Compete

  You look down, and there’s the floor, far below, and it’s not rushing toward you sickeningly. Instead, the rules of physics have changed. Suddenly you can fly. You are in control of the universe, existing within the moment—completely alive.

  You look up toward the ceiling, and you can reach out and touch it, with a single push off. . . . Just let go of someone’s hand and aim high!

  It helps the illusion of grandeur that tonight the ceiling is a dome of stars, velvet cosmic darkness sprinkled with light. You can touch them now. Just once, just for tonight. . . . And you do.

  And oh, the music! The lighting! It all works together, as you begin to turn softly, swept away by the common rhythm. You circle each other, you tumble and spin and move with your partner, and each one of you corrects the motion of the other with the lightest touch. You’re now a part of an endless circle dance, and your hair floats wildly, and your clothing merely kisses your skin, brushing past you in the air. . . .

  Even now, everything I describe is insufficient. You have to be there—to soar, to breathe it in completely—in order to understand.

  Well, it’s now been at least three hours, and I’m in a sweet state of exhaustion and over-stimulated senses. . . .

  And I think back on what happened earlier.

  After my initial shy protest, Logan dragged me to the dance floor and patiently showed me all kinds of moves, both for the fast dances and the slow intimate ones. Wow, the boy can dance! We were rocking out during the fast bass-rhythm tracks, and the low gravity jumping was pure magic.

  “You can dance just fine,” he told me. “You have such an amazing singing voice and that indicates you have an underlying sense of rhythm—all you must do is stop holding yourself back. Just let go, and let it take you. Your body knows how to move—”

  At some point after the first hour, it happened. I stopped being particularly awkward and just let myself relax. I think I did step on his toes quite a few times at first, but it got better. He laughed at me, and then picked me up and placed my feet on top of his and just carried me around like a doll, stepping for the both of us. And that wasn’t even during the low or Zero-G, but normal gravity. Did I mention Logan is way strong too?

  There were at least two kisses. Once, at the end of a very sexy twisting dance, we ended with our bodies pressed tight together and his lips brushing mine, and then lingering deeply. And the second kiss happened as we were floating way up on the top near the dome ceiling, with no one too close to our location. That’s when Logan put his hand around my throat possessively, in a strange, intense and raw gesture that did not hurt but somehow made me sensually vulnerable, and sent electric tingles coursing throughout me. And he crushed his mouth against mine, so that for an instant I could not breathe.

  “Whoa!” I gasped, as we finally came apart.

  “Sorry, too much?” he whispered hoarsely.

  But I shook my head and smiled at him, and then glanced around in light embarrassment. I thought I saw Command Pilot Aeson Kassiopei down on the walkway below, and for some reason I really hoped he did not see this.

  I recall how Logan saw me glance down in that direction, and I think he figured out who I was looking at, because he frowned momentarily, but said nothing.

  That was over the course of the last three hours—throughout which I was blissful and yet inexplicably restless at the same time, my senses buzzing, constantly glancing around the room, constantly distracted even though I was with Logan.

  What was I doing, and why?

  And now, in this transition between dances, my hair still floating around us, I stare dreamily over Logan’s shoulder. . . . And I think.

  I see Gracie not too far across the dance floor, dancing with Blayne—or to be more accurate, holding hands as they float down from the ceiling as the low gravity takes hold. Gracie skillfully guides Blayne over to his hoverboard that’s levitating upright nearby, and he adjusts his lower body on top of the board, fixing himself in the LM Form. . . . As they turn, I see he is actually smiling widely at her. And oh yeah, there’s a blue pin on his sleeve, and Gracie has a matching one, both glowing steady blue to indicate perfect proximity.

  “Thirsty?” Logan disengages from me and I nod. We head over to the nearest drink station and grab two covered glasses with special straws, while we wait out this fast dance, the oldie classic “Bad Romance” by the venerable diva of our grandparents’ generation, Lady Gaga. We stop by Gennio’s gravity sound station and say “hi,” while Gennio is taking a break and another Atlantean is working the gravity device.

  The crowd in the great sphere chamber has thinned out somewhat, as some of the people have left for the night. Still two more hours to go until midnight, but at least there’s now more room to move freely, and it’s actually more fun. Those of us who are still here are either on duty, or are consummate dancers. Or, in my case, just fascinated with the whole thing.

  I turn and blink and see the rows of seats against the room perimeter where the wallflowers sit. Only a few of them still remain. Most of the chairs are now empty—just a few drink glasses rest on the seats, forgotten. A lonely boy or girl sits here and there, watching the dancing crowd.

  I see that Chiyoko Sato has not moved from her spot, not even to get a drink. It’s a weird empty feeling to see her frozen like that, slouching. She is sad and large and kind of beautiful.

  “Gravity changing now!”

  The dance tempo slows down again, and gravity slowly starts to fade.

  Suddenly I see him.

  Aeson Kassiopei walks—slow, graceful, confident—past others in the crowd, and stops before the seated girl, Chiyoko Sato. He speaks to her.

  Chiyoko looks up at him, startled, in surprise. There’s an almost frightened look on her face, the look of a wild bird.

  And then he reaches out to her, offering his hand.

  Chiyoko Sato nods slowly, then takes the Command Pilot’s hand, and rises.

  He continues to hold her hand, as they move gliding toward the dance floor. There he puts his other hand around her waist, remaining straight backed and perfect in his elegant stance, and guides her into an amazing version of a waltz.

  They float upward, rising like clouds, joining the other couples in the gentle dreamy weightlessness and the glorious music of reeds and violins and sounds of heaven. . . .

  Aeson’s pale gold hair floats around in a halo, fanning out gently. As he turns via floating motion at one point, I see a soft genuine smile on his face as he looks down at her . . . while Chiyoko’s face is transfixed with surprise and wonder. . . .

  I stare, absolutely stunned, frozen motionless, craning my neck up, my lips parted.

  “Wow . . .” I whisper. “That is the most amazing, kindest, honorable thing. . . . That poor girl—he just asked her to dance and swept her away—And he doesn’t even dance!”

  “Gwen. . . .”

  I turn around, my eyes wide with emotion, wild electricity buzzing through me.

  Logan is looking at me seriously, strangely.

  “Did you see that?” I say to him, pointing. “That was the most impressive—”

  But Logan interrupts me, speaking in a flat voice devoid of emotion. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  I blink. “What?” Something about Logan’s tone sobers me immediately, and the emotional euphoria flees.

  “This,” he says. “All of this.” And he motions with his head to me and then looks up in the direction of the weightless dancers, and Aeson Kassiopei.

  “Huh?” I say. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I frown, as the cool strangeness starts rising inside me. “No, actually I don’t.”

  Logan shakes his head slightly, and continues looking at me, and his expression is now hard and remote. “It’s you,” he says. “You and him.”

  “What?”

  “Wow, amazing. You really don’t want to admit it, even now. Not even to yourself.”

  I am suddenly very col
d. “Admit what?” I say, and my voice is unsteady.

  “Oh, come on!” Logan is frowning and speaks quickly, breathlessly. “Look at you—you’ve been watching him—your Command Pilot Kassiopei—for the entire duration of the time you and I’ve been dancing. All these hours, every few minutes you turn around and you look as though you’ve lost something—you look for him. What do you think that is?”

  “I—I don’t—I am not—” I stutter, beginning to hyperventilate.

  But Logan is relentless. “Listen, I care about you. I need you. I really do. I—I think I am in love with you. . . . This is killing me. But—” He pauses, as though gathering himself for something superhuman, and his eyes are raw, wounded. “But I can’t be the one you settle for. I need to be the one you choose. The one you want to be with above all others—really, truly. Not an afterthought. Not because you can’t have someone else.”

  “Oh my God, what? What are you talking about?” My voice is rising in anger, while a lump is forming in the back of my throat. “Are you saying you think I am interested in the Command Pilot? Like that?”

  “Will you for once cut the crap, Gwen?” Logan puts his hands painfully around my shoulders, and speaks fiercely, leaning close in my face, so that I actually have to take a step back from him and almost float upward, because of general weightlessness. “You’re not ‘interested,’ you are damn obsessed! Remember, I know how you operate! The same way you used to look at me in school, when you thought I didn’t know—”

  “Operate? How I operate?” I exclaim. “That’s just the meanest, most despicable thing to say! You’re the one here who’s the operative!”

  “Yes, operate!” He continues as though not hearing me, and gives my shoulders a hard shake. “And now, this thing that you’re feeling for him—it’s the same damn crush, but times a thousand! You watch him, you look at him—even during Qualification, back on Earth, all that time you spent training with him—tell me, do you really pretend even now that you’re not attracted, that you’re indifferent, that you’re not in love with him?”

  “I—I am—” I stand or possibly float, mouth open, breath snagging, and feel the tears brimming in my eyes, while the blue-lit dance floor all around us starts to fade and blur in my field of vision. Another moment and my tears will form into tiny droplets of liquid and float away. . . .

  What is he saying? What is happening?

  “Stop it!” I say to Logan. “Just—stop it!” And I push him back so that he releases his hold on me and just stands, semi-floating, breathing fast, staring wildly, desperately into my eyes. I have never seen Logan like this—crazed, for lack of a better word.

  And I—I have never felt like this. What is happening to me?

  I am crazed too.

  “Gravity changing now!”

  Apparently the zero gravity dance is over, and gravity starts returning, and neither one of us cares or notices.

  The things he just said—awful, biting, cruel things.

  They are—they are possibly true.

  “Okay, tell me,” he says persistently. “Tell me you are completely indifferent toward him and I will apologize and beat myself up and forget this conversation ever took place. Well? Am I totally full of crap? Are you indifferent toward Kassiopei? Can you tell me that much at least? Can you, please—”

  “I—” I open my mouth, and my breath catches suddenly. “I—cannot.”

  In that moment as I say it, Logan’s eyes become tragic.

  He lets out a shuddering breath, and his head hangs down powerlessly. Then he passes his hand roughly against the back of his hair. And he looks up at me, this time radiating cold.

  “I knew it,” he says in a soft, dead voice.

  “I am . . . sorry.” I stare at him, breathing fast, while the tears that had been brimming in my eyes now run endlessly down my cheeks.

  “It’s all right,” he says, looking away, past me. “I think we’re done here.”

  And with those words, Logan Sangre turns around and leaves me standing. He walks away in rapid strides, and I see his hand reach for the blue pin on his uniform, rip it off violently, and toss it on the floor behind him.

  The pin lands, rolls and stops some distance away from my feet, and starts blinking to indicate the loss of proximity.

  So does its mate, the corresponding pin on my chest.

  I stand completely alone in the sphere chamber filled with people, blue light, and pulsing music, feeling that someone has slammed me over my head.

  With my peripheral vision I see that Chiyoko Sato has returned to her seat, and she looks different somehow, bright and alive. She is even holding a drink in her hand. Her dance partner, Aeson Kassiopei is long gone.

  I turn around, pass the back of my hand over my face in haste to rub away the tears, and then see my sister Gracie and Blayne, both headed in my direction.

  Crap. . . . Can’t let Gracie see me like this.

  I sniffle to clear my sinuses, then make a happy face before they get here.

  “Great dancing, guys!” I say brightly.

  “Oh, yeah, I never thought I’d say this, ever,” Blayne says thoughtfully. “But I’m pooped from dancing.”

  Gracie tugs him on the arm and says she’ll be back to get them drinks.

  “I can get my own, you know,” Blayne protests.

  “No, I’ll get them! You go over there and sit!”

  “Oh, jeez. . . . All right.”

  When Gracie leaves, I nod to Blayne. “Hope she’s not driving you too crazy,” I say with a struggle at a smile.

  “She’s fine.” He snorts lightly.

  “Good.” I nod, then point to the nearest empty seats. “Why don’t you do what my sis says, and get some rest for your leg muscles. I’ll be back too—need to replace my own drink.”

  While Blayne remains behind, I hurry over to the drinks station, while my mind is roiling in a strange, complicated party-mix of emotional states—unrest, upset, despair, confusion, anger (no—fury), worry, fear (no—terror), euphoria, insight.

  Gracie is carrying two glasses, and I stop her momentarily. “Gee Four,” I say, touching her arm. “What are you doing with Blayne? What do you think this is? He’s a wonderful human being and he does not deserve to get hurt. Are you messing with him?”

  “Huh?” Gracie pauses and stares at me with a frown. “Why would you say something awful like that? I’m hanging out with Blayne because he is awesome! Why would I ever hurt him?”

  “Okay, fine,” I say and tap her on the arm again. “But let me just say this once and I won’t say it again. If you hurt that boy in any way, I will kill you. Got that?”

  Gracie’s mouth drops. “What is wrong with you?” she says. “Why are you being such a witch all of a sudden?”

  “I’m not,” I say in a hard voice. “I’m simply giving a public service announcement or a heads up. Now, go on and party, sis. Make sure Blayne has a good time.”

  “O-okay. . . .” Gracie gives me another look. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I mutter. “Actually I think I’m going to be heading back to my room. I know it’s not midnight yet, but to quote our buddy Blayne, ‘I’m pooped,’ and I’m sure you can get back to the shuttle bay safely on your own. Just don’t stay too late. The ship-to-ship shuttles are all waiting and scheduled to ferry people after the dance, but only for about half an hour.”

  “Gee Two. . . . Did something happen? Where’s Logan?”

  Damn this girl, but my baby sister is astute.

  I bite my lip and smile.

  “He left,” I say.

  Now Gracie gives me her full attention. “Why? What happened?”

  I take a deep shuddering breath. “I think, sis, Logan and I just broke up.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “What?” Gracie stares at me, and her lips part. She is completely deadly serious. “Gwen, what happened?”

  I stand very still, trying to control my breathing, and just shake my head at
her. There is only so much control I can maintain, after all this time—all the pent up things over these days and months, culminating in this one thing—before it takes me.

  I must not fall apart.

  Not now, not before Gracie.

  “Well,” I say, carefully choosing words. “He and I said some things, and for the most part, it was actually—”

  “What?”

  How do I even begin to explain? How can I tell my sister what I myself have trouble parsing right now?

  Logan told me I had feelings for Aeson Kassiopei.

  He accused me and he judged me. And he put it out there in the open, in hard terms that were cold and undeniable, laying it all out in its white-hot scalding truth before my stupid unconscious mind.

  Logan was right—is right.

  I am not indifferent.

  I try to reason with myself. Reasoning is good. It provides focus and clarity.

  So, what exactly do I think/know/feel, when it comes to Command Pilot Aeson Kassiopei, Phoebos, astra daimon, Imperial Crown Prince, son of the Imperator of Atlantida, and my commanding officer?

  He’s the guy who dances with the wallflower.

  The guy who eats alone at his desk instead of the meal hall, so as not to make his subordinates feel uncomfortable, and works around the clock.

  Who goes in like a madman, guns blazing, and saves lives—including my own life—after I save his.

  Who trains me and gives me orders, and looks at me sharply.

  He’s the guy with intelligent blue eyes, who wears the black armband of a hero because he once gave his life and died for Atlantis—a mystery I still don’t understand.

  He’s the guy who’s so far out of my league that it can be measured by galaxies, literally.

  Who’s going to marry a beautiful princess of the Imperial Court as soon as we arrive on Atlantis.

  Who’s going to be Imperator, and whose family is worshiped like gods.

  Who possibly holds the fate of my family and my parents, not to mention Earth, in his hands.