Compete (9 page)

Aeson Kassiopei sits working at his desk, and something strange happens to me at the sight of him.

Aeson is the same as I remember him—a composed intelligent face of refined lines and striking lean angles, with serious dark-rimmed eyes of a deep lapis lazuli blue, underneath black brows with a similar faint lapis tint, and lightly bronzed skin, all vaguely reminiscent of Ancient Egypt. Those fine dark lines of contrast around his eyelids—now that I know the truth of his heritage—are beautiful natural markings, not some kind of kohl-based eyeliner or permanent tattoo. And his long hair, a mane of pale metallic gold, is also a true color with which he was born, not a gilded dye that most other Atlanteans wear to honor his Imperial Family Kassiopei.

He is wearing the grey Fleet uniform, and I notice there is an additional gold emblem on his chest, with an insignia similar to what was on the doors of this office. I am guessing it indicates his high rank. And on his left bicep, over his sleeve, I see the black armband—a hero’s honor that almost no Atlantean has earned while still living—a mystery about which I still know nothing.

As soon as I approach, he looks up at me.

I feel a painful jolt in my chest and a burning sensation in my cheeks. In fact, I think my entire face explodes in a flaming red blush, and also some kind of crazy choking thing rises up in my throat. . . . So okay, I am just going to pass out now—
No! Get a goddamn grip, Gwen, you idiot!

“Lark—you made it. Congratulations on Qualifying,” he says, after the briefest pause during which his eyes meet mine with lively intensity, and his lips—just for a moment—seem to curve into a shadow of a smile. But he hides it instantly, and resumes displaying a very controlled expression as he continues watching me.

But it is the sound of his voice—clean, deep, familiar—that pierces me on such a visceral level, sending electricity down my skin.

I stand at the doors, like an idiot, unsure of what to do or say. And then I open my big mouth and out comes all this stupid stuff. . . .

“Command Pilot Kass—Oh! I’m sorry—
Kassiopei
—I mean, that is—I don’t—I am not sure how to address you properly,” I mutter. “For that matter, I don’t even know if I am supposed to bow or curtsey or something—I mean—”

“Stop,” he says. “Nothing has changed. You may call me Command Pilot Kass or Kassiopei—it is the same thing. ‘Kass’ used to be my nickname in Fleet Cadet School, a few years ago, back on Poseidon in
Atlantida
. I chose to use it while we were on Earth, simply to minimize exposure. With all the instability and global crises happening on Earth, there was no need to draw unnecessary additional attention to my identity.”

“Oh,” I say, biting my lip painfully, in order to dissipate the crazy blush, and vaguely try to look away. I finally settle my gaze in the general area of his chin, his throat, even his collar, so as not to meet his gaze. “So then, I don’t need to bow or salute or anything?”

“Not at the moment. Though, there may come a time when you will be required to learn and perform the proper salute or other signs of courtesy—during formal occasions.” He watches me with a very calm, very composed, almost weary expression. And yet it does not manage to sufficiently disguise his underlying
amusement
.

Oh lord, yes, he
is
amused by me! I am not sure if I should be relieved or insulted.

“Okay,” I say softly. And then I dare to look up and face his gaze directly.

There is a pause, during which we look at each other. And then unexpectedly he blinks first.

“Come closer,” he says, resting his hands on the surface of his desk. “Take a seat.”

I do as I’m told and sit on one of the four chairs, perching somewhat on the edge of the seat. My palms are clammy and I clutch the ends of my uniform shirt.

“Now, tell me, what did you choose before the transfer? I have here some incomprehensible note from Captain Bequa Larei about you not giving her a proper answer? So—what kind of trouble did you start on AS-1109?”

“I merely told her that I choose neither Cadet nor Civilian, but to be a Citizen of Atlantis.”

His eyes narrow slightly and he grows very still. “What in the world for? What kind of nonsense is this?”

I take a deep breath and stare back at him. “I want to become a Citizen,” I repeat. “Why is that nonsense? Don’t I have a free choice in the matter? So, I choose neither Civilian nor your Fleet.”

He leans forward over his desk, drawing closer to me. “You have no idea what you are saying. How do you even know about Citizenship? This is advanced material, not something that was supposed to be covered in your Culture Class.”

“I know enough to know about the Games of the Atlantis Grail.”

“You
what?
” Now he is stunned, and his lips part as he stares at me.

“I know that you hold the Games every year, and Ten lucky winners, called Champions, are crowned, and they get Citizenship, plus all their wishes granted—”

As I speak, I see him shaking his head negatively, and his frown deepens in intensity. “No,” he interrupts me. “This is insanity. If you know anything about the Games you also know that all of the other entrants
die.
No one wins, but a handful, and the whole thing is tragic—ancient brutal savagery, an archaic event that should be rightfully abolished, if not for the old laws and traditions—”

“Is there any other way to become a Citizen and get all your wishes granted?”

Aeson exhales loudly, in visible frustration. “You,” he says, “are truly
impossible
. Why would you want to be a Citizen anyway? You can live a perfectly comfortable life as a Civilian, or even choose Cadet and become a successful Fleet Officer—”

“I don’t want a comfortable life. I want to live an extraordinary one,” I say stubbornly. “And I want all my wishes granted.”

“What wishes?” He stares at me, craning his neck slightly.

“I wish to have all my family rescued from Earth before the asteroid hits. I wish to have my mother brought to Atlantis and put into that high-tech medical machine to have her cancer removed. I wish my father and my brother George to be here too. That’s about it.”

“Oh, is that all?” His tone is rich with sarcasm.

But I ignore it. “Well, a decent home to live in would be nice too. And of course higher education, so that I can learn everything I can about this new world I am about to enter—”

He appears to be once more rendered speechless, as he watches me with eyes that bore right through me, it seems, digging deeper and deeper, searching for something, I don’t know what. . . .

“And these wishes of yours,” he says softly, “do they also include a family at some point?”

“Well off course they do! As I just said, I want Mom and Dad and George—”

“No,” he interrupts. “I mean, do you want a family of your own, a marriage union with a loving mate, maybe children. . . .”

As he says this, I feel heat once again rising in my face. “I—haven’t thought about it,” I reply haltingly. “Probably at some point, yes—but that kind of stuff is not part of my core wishes
right now
. And besides, it does not matter, none of it does. What needs to happen now is the urgent rescue of my parents and George—”

“It’s not going to happen,” he speaks ruthlessly.

“What?” I open my mouth.

“Let me be blunt. None of what you want is possible. There is no way to rescue your parents, and you cannot become a Citizen. I am sorry that you have been deluded to think that you can do something—”

“No!” I exclaim, standing up suddenly, while dizzying vertigo rises in my head. And then I sense I am about to say the same thing I told him before, back at the National Qualification Center in Colorado, when I accidentally used a compelling power voice on him:
“I do not accept this.”

But I don’t. Not this time.

I rein the surge of power back in, as I feel my own prickle of gathering energy along my skin, and I allow my
voice
to dissipate and echo only in my own mind. And then I slowly return to my seat.

I have no idea if Aeson Kassiopei realizes the kind of inner struggle I just had to put down.

Instead I say very softly, “I am sorry, I disagree with your assessment when it comes to my own life and my own choices. I am going to enter the Games of the Atlantis Grail as soon as we arrive on Atlantis. Please tell me the truth. As a free individual, am I forbidden to do so?”

There is a peculiar dark pause. He watches me tragically.

“No,” he says. “It is true. You may not be denied this outright.”

“Then it is settled.”

“No, it is
not
,” he says loudly, commandingly, with rising anger. “Although you do have a certain individual right to enter the Games of the Atlantis Grail, according to our laws, you are also on my ship, under my orders. As such, I can forbid you to act in any way that will potentially harm or damage you—and therefore your
voice
—as it relates to matters of Atlantis. Your Logos power voice is an asset and you are hereby ordered to comply with my decision.”

“And what if I refuse to comply? Will you incarcerate me?”

In that instant Aeson Kassiopei gets up from his desk. He takes three steps and suddenly towers above me.

In the next instant, he picks me up by the shoulders, raising me up from my seat effortlessly, as though I’m weightless . . . and he holds me briefly, his strong fingers cutting into my arms painfully, his face inches from mine—so close that I can see the dark fringe of his lashes and the sharp line of wonderfully exotic natural pigment around his eyelids . . . And I am also suddenly very aware of his elevated breathing through his slightly parted, chiseled lips.

He then just as suddenly lets me go, so that I fall back in my chair, slack-jawed from the shock of him, his
touch
, his overwhelming
presence.
Even now, the places on my arms where he touched me seem to
ring
, as though branded. . . .

“Gwen Lark,” he says very carefully, looking down at me, speaking like a serpent, his voice gone low and dangerous. “Do not
ever
presume to challenge me, or to speak to me in this way again. I have tolerated your outbursts due to your ignorance of proper conduct, and your difficult circumstances. But it all stops now. You will listen and obey orders. Or you will be disciplined.”

I feel a surge of crazy emotion rising, as I look up at him, shaking with the overload, and my hands clutch the armrests of the chair. Some really awful, possibly insane blather is about to pour out of me and I cannot stop it, as usual, and frankly,
I don’t care
.

“Is this the Command Pilot speaking, or the
Imperial Prince?
” I say with boiling anger. “Should I address you as
Your Highness?
Because it seems to me you’re ordering me about, and I am sorry, but technically I have
not
made my so-called ‘life choice’ or decision yet, and therefore I have not sworn, or promised loyalty, or obedience, or fealty, or
any other junk
—to you or to Atlantis! In fact, I’m not sure I want to, if this is how things are going to be! When Instructor Oalla Keigeri told me that
I mattered to you,
I thought that meant that you actually cared, as a human being, not some kind of tyrant—”

“
What?”
Aeson’s expression grows perfectly still and cold, like stone. He appears to be stunned once more by what I just said. “She did
what?
What did Oalla Keigeri say to you?”

I stare at him, freezing also, my eyes wide open. And then I begin turning red again, red as a beet, or maybe a damn tomato. Oh, crap! What did I just do? What did I just tell him? “Nothing. . . . She said nothing, I mean, not much. . . . She just made it sound like you care—about my well-being, I think? Or—I am not sure—”

A terrible pause.

He exhales a long held breath. “Well,” he says, composing himself suddenly so that he looks perfectly casual, almost relaxed, which I know cannot be right. “Looks like Pilot Keigeri and I need to have a little talk—about overstepping bounds. You can be certain it will not happen again. In the future she will not speak nonsense about things she knows very little about.”

I can tell he is very angry, but also, for some reason, he does not look directly at me. Instead, Aeson Kassiopei steps away and goes back to sit down at his desk. He sweeps back his metallic gold hair, puts his hands behind his head and leans back in his chair, still without looking at me. If I didn’t know better, I would think he
cannot
face me. Or maybe it’s something else?

Whatever it is, I sit in my chair and feel incredibly awkward—for about five very long seconds.

“So,” he says.

And then he starts to
laugh
.

It is a clean arrogant sound, perfectly devoid of any emotion, completely in control, and for that reason it is
terrifying
. And as he laughs, he at last looks directly, confidently at me.

“Gwenevere Lark,” he says my full name in a sarcastic, terrible, condescending voice, and the unwavering gaze of his eyes is upon me. “Whatever it is you
think
I hold in regards to you—whatever
sentiment
or
weakness
that Oalla Keigeri has so absurdly and mistakenly informed you about—it does not exist.”