Qualify (13 page)

Lord help me. . . . I absolutely suck at climbing, and have never been able to do even a single complete pull-up—at least the last time I tried to do one, which was two years ago. Honest, I’ve only survived P.E. by the sheer grace of the Almighty, and even so it’s been touch and go quite a few times.

Did I mention I’m afraid of heights?

And oh yeah, the worst part is, I see no safety mats anywhere.

Let me repeat that,
no safety mats
.

I look around the room, and there are already about twenty teens gathered, girls and boys of various ages, just standing around looking dazed. Some have the deer-in-the-headlights look. I recognize a few faces. There’s even one girl from my school. I think her name is Theresa something or other. Also, I quickly recognize Jaideep Bhagat, the friendly-smile guy, and Janice Quinn, the girl with a mousy brown ponytail, both of whom I’ve met briefly last night as we waited for others from Dorm Eight.

Jai sees me and immediately waves, and again, that big smile. “Hi, Gwen!” Holy wow, he is so sugary nice that I again wonder if maybe he’s really a serial killer. . . .

A few more people come down into the Training Hall. We mill around for a couple of minutes, glance at each other, at the weirdly equipped walls.

“Okay, who’s teaching this class anyway?” a girl asks.

“
I
am.”

I, and everyone, turn to stare, and immediately it gets kind of surreal. Seriously, it’s no wonder.

The speaker is a girl our age, or maybe slightly older—it’s hard to tell, really—because she is Atlantean. Metallic blond hair down to her shoulders, beautifully defined curving eyebrows, steely eyes of a strange almost turquoise blue, outlined in smoky black kohl. Features so perfect they appear somewhat doll-like, too sharply chiseled. . . . She is about my height, with a body that’s to die for, a combination of spare curves and muscular strength. The grey uniform neatly follows the willowy lines of her hourglass waist, her long legs, and tapers at her calf-high combat boots. She could be wearing Earth military fatigues, she’d fit right in.

The Atlantean girl must have come up from behind, silently, and now stands before us, giving us all a close silent scrutiny, with her arms folded at her chest in a confident stance.

“I am Oalla Keigeri,” she says in a strong voice. Even the sound of her name is exotic, pronounced in that strange subtle accent that I am beginning to pick up when I hear Atlanteans speaking English. “You may call me Oalla. I am from Atlantis, and I am one of your Instructors. Today I will be teaching you Agility. Welcome. Please gather closer, and first I want you to go around and give me your names.”

We do as we’re told. Some of the boys continue to stare so blatantly they should probably wipe some drool.

“Now, I will be scanning you each time at the beginning of the class to mark your attendance.” Oalla passes a handheld gadget over each one of our ID tokens. “I will also scan you for merit or demerit, as applicable.”

Nervous looks fill the semi-circle. Even Jai’s smile is pretty much erased.

“You have all managed to ride the hoverboard during Preliminary Qualification, which is good. It landed you here—”

Oalla is interrupted in her intro speech by the arrival of a latecomer. Standing in a semi-circle around her we all stare as a guard approaches. He is pushing a familiar boy in a wheelchair.

I catch my breath as I recognize him, the same kid who rode the board yesterday at my school, while lying down on his stomach, after pulling himself onto it by the arms.

Oalla looks on while the guard leaves the boy in place at the edge of the semi-circle, nods, then exits the gym.

“You are late,” she says to the seated boy. “Next time, please make sure you are here on time with the others. Name?”

“Blayne Dubois . . .” the boy says, gripping the sides of the wheelchair. His voice is soft, slightly reedy. “Sorry.”

I frown, noting the reaction of the rest of the teens. One girl drops her jaw and makes a weird face. Another boy looks on with pity. Pretty much everyone is showing surprise. Unlike me, they have no idea about the amazing way Blayne Dubois can ride the hoverboard.

But Oalla must know. Because she turns away from him calmly, showing no inkling of surprise, and continues where she left off. “As I was saying, you all handled the hoverboard halfway decently. Get ready—you will be doing a
lot
of hoverboard riding in the coming days. Now I need to find out what else you can or cannot do. Before we begin real training, I want to see you run, climb, and exercise.”

Oh, no, I knew it. . . . This is P.E. of the worst possible kind.
I am going to die
.

My gut is churning with a very sick feeling. And somehow, even though I’ve seen Blayne on the hoverboard, I just cannot imagine what
he
must be feeling right now about all the rest of it.

As I’m thinking all this, Oalla motions with her hand, palm up, and suddenly makes a very strange noise that sounds like a single long musical note—a G note, I think. She looks up, continuing to hold the note, and suddenly from overhead, we see a hoverboard flying toward her. It has taken off from one of the tall scaffolding levels, about twenty feet up, and has sailed at a horizontal line, stopping directly above the spot where Oalla and the rest of us are standing.

Oalla motions us to step back, while continuing to sing the note. She then changes the G to a falling major scale, ending on another G, only an octave lower. As she does that, the hoverboard descends gradually, then stops six inches away from the floor.

“Whoa,” a boy says, impressed.

“This is another way to command the hoverboard.” Oalla looks around at us. “Congratulations, you’ve just learned something new.” And then she turns to Blayne, the boy in the wheelchair. “This board is for your use today, Blayne. While the rest of the class does other physical activities, I want you to get onto the hoverboard and practice riding it around the hall. Use the basic verbal commands you learned yesterday. Can you do that?”

Blayne looks up, nodding. His expression shows a keen interest.

Everyone else in the class stares in amazement as he begins to lift himself out of the chair. But Oalla does not allow any one of us to gawk. She claps her hands together, and turns away, saying, “All right, everyone! Your attention! Eyes here! First you’re going to run five laps around the room—”

T
en minutes later, I am running in the back of a line of students snaking around the perimeter of the Training Hall. I’m gasping for air, my sides are in stitches, my breath ragged, and my shins hurting.

This is bad, seriously bad. I am the last person in line. Even Jack Carell, the heavy boy with curly blond hair, is ahead of me—red-faced and breathing like a locomotive, but still ahead of me. . . .

Oalla blows the whistle, and we stop in place, and I’m sort of staggering there, seeing spots before my eyes. The Atlantean girl walks our line, making comments here and there. When she comes to the very end and looks at me, seeing what a mess I am, she says with a frown, “You don’t know how to run, do you?”

“Not really. . .” I barely gasp out an answer.

She continues her scrutiny. “There’s no reason for you to be so out of shape. You simply need to
practice
. Gwenevere Lark, right?”

“Just Gwen.”

“Okay, from this day on, I want you to run every day, Gwen. Ten minutes at least, during your homework hours. You can come down here. The Training Hall will be open from seven in the morning until ten each night. Or you can run outside. You can even go to the Arena Commons building and run there along the large track. Either way, you will run.”

“Okay . . .” I mumble, while the cold terror is back.

I am going to die.

Oalla must be reading my mind because she gives me a pitying look that’s more than a little disdain. She then passes her scan gadget over my ID token. The yellow light pulses once. “That’s a demerit,” she says. “The person who finishes last each day will get a demerit. Don’t let it be you again.”

I nod, but she has already turned away.

We spend the next half an hour doing horrible things with our bodies. We line up and climb the first level of the scaffolding, holding on for dear life, and then we stand there on a three-foot narrow strip that is the ledge that hugs the wall, many of us shaking from a combination of terror and the abuse of previously unused muscle groups.

The climb was relatively simple, just rungs and stairs, but the result puts us ten feet above the floor, and my fear of heights kicks in.

Oalla climbs up after us, stepping onto each rung easily with her heavy boots, and amazingly using only a grip of one hand to keep herself anchored on each next rung above. I have no idea how that’s even possible, but she must be doing it on purpose to mess with our minds. “Look up,” she tells us, once she’s up there with us. “These are parallel bars.”

We stare directly overhead at the next level of scaffolding, and this one is sheer, made only of parallel rungs, not metal sheets like the one we’re standing on now. It’s only about three feet overhead, so if the tallest ones of us stand on tiptoes, we can reach it with our fingers.

“Each of you will cross the distance from here to the end using your hands only. When done, you will climb down the rung ladder back to ground level. If you fall at any point in the middle, make sure you land on the floor of this scaffold, or you will end up on the ground. You fall, you walk to the end then climb down. Anyone who does not finish the distance and walks, gets a demerit. Now, form a line starting here against the wall, and begin. First, observe me.”

There are noises of protest and whimpers of terror. A few of the younger kids look like they’re ready to cry. I am with them.

I remember, when I was a little kid on a playground, I managed to hand-swing the distance of only about three to five rungs on the monkey bars, before dropping down. This thing stretches at least
thirty
across.

Oalla demonstrates the climb by easily reaching upward with both hands. She jumps up, grabbing the first parallel rung. She then moves with effortless strength, swinging her body forward smoothly with each motion and switches hands easily from bar to bar. In seconds she is all the way across the length of the scaffolding. Then she climbs down to the floor and watches us.

A tall athletic boy goes first. His name is Chris, I think. He easily hand-swigs the whole distance, then climbs down from the scaffold, looking calm. The rest of us follow. Some kids slip immediately, barely able to hang on with their hands for only one or two bars. Others struggle a bit longer to reach partway across, until dropping away.

I watch Janice Quinn struggle and slip after about six bars. She lands on the metal ledge flooring awkwardly and it looks like she may have twisted her ankle, because she grips the wall in a panicky way and starts to limp as she makes it the rest of the way across. Jai does okay most of the way with his hands, then slips off, and walks to the end.

My turn. I look up at the bars and my hands are already slippery like eels, just in anticipation. I wipe them against my jeans, then stand up on tiptoe and reach for the metal rungs.

I grip, and then I swing. My arms, already tired from the short climb up the side ladder, are barely obeying me, and there’s a stinging pain of uncustomary soreness. I let go of one hand and reach for the next bar . . . grab it. My hand, and then my arm, feels like it’s being ripped out of its socket.

I am now stretched out between two bars, and it’s excruciating. Gathering all my arm strength, I let go of the first hand and reach for the second rung. I know I should have swung more, aiming for the third rung instead—so that each bodily swing and motion of the hand would propel me onward. But no, I can only do it the stupid hard way. So I merely grip the second rung with both hands and hang on.

A gasp for air, then I reach for the third rung again with my leading hand. Again, I am stretched between two bars, and my arms are ripped apart in agony. . .

I let go of the back bar, reach in futility for the next one. And then, with a sinking feeling of despair, I feel my fingers slipping. . . . I don’t so much let go as I am forced to acknowledge the fact that my body just gave up on me.

At least I land on my feet. There’s a small thud, a terrifying moment of vertigo, and then I walk the rest of the way on the metal scaffolding, without looking over the side that’s the ledge.

Now, the climb down. Oh, no. . . .

I pause at the end near the downward ladder, feeling faint, then squeeze my eyes shut, breathe, open them again. I turn my back to the precipice, and grip the metal upright corner posts of the scaffolding. They both comprise the side supports for the whole structure all the way up to the ceiling, and they create the ladder. I lower one leg and feel with my foot the first rung on the way down. . . .

Please don’t slip. . . . Please don’t slip.
Somehow I make it to the floor.

Oalla is waiting there for me, and she scans my ID token. “Demerit,” she says coldly and looks away.

Yeah, I knew that was coming.

After everyone’s down, and two thirds of us have earned demerits, the next phase of torture begins.