Qualify (50 page)

“Have you been practicing any of this stuff back at the dorm?” I say it and immediately realize how stupid my question is.

“How? I don’t have a hoverboard. The best I can do on my own is the hand Forms. But there’s no one to practice sparring with outside of class.”

“We can practice together,” I say.

He shrugs.

“No, seriously!” I lean forward. “I need someone to practice with anyway, since looks like I will be doing some extracurricular voice stuff or something. And this way we can keep it low-key and won’t have to explain things to anyone else. How about it?”

Blayne pauses, then after an exhalation, says, “Sure . . . okay.”

“Cool!” I smile at him.

The inner door opens and Aeson Kass comes in from the other room.

Immediately my heart does this weird, hard somersault-lurch-jerk in my chest and the pulse in my temples starts pounding. . . .

Oh, crap! Considering how I react to him, at this rate this guy is going to kill me
. . . .

But Aeson does not seem to notice how I stiffen up, nor does he seem to care. His expression is indifferent and he appears very, very tired, judging by the hollows around his eyes.

“All right, let’s get started,” he says to both of us, never looking at me directly.

“So,” I blurt. “Does this mean I am still going to continue helping out with Blayne’s practice?”

“Yes, you are.” His answer is crisp and emotionless.

“What about my own practice? You said—”

“After this.” He interrupts me in a hard voice and turns to Blayne.

I get up and stand ready to assist with holding the board. I am mostly ignored.

I
t is very strange to be in such near proximity with someone who actively does not want to be around you. As I stand holding the board, watching Aeson and Blayne throw exquisitely precise form-based punches, inches away from my face, I cannot help feeling the new distance between me and the Atlantean.

He never once glances in my direction. All his instructions to me are spoken in a bland voice and accompanied with minimal gestures. At one point when I move in too closely, he stops and tells me to keep back. And again I only see his profile.

Ten minutes later, they finish sparring, and Aeson pauses, while Blayne is trying to catch his breath.

“There is one more thing I need to show you for today, and then we’re done.” This time Aeson turns to me also and I see his gaze flicker over me as he includes us both.

“At some point when you are on a hoverboard or anywhere else you find that you have to support or
carry
another person in mid-air—especially if the person is hanging off the board and you can only reach and grab them by the hand—we use a technique we call the Grip of Friendship.”

I watch in curiosity as Aeson then demonstrates. “Put out your hand,” he tells Blayne. “Like this, palm down. And you—” he turns to me. “You reach underneath, to clasp his arm above the wrist. The insides of your arms touch. Both of you hold the other’s arm above the wrist.”

I do as I am told. I reach out and take Blayne’s warm hand, slightly slippery with sweat.

“Clasp firmly, and remember well,” Aeson says, looking at our arms and hands held together, and then at our faces. “This hold is similar to what your trapeze artists and acrobats use here on Earth when they hold each other up with arms and hands alone as they swing. It can save your life, and prevent a fall. No other mutual hold or grip is as secure as this one.”

“Got it,” Blayne says, flexing his fingers in the grip then releasing my arm.

I nod. “Okay.”

“Good,” Aeson says to Blayne. “That’s it for today, Candidate Dubois, you can go.”

“Thanks,” Blayne mutters, then turns to his wheelchair.

I watch the now familiar maneuver with which Blayne switches over from hoverboard to the chair. And then he heads out.

I am suddenly alone with Aeson Kass.

M
y face hurts from trying to keep it motionless, not even twitch a muscle, as I wait for Aeson to give me his attention.

“What now?” I say finally, while he goes to the console surveillance area and checks the various multi-screens.

He says nothing. Moments pass.

Finally he returns to me, and I notice that he is carrying something in one hand. His gaze is steady and unblinking as he looks at me coldly, stands before me, then opens his palm at chest level before him.

On it, are two small pieces of orichalcum.

“Your first lesson,” Aeson Kass says, and his eyes narrow with the finest trace of hostility that breaks through his otherwise impeccable composure, “is to be able to fine-tune and control the
focus
of your voice to such a degree that you can perform actions selectively on one object and not the other.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

His gaze bores into me with a dark relentless force that makes me want to retreat—to step back, to blink and look away.

I clutch my fingers slowly, and
don’t
.

“Levitate only
one
of these two pieces,” he says.

I suddenly begin to understand. “But—is that even possible? I thought that the keying sequence affects everything made of orichalcum within hearing distance.”

“Normally yes, that would be the case. But an advanced user of the voice is able to selectively manipulate one or more objects without affecting any of the others. Like this—”

Aeson glances down at the two pieces of gold-flecked grey metal. He parts his lips and turns his head slightly toward one of the two. He sings a single, very precise note, followed by two others in a minor chord keying sequence.

Like an ocean swell, the rich deep sound of his voice rolls through me . . . and suddenly it makes my fine hairs stand on end, while I feel goose bumps rising along my skin.

He grows silent then slowly lowers his open palm. I shiver, the echoes of his voice still caressing me along my nerve endings. And I see that only one of the two pieces is indeed hovering in the air before him. The second piece remains inert on his open palm.

“Okay, wow.” I say. “How did you do that?”

“I narrow-focused my sound output. Think of a narrow beam of light, sharp like a laser. Now do the same thing to sound. Each note you make is directed at an object, ‘thrown’ at it.” He points to the sofa. “Here, take these two pieces, go sit over there, and practice for ten minutes.”

I raise one brow, then take the orichalcum from him, and momentarily our fingers touch. At the instant of contact he flinches. And then he turns away and returns to the console surveillance area.

I watch him briefly, but his back is to me and it’s as if I am no longer in the room. So I sit down on the sofa, open my palm and begin singing to the orichalcum.

For several embarrassing minutes I feel like a dork because I am only able to do an all-or-nothing kind of levitation. Both pieces levitate, then I re-set them to “inert” so they drop on my palm, and I start over . . . and over . . . and over.

My voice sounds small and tired. I frequently glance up to see what Aeson is doing, but he is busy with the consoles.

At one point he receives a video call and briefly speaks in cold, authoritative tones in Atlantean with a pale-metallic haired girl. She wears an expensive and exotic looking outfit, against a background of waterfalls and rich emerald greenery that I can just barely see from where I’m sitting. Her tone seems upper-class and bored, and the lilting sounds of her voice are like a sweet running stream. It occurs to me, she is
on
Atlantis. Right now.
She is calling from Atlantis
.

The realization acts to stun me briefly. I remember seeing brief video propaganda images of Atlantis shown to us on TV, and the amazing scenery and nature shots. But it had all seemed unreal—until now.

Furthermore, how is that even possible? Shouldn’t there be some kind of time delay? And I am talking
major
time delay!

I pause momentarily, gathering my thoughts, then resume the singing exercise.

After the face-to-face call is over, another comes in, and this time it’s some Atlantean in uniform against a neutral background. Aeson talks with this guy quickly, and his cool commanding tone does not change. However when the second call is done, there is a sense of something grim and unpleasant that lingers like a foreboding.

Curious, I really wish I knew what they were saying.

Aeson gets up in that moment and approaches.

He stands looking down at me. “Time’s up. How are you doing?”

“Not too good.” I glance up at him, trying not to blink as I hold his icy gaze. “I can make both pieces levitate but not just one.”

“You will keep practicing until you are able to do it. We will continue tomorrow. Now, you may go.”

“Oh, okay. Can I take these back with me to practice in my dorm?”

He makes a sound of disdain. “Nice try. No, Candidate, you are the last person who might be permitted to take anything made of orichalcum anywhere.”

My lips harden into a straight line. “Okay. But how am I supposed to practice without—”

“That would be
your
problem.”

Anger rises in me, until my head is ringing with it. Oh, the things I could say now! But I don’t. I stiffen, and then I stand up and silently offer up the contents of my palm to him.

He takes the orichalcum from me, making a subtle point of not touching my fingers.

“If working with me is such a hassle for you,” I say suddenly, “why do you do it?”

“It is not a hassle,” he replies, and his gaze pierces me like a hard beam of light passing through glass. “It is a necessity.”

“But you kind of hate me. Why not get someone else to do it?”

His expression is closed up completely, and I cannot read anything in his eyes. “There is nothing personal here, Candidate Lark,” he says after a brief pause. “You are a valuable asset. And as such, you are treated accordingly.”

I snort. “Okay, you know what? What a farce! This whole thing is! If I am so valuable, why don’t you just Qualify me automatically? Pass me up to the front of the line and just Qualify me already.”

He watches me, composed and blank. “That’s not how it works. It is not up to me. I have no final say on the Qualification process. I can make strong recommendations which carry some weight toward your passing score, but that’s all. You still have to go through the Semi-Finals and then, if you advance, the Finals.”

“And who makes these determinations in the first place? Who decides?”

But he shakes his head. “No. We are done talking. You need to go now. Besides, you friend is waiting for you downstairs in the arena.”

I crane my head slightly. “Um . . . who?”

Aeson watches me and there’s the slightest hint of something dark and intense underneath the composed surface. “That boy. The one you’ve been running with, and who came with you at least one other time. Who is he?”

“Oh,” I say, and a slightly weird sensation awakens inside me. “That’s Logan. He’s from my high school and he’s helping me run better.”

Aeson nods. “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And on that note we’re done.

W
hen I get to the first floor arena level, Logan Sangre is waiting for me. He sees me, and he smiles, and immediately warmth surges through me. It’s as if everything is right with the world, if only for a brief moment.

“How did it go?” he asks, as we start walking together back to our dorms.

“Better than I thought,” I say with an exhalation of relief. My pulse begins racing once more, but with a giddy
good
feeling, as it occurs to me yet again, here is Logan, walking next to me, and he kissed me, and he actually
likes
me!
Holy moly!

And then I tell Logan an abbreviated version, because I am not supposed to be mentioning Blayne and his training. Instead I make it out as though my own voice exercises took up all this time.

“He didn’t threaten you with anything else, did he?” Logan touches my back lightly with his palm, sending sweet shivers along my nerve endings, even through the layers of jacket and T-shirt.

“Oh no. Though I did ask him, how come, if I am so valuable to them, do I have to go through all this extended training bull. Why not just Qualify me automatically?”

“And what did he say?”

“Not much. Said it was not up to him.”

Logan raises one brow. “Interesting.”

I
get back to Yellow Dorm Eight and say bye to Logan who presses my slightly trembling hands in his capable strong fingers and leans in closer to my ear.

I think he is going in for another kiss, but he only whispers, while his breath tickles my neck, “Sleep well . . . Yellow Candy.” It occurs to me, he knows we are directly in the line of sight of multiple surveillance cameras, so best to tone it down so as not to provoke any anti-dating reprimands.