat in my cheeks. “Sorry . . .” I mumble. He must think I’m trying to see what’s up on his display screen. Better he thinks so than realizes I am staring at
him
.

So I fake a yawn and put a palm over my mouth. “Long day . . . I’m a little tired.”

He finally looks at me. “All right. It’s your first day, and it’s close to eight-thirty. You may go. Also—there’s supposed to be a mandatory group lecture given to all Earth refugees, Cadets and Civilians, in their residential quarters, in about fifteen minutes. It’s about—matters of personal health and—” He pauses, and blinks momentarily, which I’ve discovered, is his only “tell,” the only crack in his control. “—and sexual conduct. You need to attend.”

“Okay,” I say, while my brows rise. “Oh, but I don’t have a dorm or barracks. I’m in my own cabin on Command Deck Four. . . . So where do I go?”

“Feel free to choose any nearest Civilian residential dorm or Cadet barracks. It doesn’t matter,” he tells me curtly, once again turning his face away.

“All right. But are you sure I need this?” I say, just before I rise from my chair. “My Culture Instructor gave us an abbreviated version today, basically preaching abstinence for the duration of our trip. So, I get it—space flight is developmentally bad for my body and bad for pregnancies. It’s not like I plan to have kids—”

“You have a boyfriend,” he says suddenly. “If you plan to—be
intimate
, you will need to know this. So, yes, you need to attend. Now, dismissed!”

I get up in a hurry—not only because his tone has become menacingly cold, hard, and unyielding but because my cheeks are now flaming in embarrassment—and then I flee his office.

S
ince I don’t have a Cadet star and don’t want to be conspicuous, I drop by Residential Deck Four, Yellow Quadrant, and go find a Civilian dorm. It looks exactly like that shipboard dorm we were first placed into on our first day, with ceiling-high rows of bunk beds, and a narrow corridor between them, with washrooms in the back—I’m assuming it’s the standard personal quarters layout for all the dorms and barracks on each ship. I perch against the wall next to complete strangers and listen to an Atlantean officer give a ten-minute sex conduct talk to a room full of annoyed teens.

For the most part, it’s not anything I haven’t already heard. Except for one thing, which is suddenly made clear to us, with all its striking implications. . . .

“All of you chosen for rescue, ages twelve through nineteen,” the Atlantean officer is saying, “are best suited to travel through interstellar space and survive the effects of the Quantum Stream, and especially the Jump. Your hormone levels are sufficiently high that the inevitable cell damage that occurs can be self-repaired by your strong young bodies. Children younger than you and adults older than you
cannot
handle the effects without significant irreparable harm to their bodies and
minds
. Yes, even our advanced medical technology cannot fix this level of damage. And pregnancies at this time will result in tragedies.”