Qualify

  Nefir’s general gaze focuses on me. “Yes?”

  “Is that material real gold? I mean, this replica, and the original? And if not gold, then what is it? What makes it conduct sound—or react to sound, or—” My questions fade into mutters.

  Next to me Laronda is looking at me with her eyes rolling.

  “You ask interesting questions. But they are better suited for your Atlantis Tech class,” he says. “However, I will answer the first question because it is relevant. Yes, this is the element gold—a gold plate over another substance. And yes, so is the original Grail in Poseidon, great ancient city. . . . You might’ve heard rumors that there is so much naturally occurring gold on Atlantis that we consider it a base metal—which may seem unusual to you since gold is still so rare and prized on Earth. Well, it is true, gold is overabundant and we do not value it as much as our ancestors valued gold when we still lived on Earth. However we have many uses for it, and it is a profound part of our culture.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then this homey’s coming to Atlantis!” a boy says in the back row. A few snickers are heard.

  “First, you must prove yourself. You must Qualify.” Nefir looks at the boy with a slow blooming smile.

  “You bet!” the kid says with a crooked grin.

  “What is your name, Candidate?”

  “Dionte Jones, mister teacher. Or you can call me Dion-Z, as in, Zee one and only Diontay, get my parlay?”

  More hushed snickers roll through the room.

  But the Atlantean is unperturbed. “Qualify, and I will call you what you wish.”

  And then Nefir looks away and calmly continues his lecture. I watch him, hoping he will reach for one of the ancient books, but no such luck.

  “Atlantida,” Nefir speaks the word so that it sounds truly alien. “Atlantida is the word in our core language that means Atlantis. It is the original name of the continent and of our colony planet, and also the first nation that was formed. Your Greeks had remembered the remnants of our language in bits and pieces, and apparently passed it onward into the ages. And now, ancient words and fragments are all that you have to remember us by, the once-great civilization that was Atlantis.”

  I raise my hand again.

  This time Nefir looks at me, and smiles. “Yes?”

  “Is the Ancient Atlantean language mostly a predecessor to our Earth Ancient Greek, or are there also some Egyptian influences in the mixture, and possibly Mesopotamian, such as Sumerian or Urartu? Oh, and what about Sanskrit?”

  “What is your name, Candidate?”

  “Gwen Lark.”

  “You are observant and certainly show a lot of interest, which is admirable. Unfortunately it’s beyond the scope of this class to learn the language or its intricacies, only the most rudimentary basics. However, you are welcome to seek me out and ask me outside of class. The same goes for all of you who have more in-depth questions. Find me in the offices on the upper floor of the Arena Commons building, during your Homework Hour.”

  I nod. “Okay. . . .”

  “To briefly answer—yes, there are many of your ancient Earth languages that carry in them remnants of Atlantean. After all, we ruled your world, our culture and technology permeated all the Earth continents. But today, I will speak of the structure of our governments.”

  A few sighs are heard. But Nefir’s voice picks up in tone, if not volume, to energize and engage. “The oldest nation, Atlantida, is an Imperial Democracy. It is important that you know this, because it tells you about our society and our laws. There are other nations on Atlantis that are pure democracies, or hereditary democratic monarchies, and republics. In nearly every instance, it is important that you understand that our government is formed out of elected representatives, and that our rulers—imperial or otherwise—are mostly figureheads, and have no control over the workings of the government or its laws.” Nefir pauses, for emphasis. “The Imperator and the Imperial Family, they are inspirational and ceremonial, and they preside over public spectacle and traditional events. Meanwhile, councils of elected officials run the government. We have no tyrants, no despots on Atlantis. Such a thing is considered an ancient barbaric anachronism. We choose our government. And our laws are fair and just, for all citizens.”

  Laronda makes a small sound that only I can hear. I glance at her, and her lips are mouthing, “Yeah, right. . . .”

  Another girl, emboldened by my questions, raises a hand. “So what kind of rights do people have? Will we become full Atlantis citizens if we Qualify?”

  Nefir pauses. For a moment, his eyes narrow slightly. He is considering his reply carefully. “No,” he says. “Those of you who Qualify for rescue, will not become citizens. Citizenship is not automatic, it is an earned honor. You will enter our society as resident aliens coming under humanitarian refugee status.”

  The classroom comes alive with nervous whispers.

  Nefir speaks, ignoring the unrest. “As such, you will have all the basic rights accorded to human beings—they include the rights to basic food, housing, education, healthcare, and a chance to work and socialize. However, you will not have the right to vote or advance to the highest elected offices of government. Only citizens can vote. Only citizens can affect and make laws. Nor will you have automatic access to the more advanced privileges of society.”

  “Whoa! Whoa!” Dionte Jones speaks up without raising his hand. “Are you telling us we’ll be some kind of lower class, second-hand crappy residents, just because we weren’t born into your society? Are we going to be slaves? Oh, hayyyell, no!”

  “Rest assured, there are no slaves in our society. But there are those whom we call non-citizens, and whom you would consider as the lower economic class, and the less privileged—something that is not at all unlike what you presently have here on Earth. It is a natural result of a free society, is it not?”

  “All human beings are supposed to be equal!”

  Nefir stares at Dionte with a hard unblinking stare. “Are they? You have billionaires and you have beggars. Even in this so-called ‘more developed’ country that you call the United States of America—a one-time superpower that has now slipped in influence to secondary world power status behind your China and United Industan and Great Scandinavia. We are no different. However, we do not pretend to take our natural, native-born privileges for granted.”

  He pauses, still looking at the boy, and his expression grows more and more derisive. “All of you who are born here are citizens. You can choose to vote or not, to participate in the making of your society or not—and mostly, you don’t. You can sleepwalk through life and ignore the greater problems around you, as you steep in your own petty personal issues and pass your time casually existing. We, on the other hand, have to prove to ourselves, and to others around us, that we will actively make the effort to shape our society and take responsibility for it, always. And only once we do this, are we citizens. In short—everyone has basic rights, but everyone earns their privileges.”

  I take a deep breath and raise my hand again, for the third time today.

  Nefir shakes his head lightly, but his lips appear to relax as he turns to me. “Yes, Gwen?”

  Holy moly, has it already come to this? The Atlantean Instructors already know me by name. . . .

  “What can I or any of us do to become citizens?” I say. “Full citizens of Atlantis, with all the privileges, such as the right to vote, and so on?”

  There’s a pause.

  The classroom has grown perfectly silent.

  Nefir meets my gaze with his unblinking stare. “Nothing,” he says after the tiniest hint of hesitation. His voice, if I’m not mistaken, appears to be genuinely sad. “For most of you—or to be precise, for almost all of you—there is nothing you can do to become full citizens of Atlantis. You will arrive on our world, you will integrate into our non-citizen society, and you will live long, average, probably comfortable lives, filled with mediocre achievements. But you will not be stars—you will not shine
to the fullest, as would a true citizen for whom there are no limits.”

  “Okay, that’s kind of depressing. Actually, it sucks . . .” a girl mutters. “But I guess it’s better than getting hit by the asteroid.”

  Nefir glances at her briefly. “I am glad you understand.”

  I am still processing this answer. . . . Something inside me has just died slightly at the thought of . . . enforced mediocrity. I don’t know what it is. . . . But it occurs to me, I guess I’ve always unconsciously thought I’d be doing something a little more important with my life, just even a little! As a matter of fact—okay, face it, Gwen—I’ve aspired for something extraordinary, something that might push the limits, and allow me to use my mind to the fullest. . . .

  I am crazy! Since when? I guess—since now!

  Come on, Gwen, it occurs to me in this moment of tough self-revelation. You know you’ve always wanted to be intellect-smart, and that’s what you ended up being.

  Being a physical klutz was a badge of honor. You always cared about learning things. And you didn’t care about stuff like sports or gym class because secretly you’ve thought all of that was useless and a waste of time, not to mention a little beneath you. Stupid physical stuff for dumb jocks . . . while you were going to invent things, learn a hundred languages, or discover ancient mysteries, or somehow change the world. Who needs to maintain a toned body for that? Okay, I know, that last thought is pure irony.

  Wow. Maybe the asteroid really should just take me out now. Because if I can’t try to do all these amazing things with my life (with or without fully acknowledging the part of me that is my physical body, because yeah, now I get it), then what’s the use of anything?

  I raise my hand, and begin to speak before Nefir even looks at me.

  “You said, ‘almost nothing.’ Actually, sorry, you said, ‘nothing for almost all of us.’ So does that mean that for a few of us there’s something? That a few of us can become citizens? How?”

  Nefir exhales a long breath and watches me with his kohl-rimmed lapis eyes.

  I watch him back, look straight into those unreadable Atlantean eyes that I’ve rather grown accustomed to. And I don’t blink. Because this is important for me, really important. . . .

  “Gwen Lark, ah-h-h. . . . You really do ask some difficult questions.” Nefir speaks at last. He begins to pace before the desk, and he looks somewhat uncomfortable.

  “Technically,” he says, “technically, yes, there is a way a non-citizen refugee from Earth can become a full citizen of Atlantis.” He glances at the golden cup object. “We have an annual event, in honor of the Atlantis Grail. They are Games—Games of the Atlantis Grail. The closest Earth equivalent would be your Olympics. And yet, they are not really the same thing at all. Because the Games of the Atlantis Grail are life-and-death contests of strength, endurance, speed, and pure talent. Contestants compete to win, or to die.”

  “Not all that different from what we’re doing now,” I say. “Qualify or die.”

  “Oh, no!” Nefir makes a short sound that might be a laugh. “If you think your Qualification is even remotely similar—okay, maybe only in the most technical sense of having life-threatening high stakes—in that case, yes, I suppose it is. But, no—the Atlantis Grail is brutal. The Games include events and tasks of unspeakable difficulty, contests between world-class competitors, master fighters and athletes, master scientists and artists. People train for years before attempting to enter the Games. If any of you refugees from Earth were to enter, you would first have to train—which would take months, years. And even so, you would still lose your lives.”

  The class has grown so silent that I don’t think anyone’s breathing.

  To bring his point home, the Atlantean finally looks away from me, and now his gaze scans the room. He pauses to consider. “Let’s see—next year’s Games will take place just as you arrive on Atlantis, which would be about fifteen of your Earth months from now. I suppose you could use the time on-board our starships to train, in time for next year’s event . . . in which case, my sympathies are with you in advance.”

  Nefir pauses again then puts his fingers on the rim of the golden grail. “Natives of Atlantis die every year in the Games. Even though we do everything to actively discourage participation, thousands of them die—people of great talent and resourcefulness. Good, solid non-citizens who sacrifice themselves for a remote wild dream. Because, out of thousands of entrants, only Ten can win each year. Ten lucky winners who are called champions can gain the laurels of citizenship and all the high tech luxuries that come with it. Furthermore, all the champions’ wishes are granted automatically—anything within the scope of possibility. To be in the Top Ten each year is the fulfillment of everything imaginable.”

  “If so many people die, then why do they even bother entering?” someone says from behind me.

  “Because the rewards are extraordinary. And because it is human nature—to try and prove yourself.” Nefir shakes his head. “There are exclusive luxuries. There are unique and expensive high-end technologies such as advanced medicine that can work miraculous cures. Basic medical resources for the general population do not offer such treatments. But a champion winner of the Atlantis Grail can demand access to any and all procedures. Some past champions have used their newfound privilege to achieve complete physical transformations, while others have used it to cure family members of all diseases—”

  “Can you cure cancer?” I interrupt suddenly. My gut is suddenly churning with a cold strange feeling. . . .

  Nefir glances at me. “No. Because what you call ‘cancer’ is not a true disease. It is DNA-level cell damage, an imbalance. A body’s general loss of control over its mechanisms, cell function, and resources. The causes are varied, including genetic predisposition, environmental stressors, and lifestyle choices. But the end result is the same—a body’s surrender to itself. There is no ‘cure.’ What our medical technology can do is remove the cancerous cells already present and then restore your body’s control and general immune functionality—you might say, reset the internal immune clock. But the fight against any new damage remains up to the individual.”

  “Sounds like a cure to me.”

  “Perhaps.” Nefir looks away from me and faces the rest of the class. “Any other questions on the Atlantis Grail?”

  Candidates watch him back with dimmed expressions. I glance to one side of me and see Laronda frowning. And on the other side, a boy is shaking his head in disgust. There are many stunned faces. For the first time, it seems we’ve all suffered a strange blow to our confidence, to our very hope.

  This new reality about non-citizenship, now that we know about it, really sucks. I should be dazed and depressed as everyone. And yet—for some reason, my mind is racing. . . .

  I am thinking what might happen if my Mom underwent treatment with this advanced medical technology, had all her cancerous cells blasted away, her immunity reset—or whatever it is they would do to renew her body’s defenses.

  To make it happen, all I’d need to do is first Qualify, then train and enter the Games of the Atlantis Grail.

  And then, finally, I would need to beat out thousands of highly skilled native Atlanteans in unspeakable contests of skill, strength, and endurance, and win the Atlantis Grail.

  Naturally I would also need to do all this before the asteroid hits Earth. Then, as a champion, I can make all my demands to have my parents saved and brought over to Atlantis, and Mom can get her treatment.

  I start laughing quietly at my crazy self, and end up having to put my hand over my mouth.

  The rest of the day is a blur of pain and overextended stretched muscles. After Atlantis Culture I say bye to Laronda who heads to a different class. And then I haul my butt downstairs to the basement for torture—ahem, Agility Training. Here I discover that it is possible to feel even more agony and humiliation.

  Oalla Keigeri, the Atlantean drill sergeant, makes us run seven l
aps instead of five. This time the widely spread-out snake of Candidates barely dragging themselves along the perimeter of the gym is even longer than yesterday. A few athletic types make good time around the room—including Claudia Grito who’s once again in my class. I watch her pass me several times—on her third and fourth lap while I am still on my second—and try to keep a wide berth between us. But after this morning’s incident she’s ignoring me completely, and instead showing off her great runner pace.

  Everyone else who is not a jock is barely huffing along, and once again I come in dead last, and earn a demerit.

  “Have you been running like I told you?” Oalla asks, scanning my yellow token.

  “Yes . . .” I gasp, bending over to catch my laboring breath. “But it’s only been . . . one day. I . . . ran this . . . morning.”

  The Atlantean girl looks at me hard. “You will run again tonight, and then again tomorrow morning.”

  Then for the next forty minutes we practice a combination of hoverboarding around the room, and climbing the scaffolding.

  “You will climb all the way to the top tier, run across it, then climb back down to the ground,” Oalla tells us. Then you will climb back up halfway, run across the middle tier to the other end and climb back down. Repeat this until I tell you to stop.”

  The class groans. Even guys like Chris who are in reasonably good shape, don’t look too happy.

  We start climbing the scaffolding. It’s only been a few moments and I can already barely feel the rungs of the ladder with my fingers as I enter a kind of weird disembodied state of exhaustion. It comes over me as I drag myself up and then barely run across the tall scaffolding strip, trying not to look over the edge down. There are people ahead of me and behind me, and occasionally we collide as someone runs too slow or too fast, and all I see is the back and legs of the person before me. . . .

  I lose track of time completely. There is only my labored breathing, a weakness in all my extremities and a dull ache in my gut. At some point I think I am going to throw up, as I stagger and barely hold on to the rungs on my umpteenth way down, almost losing my grip and falling.