“This is amazing,” Jennica Tulls whispers.
But in that instant the shuttle lurches again, and for one crazy instant we seem to be flying directly at the ship, about to crash into the hull. . . . Which turns out to be the shuttle bay opening veiled by plasma.
We arrive inside the shuttle bay of Imperial Command Ship Two, decelerate, and come to a hover stop at a platform deep inside the tunnel. From the shuttle window, I note that everything here is the same as the other ark-ship—a brightly lit open space, with neutral off-white walls and fine gold etchings. Shuttles line the platform on both sides and occasional Atlantean officers and crew move through the bay.
“Unbuckle, and get your belongings,” Pilot Ruo tells us, rising from his seat. “Cadet Vetrova, you follow me to Cadet Deck Two. Lark, Hansen, and Tulls—you report to the information and dispatch desk here and they will give you instructions. Welcome, and now, dismissed!”
In moments, we are outside the shuttle. I carry my two bags and stop before the dispatch area. Pilot Ruo and Alla Vetrova head to the nearest exit and disappear.
Lars Hansen and Jennica Tulls remain with me. We are scanned and then we wait.
About ten minutes later three young Atlantean guides approach, consult with the desk, and are assigned to each of us.
“Gwen Lark?” A metallic-haired teenage boy barely older than Gordie approaches me. His expression is serious, somewhat superior, and perfectly controlled. He’s wearing a yellow armband. “Follow me.”
“Okay,” I say, shifting my heavy bags from one hand to the other. “Where are we going?”
“Yellow Quadrant, Command Deck Two,” the Atlantean tells me curtly without even looking at me, as we start to walk from the shuttle bay and into a long hallway. “I will show you your living quarters. You will leave your things there and then report immediately to your commanding officer.”
I nod and follow him. We move past occasional Atlantean crew members through a maze of sudden contrasts—long corridors illuminated with soothing light then wide brightly lit decks that make me blink from the unexpected radiance—though at this point I am beginning to get some kind of basic grasp of the ark-ship standard layout.
In a nutshell—each great saucer ark-ship is a flattened sphere. The circle is split into four sections from the center, a cross-cut forming four large “pie slices,” and each “pie slice” or wedge is allocated to a Quadrant. Yes, that’s where that whole “Four Quadrant” notion comes from—four major divisions of function and labor on each of their ships! And, apparently this tradition has been in place for thousands of years, stemming from the time of their original colonization.
There are four shuttle bays in each ship, and they run lengthwise, almost the entire radius length of the ship, effectively making those four cross-cut “lines” that separate each Quadrant wedge.
In the circular heart of the ship, in the very center, is a great spherical chamber called the Resonance Chamber, which is very important for various systems functionality including actual propulsion and flight—but more on this later.
Each Quadrant wedge is cut across horizontally into three sections. The first and innermost smallest section of the wedge, adjacent to the central Resonance Chamber, is the Command Deck, the section where the Atlantean Officers Quarters are located, and where much of the ship control takes place.
The second, middle portion of the wedge, larger and closer to the outside, is the Cadet Deck. This is where the Cadets living quarters and training area is located.
Finally, the outermost largest section, number three, is the Residential Deck. This is where all the Civilians are housed, and it is adjacent to the storage, hydroponics, and other large-scale general life support systems areas closest to the outside hull.
That’s the basic breakdown. There are many sub-levels and many corridors connecting the whole thing, but for now, all I need to know is that I am heading toward the heart of the ship—the control and central operations center called the Command Deck.
That’s where the Officers Quarters are located, and where supposedly I will be staying.
It is also where he is supposed to be—my commanding officer.
Command Pilot Aeson Kassiopei.
My pulse begins to race and my breathing comes fast, as we approach the center of the ship, long before we even arrive at my destination. I don’t know why, but I am close to hyperventilating as we emerge past the middle section that’s the Cadet Deck and cross the wide dividing corridor gap into the elite “upper” cross-section of the Yellow Quadrant wedge.
The Atlantean walking ahead of me announces nonchalantly, “Command Deck Four.” And then he turns into the first corridor.
The hallways here are filled with many frequently spaced doors, unlike the residential decks of the other ship I am familiar with, where the hallways had only occasional doors and each door opened into a huge barracks dorm chamber. Obviously these are smaller cabins meant for individuals.
My guide stops before one of these doors, only three doors away from another cross-corridor. “This one is yours,” he says, pointing to a small square logo on the wall next to the door. “Number 28. Remember its location well.”
I peer closer and see the same Atlantean numerical etchings marking the surface of the small square. I count five hatch-mark “fives” and a single three-dash character, which together makes number 28.
I also notice there is no door handle or lock. Back on the other ship, the barracks door always slid open automatically when you approached it and was never locked, but apparently not this one.
The Atlantean notices my confusion. “Pass your ID token over this square, and the door will key itself to you. From there on you simply touch it with your fingers to open or close, and no one else but you can come in.”
I drop my heavy, book-laden bags down and key my door with my token. It slides open into darkness. The moment I step inside, illumination blooms forth, reaching standard daylight levels. Now I can see the room is very small, a cubicle really. There’s a long narrow bunk bed along one wall, and directly above it a bulkhead storage area in place of an upper bunk. Only a couple of feet across is the opposite wall with a small one-person table and bench chair, both retractable and built into the wall, and then a small closet-like enclosure that I can see is a combination retractable toilet stall, sink, and shower, the kind I’ve become familiar with at the other ship in the common barracks lavatory.
The Atlantean stands quietly at the door watching me.
“Close the door and take five minutes, but no more,” he says. “And then we proceed to see your commanding officer. It is bad form to keep an officer waiting.”
I frown for a moment, then nod, and touch a similar square on the interior wall, which causes the door to slide shut.
I am now alone in my tiny cabin. Claustrophobia descends on me momentarily and I stand, breathing deeply to calm myself, because my heart is hammering in my chest. I leave my bags on my bed then go to the lavatory enclosure, call up a sink, and splash concentrated water spray on my face, seeing my pale reflection with its newly hollowed cheeks staring back at me in the small narrow mirror that is revealed above the retractable sink.
Then, when my heartbeat slows down sufficiently—or at least enough that it does not threaten to rupture my chest—I open the door.
“I am ready,” I say. “Take me to see him.”
“Him?” The Atlantean raises one brow. “Pilot Oalla Keigeri will not appreciate your ignorance regarding her.”
“What?” I say tiredly. And then it occurs to me—this Atlantean crewman does not know who my commanding officer is.
Apparently my ship-board assignment is particularly rare, possibly unique.
“I don’t report to Pilot Keigeri,” I tell him. “Take me to your Command Pilot—what do you call him—CP. He’s my commanding officer, and the one I need to see.”
The look on the boy’s face is a combination of confusion, amazement, and then an immediate reasse
ssment of me.
A few minutes later we walk through the Command Deck of the Yellow Quadrant, pass the neighboring Red Quadrant Command Deck and cross over into Blue. The Quadrant sections are marked by appropriately colored square logos on the walls of each corridor, which indicates the end of one Quadrant and beginning of another.
“The Command Pilot Quarters and Central Command Office are in the Blue Quadrant,” my guide tells me, giving me periodic glances of curiosity. “So why did he assign you to live in Yellow?”
“I’ve been training with the Yellow Quadrant all this time,” I say. “I don’t see why that should change.”
“But you are a Cadet? How is it that you report directly to the CP?”
“I am not a Cadet,” I say.
I think I’ve managed to confuse the boy enough to render him silent for the moment.
The Atlantean does not speak again until we arrive at a large wide corridor that bears a grand square rainbow logo on the wall. On one side of this hallway is the inner rounded wall that encircles the Resonance Chamber—that central hub that marks the very heart of the ship. And on the other side I see a row of doors, each marked with special ornate insignias, one of which is particularly grand and impressive. There are also two security guards posted at the door.
Here we stop.
“This is the Central Command Office, or CCO,” the Atlantean guide tells me in a loud voice, and I realize that he is a little overwhelmed himself. The boy then turns to the guards, and gives a brief salute and then tells them something in Atlantean.
One of the guards glances at me with a blank scrutiny, then raises his wrist, activates some kind of comm device and speaks into it.
A moment later, the door slides open and the guards on both sides step aside.
“Command Pilot Kassiopei will see you now,” the guard tells me. “Proceed inside.”
I walk past the guards at the door, as my heart begins once again hammering wildly. I take shallow breaths—because it’s all I can manage—and enter the chamber.
The Central Command Office is not particularly large, but it is impressive. A wide desk and high-backed chair takes up half the space, and there are four comfortable visitor chairs across from it. About a dozen computer display screens take up the back wall, and directly above is what appears to be a grand digital photograph—a landscape image of impossible beauty, with tall green mountains framing a deep lake, with a castle-like structure of fragile antiquity perched at the cliff-edge of a plateau above the lake, all of it illuminated by a white sun.
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—”