Win

  “Ordeals versus Challenges, you say—can you explain the difference?”

  “Ordeals are things you have to simply endure, while Challenges are where you have to accomplish something,” Gennio says. “Example of an Ordeal is enduring extreme hot or cold temperatures, or holding your breath underwater. A Challenge would be something like carrying a heavy weight up a steep incline, climbing a vertical cliff, or walking through a wall of burning flames.”

  “Oh my God!” Hasmik makes a stifled noise.

  I stare at Gennio with my eyes open wide.

  “That’s just sick,” Gordie mutters. “Is that the kind of stuff Gee Two will have to do?”

  “Heh! She’ll probably have to deal with much worse,” Anu says with a grunt.

  Dawn frowns at Anu. “You’re just a ray of sunshine, did anyone tell you?”

  “Oh, and I almost forgot!” Gennio taps the screen. “The whole thing is timed, so you have alternate hours of ‘safety’ and ‘danger’ plus random ‘safe zones’ and ‘hot zones’ scattered throughout the area where each Stage of the Games takes place.”

  Great, I think. Shades of Qualification? Suddenly I am reminded of Semi-Finals in Los Angeles with the hot zones. . . . Ugh.

  But Gennio is not done. “So during each Stage of the Games the entrants have to live in the Game Zone, spending all four days and three nights there. The Game Zone refers to the actual region designated as the place where the Challenges and Ordeals are held. It could be as small as a room inside a building, or as large as an open plain, a forest, or a section of the ocean.”

  “I see.” I watch Gennio sadly, while the gears in my mind are spinning wildly.

  I’m so dead. . . .

  “Then,” he says, “at the completion of each Stage, you get to emerge from the Game Zone, and you are allowed to stay anywhere you like overnight, as long as you return promptly the next morning to enter the new Game Zone of the next Stage. If you don’t return, you are disqualified—it’s one way to get yourself out alive. But it is considered a great dishonor—if you do that, you will always bear the stigma and shame, and you’ll be officially called Games-Disgraced for the rest of your life.”

  “Might not be a bad thing,” Dawn says.

  “Oh, it’s a bad thing,” Anu retorts. “You’ll be shunned, laughed at, and you won’t ever get a decent job again, since you get a mark on your record. Seriously, it is done to discourage people from entering the Games frivolously and just dropping out when things get tough.”

  “Yes,” Gennio says. “There’s that one free night you get between Stage One and Stage Two, and another one between Stage Three and Stage Four. You also get a whole free day and night off in the middle, which separates the Games into two parts, and falls between week two and three. That’s when you are free to go home, rest, relax, probably get medical care, and prepare yourself for the second half. Except for these designated times, you are not allowed to leave the Games until the end.”

  I nod. “Got it. . . .”

  My friends all look at me with expressions of sadness and sympathy. It’s like my funeral.

  I bite my lip, and take a deep breath. “So,” I say. “When do I begin training for this thing?”

  Aeson shakes his head and takes a deep breath also. “As soon as possible.”

  While we are talking, Palace servants arrive with the eos bread service, discreetly setting up tables with hot aromatic dishes. We mill around, talking quietly, waiting for the food to be ready, while Aeson paces the workroom, making calls in Atlanteo to all kinds of people on his wrist device. His voice is commanding and businesslike, and from what I understand he is talking to many people I already know.

  “Wow, I can get used to this lifestyle,” Dawn says, watching a servant set out a large platter of what looks like savory dumplings, and another servant bring in plates of various pancake-like edibles covered in sweet honey-sauce and sprinkled with fruit. Meanwhile, carafes of steaming-hot lvikao and tall pitchers of juice and tea are placed on table surfaces nearby. Immediately a delicious pastry aroma fills the room—it’s the magic of lvikao, and by now I’ve learned to recognize that yummy scent.

  “Dig in, everyone,” Manala says. And then adds, “Dig in, is that the correct thing to say in English, when you invite people to eat?”

  “You got it,” Gordie says, taking a plate and starting to pile it high.

  I stand watching them begin to eat, and watching Aeson, until Laronda nudges me gently. “You need to eat something, girl,” she says. “You’ve got to keep up your strength, especially now. So, stop spacing out, and get a plate, now—move your booty or else!”

  “You tell her,” Gracie says, coming up to us, holding two glasses, one of them filled with nikkari juice, a thick, green algae-looking liquid that tastes delicately sweet. “Here, have some of this Atlantean green goo stuff that you like so much, Gee Two.”

  I take the glass from her and take a few sips, barely tasting anything due to nerves.

  In that moment Aeson ends a remote conversation with someone and comes up to me. “I have your training lined up for the next few weeks,” he tells me.

  “Thanks.” I smile at him, feeling wooden inside.

  “You are going to be training with the astra daimon—my brothers and sisters-in-arms in the Fleet, who are the best of the best.”

  My eyes widen. “It is an honor . . .” I whisper.

  “No, it is the least we can do to keep you competitive,” he says with a closed-off look. “First, I am taking you away from the Palace for most of the training. We will stay in my private residence here in Poseidon, where there are better facilities available to allow you to train hard every day. For the sake of Imperial security, the Palace has a no-weapons policy, so we cannot practice with firearms anywhere on these grounds. Whereas, at my residence I have a high-tech shooting range. And a better gym and sparring area.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I didn’t know you have your own place. . . .”

  “I have several, in different regions of the country,” he replies matter-of-factly, and I realize he’s not bragging. It’s just the reality of being an Imperial Crown Prince.

  Yeah, that was a dumb thing of me to say. Of course he does!

  In that moment there’s a light knock on the door. It opens and Chiyoko Sato, wearing her grey Fleet uniform, looks in politely before entering, with her typical careful manner.

  “Chiyoko!” I say warmly. “Just in time for eos bread!”

  Seeing Aeson present, Chiyoko immediately straightens and salutes him, then looks at me. “I’m sorry I’m late, Gwen. But there are a couple of things—I stopped to watch a media feed that shows you from yesterday, during Court, which might be important. And, secondly—” Chiyoko turns to Aeson. “There’s a person downstairs—My Imperial Lord, he’s a Fleet Cadet from ICS-2, and says you know him, and he needs to see you urgently. His name is Logan Sangre.”

  Chapter 17

  My stomach does an immediate flip-flop at the mention of Logan Sangre. Oh my lord! Logan! What is he doing here? And what is he going to think about me, engaged to Aeson, and an Imperial Consort-to-be, and—and all the rest of it? In all this flurry of events, I admit, I’ve considered Logan’s reaction to my new “situation” multiple times, but not like this. To see it happen before my eyes, right now . . . that’s just too intense.

  But Aeson’s composed expression does not change. “Tell him to come up here,” he says to Chiyoko.

  And then he turns to look at me. His expression is complex. “Are you going to be okay with this?” he says softly to me.

  I am still somewhat stunned, but I nod immediately. “Oh! Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Aeson lifts one brow slightly. “Well, all things considered—”

  “He’s my ex,” I hurry to say, and: “It’s perfectly okay—I’m okay with it.”

  Aeson watches me for a few seconds, then says, “As long as you really are—all right.”

  A few minutes late
r, Chiyoko returns, followed by Logan Sangre.

  Logan is in his everyday grey Fleet uniform that fits so well the lean-yet-muscular shape of his toned runner’s body, while a red armband circles his sleeve. His dark brown hair—so dark that the mysterious reddish highlights easily disappear in the sea of black—frames his handsome lean face in soft waves. The expression of his hazel eyes, as they fall on me momentarily, is cool and unyielding.

  I know I should be calm and strong, and yet . . . all at once I feel a painful twinge in the area of my chest, at the sight of him. . . .

  Logan immediately salutes the Imperial Crown Prince and then, after a tiniest moment of hesitation, bows very curtly to me. “My Imperial Lord—My Imperial Lady. Nefero eos,” he says, looking primarily at Aeson, but giving me a solid, composed look without any emotion.

  Oh my God, he knows! Logan knows about me and Aeson!

  And then I tell myself, Of course he does, you idiot Gwen numbskull Lark. . . . News of this is all over the Atlantean media. . . . So, of course he would know by now. Probably everyone does. . . . Seriously, sometimes I want to slap myself for being so dense in certain basic things. Or maybe it’s not so much being dense as just shutting off my brain selectively.

  “Hi,” I say to Logan, keeping my voice casual and cool, to match his.

  Logan’s hazel-eyed, steady gaze returns to me. He looks at me with an unreadable expression, and does not blink. “I believe congratulations are in order. My best wishes to you both—My Imperial Lady.”

  “Thank you . . .” I barely manage to say.

  Aeson looks calmly at my former boyfriend. “What is it, Sangre?”

  “Apologies for showing up without a formal appointment,” Logan says to Aeson, resuming a businesslike demeanor. “But I have a situation over at Correctional, related to the Earth Union prisoners. Specifically, one of them—it’s the one you are most familiar with.”

  “Is it Walton?”

  Logan nods. “Yes, Gabriella Walton.”

  Aeson motions him to approach.

  “This morning, I got an early call from Corrector Arwai,” Logan says, moving closer to us and pausing before Aeson, while Hasmik politely steps out of his way with a filled plate of food, heading to the sofa. “As you know, Brie Walton has been closed-mouthed and unbreakable for months. She has not spoken—until now. Turns out, prisoners waiting for trial have access to basic entertainment and media newsfeeds in their cells here at the Poseidon Central Correctional Facility. And this morning Walton saw something, and has been asking for me insistently ever since—her first request of any kind.”

  Aeson watches him closely. “Go on.”

  “So I went in to see her. Two hours ago. Here’s where it gets interesting.” Logan takes a deep breath and glances at me—as I’m watching both of them. “Brie Walton saw footage from last night at the Imperial Court. She saw ‘The Earth Bride,’ as she calls Gwen, and she saw what followed, with the Imperator bestowing a so-called gift, forcing her into the Games of the Atlantis Grail—” Here Logan pauses and glances at me again. This time there is a minor crack in his armor, as I see a shadow of warmth return to his beautiful hazel-brown eyes. “I am very, very sorry, Gwen—My Imperial Lady Gwen. It is undeserved and cruel. . . .”

  I start to frown and draw my lips tight. I must not break down now, not in front of Logan.

  But he continues. “Brie Walton told me that she is willing to make a deal. She’ll talk, tell us everything about the EU hostage incident, all parties involved, her handler, other details, including more of what’s currently developing on Earth involving the United Nations, and the US President—all far beyond my own EU clearance level—in exchange for this: she wants to enter the Games of the Atlantis Grail for a chance at a third option beyond execution or life imprisonment. And in addition to a full sharing of intelligence, Walton says she is willing to protect Gwen inside the Games. She’ll go in as an entrant in another Category, and will do everything in her power to keep Gwen Lark alive.”

  As Logan tells this, everyone in the room starts to stare, paying close attention.

  “I see,” Aeson says, after a long pause. “An interesting option.”

  “Wait, what?” Laronda says from the sofa. “Isn’t that the crazy terrorist girl who was responsible for that incident on all the Imperial Command Ships?”

  “To be fair, she was only one of several individuals involved,” Logan amends.

  “Yeah, but wasn’t she one of their top ops, even some kind of mastermind?” Blayne says, setting down his lvikao glass on a side table, while Gracie skillfully moves a refilled plate of dumplings closer to him. “I remember Brie Purple-Hair. . . . Had quite a few classes with her, not to mention, the delightful nightmare that was the actual cafeteria hostage incident. She had an attitude, that girl did. Very clever—pretending to be a dim bimbo and hanging out with Terra Patria Trey, all the while recruiting minions for the EU and whipping up the TP fools into all that frothy gun-toting goodness.”

  “Okay, but—” I say. “If she goes into the Games together with me, what’s stopping her from killing me? Especially if she has an extended agenda?”

  “Good point—nothing,” Logan says. “I’ve been working on her for months, managed to get maybe a few words of dubious value out of her all this time, and I still don’t know her at all . . . still don’t know the full extent of her motives. You may very well be right, she could be enacting a long-term strategy on behalf of EU, infiltrating deeper and deeper into the Atlantean power structure under the guise of vulnerability. Or, if she’s a sociopath, it could be that she just wants to go out with a bang, in a blaze of glory, and the Games of the Atlantis Grail is her ticket out. That’s why I bring this situation to your attention—without making a recommendation.”

  “You did the right thing,” Aeson says, then walks over to the desk where Anu and Gennio are back at work after their meal-and-unexpected-TV break.

  “Call up ID records on Earth Union prisoner Gabriella Walton,” he says to Gennio. “Include personal history and recent interrogation records.”

  “Okay, what’s happening?” I ask, remembering unhappily all my limited interactions with the girl with the purple-streaked, dark, long hair. Looking back, I recall her cruel alpha comments—which now can be interpreted in a somewhat different light—and her hard mocking laughter in response to Trey Smith’s every word, her—what I now realize to be—skillful parroting of his dense bully attitude.

  Aeson raises one finger for me to wait, while Gennio is keying in the queries.

  “How can you trust this chick?” Gordie says with a frown, after staring at Logan all this time in thoughtful silence.

  Logan glances at him. “Gordon, I don’t. I don’t trust her. But she presents an opportunity.”

  Aeson looks up momentarily from perusing the display screen. “Gwen, I didn’t want to alarm you and mention this to you just yet, but . . . I’ve had in mind sending a discreet bodyguard with you into the Games, someone disguised as another contestant,” he tells me. “The only problem is, my Father would easily find out—as he is inclined to expect precisely this kind of thing—and it could make things worse for you. But on the other hand—” Aeson pauses, looking at me sadly. “On the other hand, it’s very likely my Father already has made plans of his own, to send someone into the Games, to make sure you don’t succeed.”

  A cold wave of fear rises inside me. . . . This should not be coming as a surprise, not at all—it’s clear, the Imperator wants to be rid of Gwen the Imperial Consort, and instead wants Gwen the experimental research subject. But the next best thing would be to have me gone altogether. Ugh. . . .

  “Since everyone in the Games is going to be out to kill me anyway, as part of the normal rules,” I say bravely, “it just means I need to be more paranoid and careful than I already plan to be.”

  “In which case, sending in the crazy terrorist girl along with you might not be a bad idea,” Dawn says. “You’ll have a fifty-fifty chance
that she might not be out to get you, and might even save your butt, just as she claims.”

  But I’m not sure what to think now. “So are you saying Brie Walton should be allowed into the Games to protect me?” I say to Dawn.

  Dawn shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt. Again, considering the scenario of everybody-kills-everybody, it could only work in your favor. Either she’s in, or some other eager beaver killer will be there in her slot—someone who’d love to off you for some of those AG Points, or whatever.”

  Chiyoko comes up to me and pats me on the arm lightly. “Gwen,” she says softly. “Just to discuss the other thing I mentioned—”

  I turn to her. “Oh yes, you mentioned something important, sure!”

  “On my way here I saw a video feed on one of the Palace hallway walls near the elevators. Not sure if you’ve seen those things, but they have these TV-like smart walls all over the Imperial complex. Some of them are pretty small, and they are in alcoves or niches, and mostly servants seem to use them. . . .”

  “Right . . .” I say, vaguely trying to recall seeing anything of the sort. But apparently in my haste to get from place to place—usually running after Aeson, on my way to some horrible life-changing Imperial Event—I haven’t been paying enough attention, so I have no clue what Chiyoko is talking about.

  “Anyway,” Chiyoko continues. “I stopped, simply because people were gathered and looking at one such screen, and because they were showing you from yesterday. And it was just amazing. You were walking along the middle of the Imperial Court hall, along the red path, and your beautiful dress was all shimmering with gold, and you were lit up, and all that strange firefly dust was raining from the ceiling. . . . Well, the weird thing is, they were showing you from every possible angle. And I mean, every microscopic slant of your body, from above and below, where you could see your shoes up-close, and the top of your hairdo, and every motion and every fold of your dress, as though the camera was an invisible ‘membrane’ surrounding you along every inch of your body. I don’t even know how to explain, but it was mesmerizing. I had to stop and stare, but I could see no actual cameras—”