Qualify

  A tall athletic boy goes first. His name is Chris, I think. He easily hand-swigs the whole distance, then climbs down from the scaffold, looking calm. The rest of us follow. Some kids slip immediately, barely able to hang on with their hands for only one or two bars. Others struggle a bit longer to reach partway across, until dropping away.

  I watch Janice Quinn struggle and slip after about six bars. She lands on the metal ledge flooring awkwardly and it looks like she may have twisted her ankle, because she grips the wall in a panicky way and starts to limp as she makes it the rest of the way across. Jai does okay most of the way with his hands, then slips off, and walks to the end.

  My turn. I look up at the bars and my hands are already slippery like eels, just in anticipation. I wipe them against my jeans, then stand up on tiptoe and reach for the metal rungs.

  I grip, and then I swing. My arms, already tired from the short climb up the side ladder, are barely obeying me, and there’s a stinging pain of uncustomary soreness. I let go of one hand and reach for the next bar . . . grab it. My hand, and then my arm, feels like it’s being ripped out of its socket.

  I am now stretched out between two bars, and it’s excruciating. Gathering all my arm strength, I let go of the first hand and reach for the second rung. I know I should have swung more, aiming for the third rung instead—so that each bodily swing and motion of the hand would propel me onward. But no, I can only do it the stupid hard way. So I merely grip the second rung with both hands and hang on.

  A gasp for air, then I reach for the third rung again with my leading hand. Again, I am stretched between two bars, and my arms are ripped apart in agony. . .

  I let go of the back bar, reach in futility for the next one. And then, with a sinking feeling of despair, I feel my fingers slipping. . . . I don’t so much let go as I am forced to acknowledge the fact that my body just gave up on me.

  At least I land on my feet. There’s a small thud, a terrifying moment of vertigo, and then I walk the rest of the way on the metal scaffolding, without looking over the side that’s the ledge.

  Now, the climb down. Oh, no. . . .

  I pause at the end near the downward ladder, feeling faint, then squeeze my eyes shut, breathe, open them again. I turn my back to the precipice, and grip the metal upright corner posts of the scaffolding. They both comprise the side supports for the whole structure all the way up to the ceiling, and they create the ladder. I lower one leg and feel with my foot the first rung on the way down. . . .

  Please don’t slip. . . . Please don’t slip. Somehow I make it to the floor.

  Oalla is waiting there for me, and she scans my ID token. “Demerit,” she says coldly and looks away.

  Yeah, I knew that was coming.

  After everyone’s down, and two thirds of us have earned demerits, the next phase of torture begins.

  At least this one is relatively simple.

  Oalla Keigeri calls down six hoverboards. Once again she uses musical tones, singing a pattern of notes that I find curiously pleasing. One by one they come down from the top of the scaffolding near the ceiling, where they are apparently being stored.

  Each hoverboard is the same—about six feet long, with tapered oval ends, and made of that same matte charcoal and slate grey material. Oalla directs them into a lineup, side by side, stretching across the hall, at a level “Ready” position six inches off the floor.

  “All right. You remember the English commands you were taught yesterday, during Preliminary Qualification?” She points to the boards. “Well, today you will get to use them again. All this week you will be allowed to continue to use verbal commands to control the boards. But, starting next week, you will have to use tones, the same way we do on Atlantis. That would be in a different class. For now, English is fine. Now, I want you to get on a board and ride all the way to the end of the room and back on this horizontal starting level. For now, I want to observe your posture, so we will not lift the boards any higher.

  Janice Quinn, who is standing up with difficulty while favoring one foot, raises her hand. “I am sorry, but I think my ankle got hurt. . . . What should I do?”

  Oalla turns in her direction, and there’s silence.

  “After class, you may go to get a bandage and medical care. There’s a doctor on the first floor near the Cafeteria. Ask at the info desk.”

  “But—” Janice looks frightened. “What should I do now?”

  The Atlantean girl gets a cold, blank expression. No sympathy, no emotion, nothing. “Do you want to Qualify?” she asks. “If so, then get on a board and ride. Or get a demerit. Your choice.”

  Janice bites her lip and nods.

  “Bitch . . .” someone mutters quietly.

  Oalla pauses, then slowly turns in the direction of the whisperer. “Who said that? If I hear another such outburst from any one of you, that person will be Disqualified immediately.”

  Silence. You can hear a pin drop. Suddenly everyone is looking down and away.

  “Now then, I want to see you all ride. Prove to me that you are half as good as Blayne Dubois who’s been hoverboarding all the while we were doing the laps and the climbing.” Oalla turns as though nothing happened. She glances around then spots him and points to the other end of the hall. There we see the “wheelchair kid” lying on his stomach atop a board and gliding smoothly around in laps, six inches above the floor.

  We line up behind each board and take the basic “Go! Stop! Reverse! Go! Stop!” two-way ride along the Training Hall. Even Janice Quinn with her sprained ankle manages somehow—though her face is deathly pale, and a sheen of pain-sweat covers her forehead.

  By the time my turn comes, I am shaking in exhaustion, but maybe it’s what makes it easier, since by this point my muscles are too tired to be stiff—which in my experience is normally the cause of all my “clumsy.” I put my right foot up on the board, then the left one behind me in my usual “goofy” stance, and balance without much difficulty. Since no heights are involved, I feel no need to crouch down, so I ride upright all the way, balancing on my feet, and amazingly I don’t fall off.

  I also don’t get a demerit.

  “Class dismissed,” Oalla tells us soon enough. “See you next time. Be warned, you will be very sore tomorrow.”

  Chapter 7

  My second class is Atlantis Tech. I wonder what in the world that means as I climb up the stairs all the way to the fourth floor, pretty much dying on the way, after the physical exertion I’ve just endured. Admittedly, it’s not really that bad—at least not for a normal athletic teen. But I’ve managed to avoid P.E. or take the easiest classes possible, for years. And now it’s all catching up with me . . . at the worst time possible.

  The fourth floor landing is identical to the others, brightly lit and sterile. But instead of double doors leading to one ginormous room the size of the Training Hall or the sleeping floor, this one leads into a corridor with many classroom doors on all sides. My schedule said “Room 17,” and so I go down the hall past a stream of other students—no, wait, I need to stop thinking of everyone here as just students. No, we’re Candidates. Candidates for Qualification, fighting for our lives. And we are all sporting our yellow tokens, which suggests to me that our classes are likely going to be Yellow-Quadrant-only, or maybe even limited to our own Dorm Eight, whatever it really means.

  And for a brief moment I wonder how my brothers and sister are doing. . . . I’ll have to go look for them as soon as the classes for the day are over. My chest feels a sudden constriction, a pang of nerves on their behalf.

  But first, Atlantis Tech.

  Inside, the classroom is filled with Candidates. I am one of the last arrivals, so I get a lousy seat in the back. The front of the class has a usual teacher’s desk and on it is some kind of equipment. There is also a large whiteboard.

  The Instructor is a middle-aged man, definitely not Atlantean. He’s wearing a plain grey suit and a yellow armband. He has a balding head a
nd a mild and somewhat abstracted expression.

  “Good morning everyone, I am Mr. Warrenson. I will be one of your Atlantis Tech Instructors.” His voice is pleasant and he looks over the packed room kindly. “I’m sure you’re all wondering what this is all about. Well, to be honest, when I got the intensive crash course on the basic principles of their technology, I was pretty much stunned—all the scientific community was. But their technology is so different from our own, so original, the principles of physical interactions of wave and particle mechanics, heat and energy transfer—”

  I see the kids’ eyes starting to glaze over. At the same time I watch the excitement gathering in the way this man is starting to slur his speech together, and recognize he is a nerdy science type who got tasked with teaching us some advanced stuff that’s unfortunately going to go over many of the teens’ heads.

  But not mine!

  “Anyway, the main initial point I’m trying to get across,” Mr. Warrenson says, motioning with his hand at the spread of unrecognizable objects on the desk before him, “is that Atlantis technology is based on sound. To be precise, it is based on the interactions of various tones and frequencies and the opposing bombardment of sound waves from different directions in order to conduct, transfer and convert sound energy and in the process create physical movement and other tangible manifestations in the physical world.”

  Mr. Warrenson pauses and stares at us, as if to give us time to let it sink in.

  Everyone mostly kind of stares back at him, blank faced, expectant, uncertain.

  “Huh?” a boy mumbles.

  Me? I’m kind of getting blown away.

  Disappointed in our lack of reaction, the Instructor continues. “Let me put it this way. It’s sound, it’s music!—tones and notes—that make those amazing hoverboards levitate! Sound is what makes the bulk of their technology work! It’s mind-blowing! Oh, if only we had more time! More time to get a thorough in-depth look at the functionality, the things I could tell you—But in any case, what’s important is that the one solid reason why you all passed Preliminary Qualification, a reason I can reveal to you now, is that all of you here can more or less carry a tune. Or at least you can replicate auditory signals correctly. Which means you are prime Candidates for being able to use Atlantis technology!”

  This time the class is paying a bit more attention.

  “So.” Mr. Warrenson picks up one of the weirdo gadgets on the table. “What we’re going to do in the very brief time we have, is learn how to use their technology, their computers, their engines, their mechanisms. We—or better to say, you—won’t know how or why it works, but at least, by the time we’re done here, you will all know how to use it!”

  A curly-haired girl raises her hand. “Okay, does this mean we’re going to be singing in this class?” she quips.

  “Actually—” Mr. Warrenson smiles. “You’re not too far off.”

  And then he kind of launches into a rambling lecture on music theory. In a nutshell—and believe me, even I am a little bored with the thick overload of theory and mega-rambling in this one—in a nutshell, different notes, scales, tones, and progressions of sound waves create real usable energy.

  “The Yellow Quadrant,” Mr. Warrenson tells us, “is directly related to sounds and musical notes that are classified as sharp. That’s one of the four sound divisions within their system—with the Green Quadrant representing flat notes, Red Quadrant referring to major musical keys, and Blue Quadrant related to minor musical keys. Supposedly they all have special functions and very important roles and meanings in Atlantean science and physics. But all we need to know is how to make the correct musical sounds at the appropriate times and in the right places.”

  So, we are going to be singing indeed.

  I feel myself freezing up on the inside. . . .

  I haven’t mentioned it previously, but I don’t sing.

  And I don’t mean I cannot form notes—I can, reasonably well, otherwise apparently I wouldn’t have passed Preliminary Qualification. What I don’t do is sing for pleasure or for entertainment or for anything. I used to love to sing, when I was younger, a tiny little kid, singing along in delight to her opera singer Mom’s arias and solo repetitions. If I can even remember any of it, I think I was even kind of good at it. . . .

  But none of it matters.

  Not anymore. Not since Mom got cancer and it metastasized to her lungs, and caused her to stop being able to make the gorgeous mezzo-soprano notes, and forced her to quit her musical career and then stop working altogether. At that time something weird happened to me also. I don’t know what it is, and no, I am not being dramatic or a pretentious jerk.

  It’s just . . . something.

  So, I don’t sing. My brothers and my sister, sometimes they still sing a little, the way we used to do all together, and they still play their instruments—but I don’t.

  And so, as Mr. Warrenson starts explaining Atlantean audio gadgets to us, and then makes us echo the notes he makes in a chorus, demonstrating random levitation and other fascinating mechanical functionality, I keep as still as possible, and barely open my mouth.

  This class is going to be hell after all.

  At noon, we break for lunch.

  I get up and follow the stream of jostling Candidates downstairs. Some of us stop at the girls or boys dormitory floors to grab our stuff, or a fifteen minute nap, or check our belongings to make sure nothing has been taken from our beds, whatever—not that it would be, considering the immediate threat of Disqualification, and all the supposed security cameras (I haven’t seen any beyond ordinary yet, but it doesn’t mean they’re not there).

  I don’t bother. As if anyone is going to steal my books or my cheap trinkets. And I’ve never been one for naps, not even when dead-tired.

  Instead, I go directly to the Common Area on the first floor. On impulse I consider skipping lunch and instead heading out in search of Gracie and my brothers right now, right this moment, to see how they’re all doing. Poor Gracie, I can’t imagine how she must be dealing with Agility Training. . . .

  As I come down the last flight and enter the landing, still thinking about taking off, I notice a freight elevator right around the corner. It dings, its wide door swings open and I see Blayne Dubois in his wheelchair. There’s no one else in the elevator with him. He uses his hands to rotate the wheels but a wheel appears to get stuck on the small ledge between the elevator and the ground floor.

  He looks up, and I see his intense expression.

  Normally I’m the last person to stick my nose into other unfamiliar kids’ business, but something prompts me to pause. Especially since in that moment, no one else is around in this spot—all the noise is coming from the Common Area and the cafeteria, and there’s a brief lull as, in the last thirty seconds, no one else has come down the stairs behind me. . . .

  “Hi,” I say, and start moving toward him. “Need some help?”

  His gaze flits in my direction, and I meet his dark blue eyes.

  “No!” he says, just as my hands connect with the back of his chair at the handles.

  I freeze, and at the same time the heavy elevator door starts closing in on us, then bobs open again.

  “No! I don’t need any help!” he repeats, with a frown. His voice is stubborn, not at all faint or reedy. It sounds stronger than I remember from the auditorium last night, or the Training Hall gym an hour earlier. Since I am already halfway in the elevator, and this is a weird situation, I say, “Oh. . . .”

  And then, because the elevator starts to close again, I grip the wheelchair from the back, and give it one small shove. “I’ll just push it over this part here,” I say.

  He bites his lip, and up-close I see his angular chin, his pale skin, and the brown wisps of hair falling over his eyes. He appears my age or a little younger, but I’m not sure.

  The wheelchair snags momentarily, then we’re out of the elevator.

  “Thanks,” he says coldly. ?
??But I can get around by myself. Really.”

  Now I bite my lip, then mumble something like, “Sorry, yeah, I know. You’re Blayne, right?”

  “Yes.” He looks up at me. “You can let go now.”

  “Oh yeah, okay.” I smile nervously, step back, then add, “I saw you ride the hoverboard yesterday in my school back in Vermont, that was amazing—”

  Blayne stares at me, and his frown deepens. “Oh, yeah? What’s so amazing about not wanting to die?”

  “Oh, no, I mean, you were really inspirational, and it helped me and my sister, and a whole lot of other people, I bet, seeing you there—”

  I should just shut up now, because I am only digging myself in deeper.

  “So, it’s inspirational to see a loser cripple crawl onto that board and barely hang on?” He smirks. “Some inspiration! Why are you talking to me anyway?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I was only trying to help—”

  Blayne says nothing. He looks away from me, and I briefly see the hard flash of his blue eyes before his hair falls in his face. He then furiously starts turning the wheels with his hands, and the wheelchair rolls along the floor, away from me.

  Other people finally come down the stairs and pass us on the way to the cafeteria, and I am still paused like a fool, blocking traffic. I stand and watch his retreating shoulders and arms moving powerfully, and notice that they are more muscular up-close than I thought. I guess they have to be, since it’s how he gets around.

  Well, apparently Blayne Dubois is a bit of a jerk.

  Or maybe he’s not. I immediately feel rotten for thinking it. He’s probably just pretty much sick of people treating him this way. Kind of like how I just did, without meaning to.

  Yeah, I screwed up.

  I bite my lip and continue into the Common Area, past a whole bunch of people I don’t know. I doubt I’ll have time now to search for Gracie and our bros. It’ll have to wait till later tonight. For now, best to just grab some food before the next class.

  As I make a beeline for the cafeteria, keeping myself as small as possible out of habit, and looking mostly straight ahead, I hear a minor commotion just off to the side near the lounging area. Loud guy voices, harsh female laughter, and a general hard tone I am used to associating with danger and in-crowd unpleasantness. It almost always means someone is getting picked on—or about to be—and it’s usually me.