Win

  Zaap looks up from his intense examination of his own pegasus and furrows his brow. “I don’t know,” he says in his usual sullen tone, made a bit more so by the fact that he is interrupted. “I never worked with a pegasus before, they are too expensive.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, if there’s anything special you happen to know that might help us—”

  Zaap thinks silently. “I know they eat sunlight. Rich people have them. They are very rare and expensive.”

  “Heh!” Brie snorts. “Not so rare that they allocated several hundred of these things for us to use in the Games.”

  “Yes. I’m surprised they did.” Zaap looks at her. Then he returns his attention back to the pegasus. “I know one other thing—nobody rides these after just three days. Master trainers take weeks and months before they think of riding. And when they do, it’s with a special harness made of the same quantum containment field energy, like this box. Without a harness, the pegasus cannot be controlled. They even keep them in containment field stables. You can’t allow them out, they just pop out of this universe and spread across dimensions. . . . Something like that.”

  “Interesting,” I say. “So how do we get such a harness?”

  “We don’t.” Lolu looks depressed. “I’ve seen programs about pegasei and their training. The harness is very expensive too. Everything is expensive.”

  “Great, so we’re screwed,” Brie says.

  “Any other ideas?” I say, setting down the orb carefully in my lap while I take out a water flask and a meal bar.

  “Okay, so—where do these pegasei come from?” Brie lowers her own orb on her lap and also takes out her water bottle. “Do you capture them in the wild? Do you breed them or what? And what happened to them on Earth if they’re supposedly native? How come we don’t have modern-day pegasei back on Earth?”

  Zaap shakes his head. “Don’t know. They breed them here, is all I know.”

  Just then, from somewhere up above, a transparent platform carrying Games spectators casts its shadow on the sandy ground as it slowly passes over us, wafting its human noise in our direction. I glance up briefly and see that most of the other hovering audience platform tiers and boxes are drifting from one location to another over the island, rearranging their positions for a better view of us, I suppose.

  Every now and then another swirling plasma shape erupts from the beach and another pegasus makes its escape. Each time the audience applauds and screams while Contenders look on grimly.

  This is definitely not working.

  “I’m surprised those people up in the flying seats aren’t bored watching us sit around for hours and do nothing except set loose an occasional pegasus and get disqualified.” Brie glances up at the passing audience platform and waves with exaggerated motion. “Right now it’s about as slow as a game of baseball.”

  “Except for the constant probability of death,” I add. “Pass the hotdogs.”

  During the next few hours nothing really happens. At around noon they send out small hovering platforms with meal and water rations and we easily grab ours since the platforms pass directly next to us. Noon Ghost Time comes and for once the Games staff get to ferry away no dead, only disqualified Contenders.

  And then a few more afternoon hours pass and still nothing, except for the occasional escaping pegasus streaking in rainbow colors across the beach like a rocket.

  “I think they’ve disqualified over a hundred people today,” Kateb says, glancing over the scene thoughtfully. His pegasus orb sits in a cubby indentation on top of his equipment bag.

  “All right, even I’m bored,” Brie says with sudden energy. “Let’s discuss again what options we have.”

  And we do. We’ve made a list of possible ways to handle the pegasei. Lolu has it on her tablet gadget.

  “We can open the orb under water,” Lolu reads. “Open inside your clothing—such as your shirt. Open inside equipment bag.”

  Zaap listens without much enthusiasm.

  “Things to do with the pegasus,” Lolu continues. “One—feed the pegasus in the sun to make it happy. Talk to the pegasus, sing to it, ‘think thoughts’ at it, yell at it, trick it—don’t know how—frighten it—”

  Brie raises her eyebrows at me. “Should we sweet-talk this critter, Lark? Think it’ll work?”

  “It doesn’t hurt to try,” Zaap says suddenly. “You train animals first by understanding them and learning to communicate with them. Show them things, speak to them, give them food and affection to reward them.”

  And then he lifts his orb to his face and starts muttering something in a soothing voice in Atlanteo.

  “Any idea if it can hear you?” Kokayi asks with amusement. “Through that force field, I mean?”

  “Yes, it should,” Zaap replies seriously then continues making crooning sounds.

  “Doesn’t hurt to try.” I pick up my own pegasus orb and start humming an old song to it in a tired voice, not bothering to be on key or even to hit the right notes. That will come later—for now I just want it to get used to the sound of my voice.

  “Just be careful you don’t voice-key it by accident,” Lolu says anxiously.

  I look up with a little smile. “Notice how I’m singing, flat and out of tune. There’s a reason for it.”

  Brie rolls her eyes. “Since everyone’s doing it. . . .” She sticks her nose close to her pegasus orb, pretend-nuzzles it, and even gives it a lick. Then she starts singing also.

  The afternoon grows late and Hel sets beyond the horizon in a spectacular teal and pink sunset, followed by twilight. We’ve spent hours now holding our pegasei orbs, having accomplished nothing noticeable.

  The crisp ocean wind blows at the island, bringing the cool of evening and a slight chill. At the same time there’s a sudden burst of artificial illumination around the Game Zone. The transparent audience platforms light up overhead, casting gaudy orange warmth upon the sand, and many tiny orbs descend, floating in the air and upon the water throughout the cove.

  I notice there aren’t any large-sized light orbs in this particular Game Zone, probably in order to minimize confusion with the pegasus containment orbs.

  We take turns with guard duty, but no one’s come for us yet. In fact, in several places along the beach we see small campfires being lit and teams settling around them. We can hear echoing conversation and humming and various styles of vocalizing, as Contenders continue working with their pegasei.

  Most of my team is taking a rest break. Chihar is lying on his side, with his pegasus held protectively near his chest, his eyes closed. Lolu holds her pegasus orb between her knees and runs her fingers over it softly, muttering something while holding a gadget and periodically checking its readings.

  Brie lies on her back looking up at the stars and the various moons scattered around the sky. Her orb is nearby on the sand, resting against her fingertips. On the other side of her, Kateb and Kokayi are both on lookout duty, paying less attention to their orbs than to our surroundings.

  Only Zaap continues to sing and focus on his pegasus, constantly changing the tone of his voice and moving the orb to different areas of his body, keeping it always in close proximity. He puts his ear to the pegasus often, concentrating so hard that he’s oblivious to the rest of us. . . .

  I sigh, marveling at his patience. My own orb sits next to me on top of my equipment bag. As the night thickens, I watch the curious play of the shifting energy being inside it, pulsing like a heart yet changing in intensity, growing slightly weaker in radiance as the darkness grows.

  I’ve tried talking to you, singing to you, I think. I’m so sorry I cannot seem to reach you. . . .

  The problem is, no matter what we’ve tried to do throughout the day, we can’t seem to garner a response from these creatures. And by response, I mean any meaningful reaction—a recoil of movement, a shift in color or brightness, nothing. We’re trying to get a meaningful pattern to emerge in response to our actions, to know that at least we’re on th
e right track.

  But so far, no luck.

  So I pick up the orb again, and try speaking to it. As the night deepens, I mumble in a tired voice that gets sleepier by the moment. . . . I tell it stuff about my family, my friends, random memories from Earth, tidbits of nonsense such as my favorite color, my favorite flavor of ice cream, books I love. . . .

  I whisper to it about Aeson, im amrevu. . . . And then my mind starts going off on a tangent as I wonder whether poor exhausted Aeson is sitting in one of those audience boxes, watching me relentlessly even now. . . .

  Once in a while, another bright pegasus meteor explodes in freedom over the beach and eventually fades into the fabric of the night, as someone makes a terrible mistake. . . . I pause my mumblings to watch the escaping pegasus, trying to understand what happened, to memorize all sensory details associated with the event, so as not to make the same mistake myself.

  Time blends into one weird meaningless stretch, until Midnight Ghost Time.

  The first strange day of Stage Four is over.

  And now a series of even stranger days lies before me.

  Chapter 85

  It’s hard to describe what happens in the morning or throughout the rest of the second day, because it turns into one long, boring, and yet anxiety-inducing period of trial and error for all of us.

  The things we Contenders try to do with our pegasei are both amusing and heart-stopping . . . and sometimes plain cruel.

  My own teammates are mostly careful and respectful to our orbs and their occupants, but oh, the horrible things we witness on the beach throughout the day. . . .

  “What a jerk,” Brie says, as we stare at a Red Contender not too far away from us down the beach who is pounding on his orb with a rock—yes, apparently the quantum containment material is tough and seemingly unbreakable—then dunking it in the surf water while issuing loud, barking commands. The poor pegasus inside pulses wildly, but without any sign of a direct reaction to what’s being done to it.

  Other Contenders shout at their orbs.

  Many shake them rudely, tossing them up and down like balls.

  Quite a few other Contenders try to control their pegasei by isolating them in darkness, placing them inside equipment bags while wrapped in fabric for several hours—a cruelty, since the pegasei are deprived of sunlight and hence sustenance. At what point does it become life-threatening for these creatures? How long can they be starved?

  As for us, we continue talking, singing, holding and stroking our orbs. Zaap sits for hours with his orb near his ear, listening, listening to it.

  “Can you hear anything?” Chihar asks him often.

  “Maybe. . . .” Zaap pauses to think. “There’s a vibration of sorts, almost a sound pattern. Need to keep listening.”

  “You’re very patient,” I tell him at some point around noon, after giving up yet again on my own purple and gold pegasus blob, as it continues to surge inside its orb aimlessly. “Have you been working with animals for a long time?”

  Zaap looks up at me reluctantly and nods. “All my life. I like them better than people. I want to help.”

  “I can see. . . . Is this why you’re in the Games?”

  Zaap wrinkles his forehead and nods again. He’s not a boy of many words, it occurs to me.

  “So, why?” I persist with a smile.

  Zaap thinks, then carefully sets his orb down in his lap. He looks at me with his dark eyes—one of the few times he meets my gaze directly. “There is special land near my home in Northern Sesemet Province. Clean open land, where herds of yatet antelope and irt antelope and senef sedjet, the really big orange cats, all live. Other rare animals too, all kinds of land sha and wild sesemet. It is undisturbed, but they want to build houses and roads on it. So I’m going to win the Games and buy it and make it safe land—what you call a nature preserve. Then I’ll work there and not let anyone ruin it—since I’ve worked with all kinds of sesemet. I know what I’m doing.”

  “I like it,” I say while trying to remember if sesemet means ‘horse.’ “A very good plan.”

  Zaap nods. “Yes, I think so too, that’s why all this.” And he points around us at the Game Zone.

  I smile again, and let him get back to his efforts with the pegasus.

  By late afternoon, even the audience is getting bored with our general lack of progress. There are waves of chants where they call out the various celebrity Contender names, inciting them to action.

  Even my name is called. I notice they switch back and forth from shouting “Gwen Lark!” to “Shoe-lace Girl!” until I look up and wave at the nearest transparent platform. Then I point to my pegasus orb and make a shrugging gesture. What else can I do?

  Meanwhile, here are some of the things we learn today. The pegasei really don’t like to be in the dark. One Contender leaves her pegasus inside her bag for most of the day, and then notices that her uniform has faded to black, indicating disqualification. When she unwraps the orb and looks at it, the plasma energy inside is gone completely. Apparently her misfortunate pegasus wasted away and died after only seven hours of pure darkness.

  Other Contenders who subject their pegasei to similar treatment, find weakly pulsing faint sources of light inside their orbs, indicating a sickly occupant. At least the creatures recover in a few hours, once they’re back in the bright sunlight.

  Another thing we learn is, pegasei don’t like to be forced underwater.

  “I don’t know what that bashtooh Green Entertainer is thinking. Is he drowning his pegasus?” Kokayi points at a Category rival down the beach who holds his orb submerged in the water . . . then allows it to rise slightly, so that only a little of the orb is above the surface. Finally he quickly sings the voice-keying command and at the same time shoves the orb back under. . . .

  Since that particular Entertainer happens to be close to our location, I get to see exactly what happens to the orb once it’s opened.

  There’s a sort of minor explosion, a kind of underwater ‘plop,’ as the orb material returns to energy form and dissipates suddenly, displaced by water. Meanwhile the freed radiant plasma that’s the pegasus thickens like a radiant jellyfish . . . it spreads out in the water like swirls of blood . . . then it begins to pulsate wildly. In the next moment the pegasus bursts out into the air and starts expanding into the usual fine cloud of light, while the Entertainer in charge of it calls out uselessly.

  Before I can blink, the airborne pegasus fades out into nothing. And the Entertainer’s green uniform goes black.

  “Note to self,” Brie mumbles. “Don’t bother with water.”

  It’s now the evening of day two, and no one has had any luck. For once the celebrity teams don’t seem to have any advantage.

  I hear Deneb Gratu yelling loudly at some of his teammates, his voice carrying all the way across the cove. No idea what that’s about. But the audience weakly picks up the cry, “De-neb! De-neb!” in hopes of some action.

  “So, what is the answer?” Chihar says in frustration. “What do we know about the nature of the pegasei? Have we learned anything new?”

  “No,” Zaap replies. And his perpetual frown deepens.

  I sit back tiredly, setting aside my own pegasus pulsing soft violet and blue in its orb. I notice there is no golden-yellow in its light pattern for some reason. “Wait!” I exclaim. “What if the different colors of the pegasei mean something? I mean, this one had yellow light in its plasma earlier, and now it’s only purple and blue and—”

  “Interesting.” Chihar interrupts me, sitting up also.

  The others stop whatever they’re doing and pay attention to our exchange. They start examining their own pegasei closely.

  “Sure, it means something,” Brie says after a few intense moments. “Problem is, we don’t know what, and there’s no time really to figure it out.”

  “True,” Chihar says. “But from now on, we must keep track of it, to see if the colors change in response to something in the environment—be it light,
or temperature, or sound—”

  “Probably all of these things,” I say quietly.

  Brie sighs and lies down. The others resume their own business.

  I lie down also, with the orb at my chest, turning it this way and that as I watch the star-filled dome of sky. The three moons are all visible in different sections of the sky. For a moment I am swept away by the sheer, mind-blowing, alien beauty of it. . . .

  Brie seems to be thinking along the same lines.

  “Check out that huge moon, Lark,” she says. “Which one is it again?”

  I look where she’s pointing. “Amrevet,” I say.

  “What about the little silver one?”

  “Pegasus.”

  Brie snorts. “So the medium-sized one is what?”

  “Mar-Yan,” I say. “The Rider.”

  “Pretty,” Brie whispers. “Pretty and weird.”

  “Not in particular,” I say, just to be contrary. They really are beautiful and weird, but I don’t want to agree with Brie just now.

  Brie pats her pegasus orb. “Look, little buddy!” she says to it. “There goes your bro. Or your sis—up there in the sky. Giant sky Pegasus. Actually tiny little sky Pegasus from where we’re looking at it, but up-close it’s huge, right?”

  I laugh.

  “So how come they call ’em this way? Why did the ancient Goldilocks name them Amrevet, Mar-Yan and Pegasus?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Love, Pegasus, and the Rider.”

  And then a crazy idea comes to me. “Wow,” I say. “I think I know! It’s really simple actually. . . . The moons are chasing each other across the sky. Kind of like the Rider chases Pegasus who in turn chases Love.”

  I sit up again.

  Brie watches me curiously and sits up also.

  “Maybe,” I say, as an indescribable swell of warmth and insight fills me, “maybe that’s the key—love. In order to tame the Pegasus, the first ancient Rider had to love it.”