Qualify

  Logan Sangre is standing there, waiting for me.

  He is quiet, intense, and his hazel eyes give me a jolt of badly needed warmth.

  “Gwen!” he says, and places his steady hand on my arm. “I heard what happened—everything. I am going with you.”

  Chapter 21

  Logan walks with me in the deepening twilight through the RQC compound, and in minutes I start to shiver, having once again forgotten to wear anything warm.

  “Here,” he says, taking off his windbreaker jacket and handing it to me. “Put this on.”

  “What about you?” I mumble.

  “I’m not the one who’s covered in goose bumps.” He smiles at me. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to dress warm at night?”

  I glance up at him, feeling a surge of warmth in my cheeks. I wrap his great big jacket around me and it covers me with sudden comfort. I inhale its pleasant scent of musky aftershave and something else that is uniquely him. “Thanks. I’ll give it back when we’re indoors.”

  He only nods.

  And in minutes we’re at the Arena Commons Building.

  We enter through the glass doors into the outer mall-like area. There I note the time on one wall clock—it reads five minutes before eight.

  The stadium is sparsely populated with Candidates. Occasional bursts of voices and laughter sounds from small clusters of teens walking by, or going to the track to run laps.

  Some people are milling around the “food court” cafeteria.

  Red, blue, green, yellow tokens everywhere. If I am not mistaken, some of those people are also staring at me.

  Okay, what is it? Does everyone in the world know?

  I pause walking and turn around. I blink.

  There it is, the platform deck, in the back. It is about a hundred feet away, lit up brightly from the overhead electric lights, and it appears to be empty.

  Logan watches me stand there, still shivering. I clutch the edges of his jacket around me with a white knuckled grip. “Gwen?” His voice is gentle. “You will be okay.”

  I take a very deep breath and then purse my lips and exhale. “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

  I start walking to the platform with determination.

  As I approach, I remove Logan’s jacket, and hand it back to him. “Thank you,” I say, with a single glance behind me.

  “No sweat,” he says, receiving it from me, just as we reach the bottom scaffolding and the stairs to the deck that stands at least twelve feet above the floor. “Good luck!”

  “Now, please go,” I say, looking down at him, as I begin to climb the stairs.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I really want to be alone for this humiliation, whatever it is.”

  He nods, and I watch him from above, midway up the stairs, as he slowly backs away, still looking at me, then begins to walk back the way we came from.

  I turn and climb the rest of the way to the deck.

  Then I stand there, looking around at the panorama of the stadium arena.

  It is eight o’clock and I am completely alone.

  “Candidate Gwen Lark, you are on time,” a disembodied voice says out of nowhere, and I start somewhat, looking around, and there is still no one there.

  And then I realize the voice sounds slightly mechanical, because it’s coming from a set of speakers at the base of the platform deck. There’s a small crackle, but I recognize it as definitely his.

  Aeson Kass.

  I stare around nervously, then glance up to check the distant glass ceiling of the stadium, like a total idiot.

  Then, it occurs to me to look to the upper level walkways. He is probably up there in one of their offices, sitting at an observation console. Of course, that has to be it—there are probably dozens of cameras trained on me right now, and on the whole stadium. . . .

  Aeson’s voice sounds again. “Your instructions are to step to the middle of the deck. There you will stand on your right foot and count to one hundred, slowly, out loud. Then you will switch and stand on your left foot and count to one hundred. Repeat this ten times. When you are done, you will descend to the arena floor, then go directly to the fifth level of this building, office 512, for your next instructions. Begin now.”

  My lips part, as I consider this, freezing for a moment in a kind of stupor.

  “Okay . . .” I mutter. This is not as bad as I thought it would be.

  I go to the middle and stand there on my right foot.

  I try to keep my balance, my hands stretched out to my sides, as I begin counting loudly, “One, two, three, four, five. . . .”

  Easier said than done. Yeah, I feel like an idiot, and I can see people down on the floor level below glancing at me as they pass by. But the worst part is, after I get to around fifty-count, my right foot starts to acquire the same fine muscle tremor that I got in Combat earlier today, so it’s pure agony trying to stay upright, keep my other foot off the floor, and count at the same time.

  Soon my arms are flailing.

  I get to one hundred and desperately switch to my left foot. Begin counting again, “One, two, three, four, five. . . .”

  Here, I find it suddenly hard to find and keep the new balance on the other leg, and so I wobble wildly, and start to hop on that foot just to keep myself standing.

  First one-hundred rep pair is down, only nine more to go. Or is it ten more? Did he mean eleven total? Ugh!

  I switch to my right foot. . . .

  Then, things become very focused and very intense as I lose track of time, and pretty much everything else around me, as I focus on keeping the count and keeping my individual feet balanced, one at a time.

  One second at a time. . . .

  The world narrows in on me and there is only agony and intensity and numbers.

  About twenty minutes later, with sweat pouring down my forehead, I am done.

  My legs and feet are quaking under me, and I stand with both feet on the deck platform and just breathe.

  Okay, what office did he tell me to go to afterwards? Is it number 512? My thoughts are swimming, as I climb down the scaffolding on legs that feel like limp noodles, and then look around again, glance up to the fifth level walkway. . . . It’s somewhere up there.

  I make my way to the building stairs, hoping to find an elevator instead. No such luck—it’s probably somewhere nearby but I have no time to mess around looking, so I climb the nearest corkscrew staircase wearily, up each level, turn around on the landings, then up again.

  On level five, I enter the walkway. The offices that line the perimeter of the building are all numbered. Some of the glass windows are lit, indicating someone’s there, but most of them are dark for the evening, shades drawn. I read the numbers, striding along the walkway and occasionally glancing at the view of the great big arena space below. My fear of heights kicks in slightly, but only when I approach the outer railing, so I try not to look or get too close.

  Finally, toward the end of the level, I see Office 512. The light is on, but the shades are drawn over the wide glass window.

  I knock on the door . . . and hear his voice.

  “Come in!”

  I open the door and see a large classroom-sized space. It is a roomy, bright office, with several modern desks along one wall, covered with smart-tech consoles and computer screens, some split into four quadrants, and surveillance equipment, just as I suspected. It’s a master control center.

  There are several tall-backed task chairs and Aeson Kass sits in one of them, staring at one of the displays.

  His back is turned to me, so all I see is the fall of his metallic hair against the muscular shoulders clad in the grey uniform. He is entering something at a console.

  “Wait there, take a seat, and I will be with you shortly,” he says without turning around, simply points with one finger behind him.

  I glance, and there is a long fabric-upholstered sofa stretching along the other wall, and several chairs, sur
rounding in a semi-circle a long coffee table.

  That’s when I notice we are not alone. Someone else is sitting in the corner.

  I blink in surprise because it’s Blayne Dubois. He is sitting on the sofa, and his wheelchair is moved off to the side in the corner. In one of his hands there’s an inert hoverboard, standing upright, its one end resting on the floor.

  Blayne looks at me silently, and I would guess a bit sullenly. Or maybe not, I think he just looks resigned and very tired.

  “Hi, Blayne . . .” I nod at him, and sit down on the other end of the long sofa. My expression is just as exhausted as his.

  Yeah, it’s been a long day. And it’s not looking to end any time soon. What is going on here?

  “Hey,” he mumbles in reply.

  Meanwhile I glance with nervous expectation at the Atlantean.

  Aeson Kass turns to us in that same moment . . . and it’s like a tangible blow strikes me suddenly in the chest.

  As I meet his gaze directly, and have his full attention, I feel seared by an inexplicable force. He is looking at me—and now a crazy uncontrollable warmth rises in me, flooding me with a rush of electricity.

  I look back at him and suddenly my head is burning—I am burning. What is happening, holy lord! My cheeks are on fire, and I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.

  “So, Candidate Lark,” Aeson says in a steady neutral voice, without seeming to notice my flood of color. “I see you’ve met Candidate Dubois. Good, it makes things easier.”

  I frown slightly. “Okay . . . is this—what about my—disciplinary action?”

  For the first time I see Aeson’s face take on a new, previously unseen expression. His brows rise slightly, and there’s a shadow of something hovering about his lips. But the next instant it’s gone, replaced by an impassive cold demeanor. “You found it insufficient? If the activity you’ve performed just now in the arena is not enough, then I can accommodate you with more. Would you like to go back on that platform and repeat?”

  “Oh, no!”

  Again he pauses, momentarily saying nothing, only looks at me. His dark lapis-blue eyes appear to examine me closely. Is there a hint of sarcasm there? I swear, I have never seen him more human than he appears in this one moment.

  But it is a brief instant, because he closes up once again, and becomes an unreadable mask.

  “Your disciplinary action is done. It has served its purpose, primarily as an example to others, not to be stupid. I expect you have learned something from it—or not. But now you are here for a different reason.”

  “Oh?” I say, feeling an immediate wave of relief combined with anger that he called my actions stupid. Because of it—and fortunately for me—my crazy blush seems to recede. Thank you, lord. “What reason?”

  “I need a Candidate as an assistant for a specific task. And though I am not convinced at all that you are the right one for this job, you have been recommended by two of your Instructors.”

  I stare at him. “Really?”

  “Apparently both Nefir Mekei and Xelio Vekahat think you show some kind of promise.”

  Okay, now I am amazed. . . . Nefir, maybe, since I talk so much in Culture class. But Xelio?

  While I sit pondering this, Aeson gets up from his chair and approaches the sofa. He stands before Blayne and me, looking down at us both. But again he speaks to me.

  “Lark, you are going to be helping Dubois train on the hoverboard for Combat. Basically he needs a spotter to hold the board and to spar with, in a specialized manner—until he has grasped the ability to throw punches and move in specialized Forms for those with limited mobility. All this needs to happen at the same time as he holds the board in a near vertical position to support himself upright.”

  “What? Why?” Blayne says, at the same time as I say, “Why me?”

  “Because we want you to do the best you can during Qualification, Candidate Dubois. I want you to do well. You show some extraordinary promise in certain areas.” Aeson takes a step toward Blayne and offers him one hand. “Take the board and hold it before you at a fifteen-degree steep angle away from vertical, like this.”

  And he pulls the board forward to demonstrate, at the same time as he takes Blayne’s hand and pulls him up easily from his seated position, so that the boy falls forward onto the board, and lies on his stomach, wrapping his arms around the board on both sides to support himself.

  Aeson hums a few short staccato notes in a rich deep voice that sends strange disturbing resonances through me, and the board comes alive. It hovers in the unusual near-vertical position.

  I stand watching, mesmerized.

  Aeson comes around Blayne from the back and balances the length of the boy’s body against the activated board, arranging his torso and limbs in certain ways.

  “How much muscle strength does your lower body have?” he asks Blayne, examining the lines of his posture, and taps the back of his calves with his fingers. “Can you feel that?”

  “Yeah, I felt that,” Blayne mumbles. “I can press the board with my thighs, but anything below the knees, not so much.”

  “All right.” Aeson now turns to me and beckons me with one hand. “Lark, stand here and hold the board like this.”

  I get up, and do as I am told. We stand in a strange grouping around Blayne and his hoverboard, and eventually I understand what is expected of me.

  “The board is already hovering, but it will wobble strongly from the impact of sparring blows,” Aeson tells me, with a single brief glance in my direction. “And until he has figured out how to hold on and keep it perfectly steady and immobilized, he will slip off and end up on the floor. Your task is to make sure the board stays put, for now.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Okay, I think I got it. It’s kind of like holding a punching bag in place for someone.”

  “Good analogy.” Aeson nods as I place my fingers on both the edges of the board below Blayne’s waist level, as instructed.

  “Now what?” Blayne asks.

  “Now I am going to show you limited mobility Er-Du Forms. Knowing the LM Forms might mean the difference between life and death for you during the Semi-Finals and hopefully Finals, if you advance.”

  Saying this, Aeson comes around Blayne’s front, and faces the board, while I stand holding it and slightly off to the side. His body leans in, and he takes a variation of the Floating Swan, but intimately up-close to the board and Blayne.

  “Look at me,” Aeson says to Blayne, and I watch the super-focused expression on the Atlantean’s face that has now become hard and merciless. “I am going to strike at you from both directions, and also from below and above. Your first lesson is to observe and memorize the possible moves that can be made in this position.”

  “Okay,” Blayne whispers, with a frown of concentration.

  Aeson’s dark blue eyes flash at me. “Lark—get ready, hold the board tight, and do not move unless instructed, or you will get hurt.”

  And then he moves, throwing abbreviated controlled punches like lightning.

  Chapter 22

  Half an hour later, we are done. Blayne has learned several sparring counter-moves, and I have learned that standing immobile while holding in place a hovering object is hard work, especially when two opponents rain blows at each other inches away from me.

  The hoverboard is “springy” when activated, and keeping it still and upright is not too different from trying to keep a highly buoyant object angled oddly while submerged underwater—it fights you every second and requires force and effort to keep it under.

  “Good work, both of you,” Aeson says, stepping back, and I see the finest sheen of sweat on his forehead. So, I think, Command Pilot Kass is human after all.

  For some reason, my gaze unconsciously slides to the side of his head that I remember being hurt during the shuttle incident, the place where so much blood covered his golden hair. I glance away quickly, but not before he notices me looking there. Or, at least, I think he doe
s?

  Oh, crap. . . . No one is supposed to know the exact location of his injury. No one would know unless they witnessed it. What if he now suspects me?

  I try not to think in that direction. Instead I pretend to look around at the computer center consoles while I wait for what comes next.

  Blayne is pouring sweat and his arms are trembling from the effort of alternately gripping the board and using his arms for sparring. He makes it to his wheelchair with the help of the hoverboard and sits down, hard.

  There’s a brief pause.

  Then I ruin things and open my big mouth. “Why don’t you let Blayne borrow the hoverboard all the time? He could get around so much easier if he had it—”

  My words fade into silence.

  Aeson is using a small towel to wipe his forehead, and now he turns to me with a hard look. “Your suggestion is noted. Unfortunately it is out of the question.”

  “But why? It would be such a good thing!”

  “Candidate Lark, are you questioning me?”

  I gulp. And then, yeah, lord help me, I say it. “Yes . . . because there’s just no good reason why you should say no! I mean, it makes no sense why it shouldn’t be allowed, just a single hoverboard—”

  Aeson stares at me, drops the towel on the nearest surface, then takes a step toward me. “Are you always like this?”

  “Oh, yeah, she is,” Blayne says, shaking his head in mild disgust. He pushes hair from his face and looks down wearily.

  I whirl around, to stare at him with a sudden rise of anger. “Oh, yeah? Well, considering I’m doing this for you, the least thing you could do is shut up!”

  “Oh, jeez. . . .” Blayne puts his head down and passes his hand through his hair. “Please don’t do me any favors!”

  “I am sorry,” I say. I take a deep breath and let the sudden “stupid” deflate out of me. I don’t know what it is about this whole Blayne situation that makes me crazy-stupid impulsive and makes me want to meddle and fix things that are not my business and that are beyond my control anyway.

  “Look,” I add, “I really am sorry, and I know it is not my business to press, but it seems to me the logical thing to do, a perfect solution to a logistics problem, and maybe that’s why it drives me nuts to see a perfectly good tool not being used in a capacity where it can truly help—”