Qualify (54 page)

Third, he closes the two palms together, thumbs still pointing away from the other fingers at a right angle, and draws the “praying” hands closer so that only the thumbs touch the middle of the chest. At the same time he bends his head down so that the tips of the fingers touch the forehead, while bending the knees into a semi-bow.

Fourth, he separates the hands, lifting them outward into a sweeping arc, and returns them palms down at his sides, at the same time as he straightens and brings the right leg back in, feet together.

“This is the Salute of Atlantis! Now, repeat, with me!”

Keruvat and Oalla both do the Salute, facing each other, and all of us attempt to copy their motions.

“Again!”

And we stomp our feet and mimic the Salute, better this time.

“
Again!”
Third time is the charm.

“You will make the Salute perfectly on the day of the Semi-Finals.” Oalla says curtly. “Now, practice!”

L
unch is an abbreviated affair also, and we only get forty minutes.

We all stampede to the cafeteria. I see Dawn and Tremaine and Hasmik at a table in the back, and join them with my own tray piled with burgers and fries.

This habit of chowing down on huge meals seems to be with us now, because of the amount of calories we apparently burn on a daily basis. No one has gained an ounce of weight even though we’re eating twice our normal amounts, and in some cases more.

Instead, after a month of this boot camp lifestyle, there’s a buildup of muscle. Even I feel the small new muscles in my previously wimpy, skinny arms. And my calves and thighs have new strength and some definition.

“So, what you ladies think of the Standing Score situation?” Tremaine says, with a mouth full of burger. “Any ideas how they’re gonna implement this for the Semi-Finals? Heard any good rumors, at least?”

Dawn shrugs her usual. “Not really.”

“Well,” I say, swallowing my own mouthful of fries. “There’s probably going to be some kind of advantage given to people with the best scores.”

“Keep in mind, they are going to live-stream the whole thing.” Tremaine shakes his head. “So it’s what, death match reality TV? Will we be fighting each other or something, like gladiators in the arena?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Otherwise, why teach us Combat?”

“There are hoverboards too,” Hasmik says.

“So we fight on hoverboards?”

“I hope not,” I mutter. “But hope’s such a bitch.”

“I got a #2,985 Standing Score,” Tremaine says. “It can swing in either direction for me. What about you?”

“You don’t wanna know,” Hasmik and I both say together. Dawn just stares into her plate and chews something.

C
laxons indicate five minutes before 1:00 PM, so off we go to the assembly.

It’s a bright sunny day, and the sky is clear, as we pour outside from our dorms, an endless stream of Candidates mingling, our tokens lit up in all four colors.

As I walk, I feel a familiar touch on my shoulder from behind. I turn around, and Logan is smiling at me. He’s wearing his black jeans and T-shirt and no jacket, so the first thing I see are his olive-tanned muscular arms, beautiful and powerful. Immediately I remember the hard feel of them around me during our stolen moments together. . . . His dark hair picks up reddish glints in the sun, which gather into a nimbus of rare secret color. I stare into his warm hazel eyes, and jolts of electricity pass through me. . . . He is so handsome it kills me every time, just to look at him, just to think that
we are together
.

“Hey, you,” he says, leaning close in to my ear, and suddenly his expression is intense and serious. “I missed you.”

“Hey, you . . . me too,” I whisper. And then his hand briefly slips into mine, pressing my fingers, then releases with a sweeping caress up my wrist—that sends more sweet electric currents coursing through me—and we continue walking, jostled by the crowd.

“What Standing Score did you get?” he asks me.

I tell him my pitiful score and he reaches out and squeezes my fingers again.

“And you?” I am almost afraid to ask this question. I really, really hope Logan’s score is a good one. I couldn’t bear it he got a low score.

Logan takes a deep breath before telling me, and seems embarrassed. “I got #143.”

“What?” I am so excited I momentarily stop walking, and people run into me. “OMG, Logan!” I exclaim, and I’m beaming. “That’s such a great score! That’s amazing! You’ll qualify for sure! You’re like the top—the top whatever!”

I put my hand on his upper arm, feeling his warm hard muscles, and I press my fingers against his skin. . . .

He shrugs, but there’s a tiny smile on his lips. “It’s good, I guess, but again, it doesn’t mean much. These scores are no guarantee of anything, only some kind of an advantage going into the Semi-Finals, that’s it.”

But I am grinning at him, and I am so crazy-happy that he cannot help but stare back at me with his warm regard that turns his eyes to sweet honey. . . .

The Arena Commons super structure is packed with over six thousand people, the whole arena floor, the track, the sidelines, everything. As we arrive, there is standing room only, and I am reminded of the assembly during the first week right after the shuttle explosion incident, when we were called in here and addressed by Command Pilot Aeson Kass.

I wonder briefly where Aeson is now, and whether he will be up there again on that platform addressing us today. And then I wonder why I should even be thinking about him. . . .

Logan and I attempt to squeeze in closer to the center of the stadium floor. I see my brother George standing with some of his dorm-mates whose names I don’t know, except for one older girl, Amy Calver, a pretty curvaceous redhead with whom George’s been hanging around lately. Their tokens are all blazing green.

“George!” I wave, and he turns and beckons us with his hand. Amy waves also.

“Have you seen Gracie or Gordie?” I ask nervously, pushing past people to reach him. “What Standing Scores did you all get? Mine’s a crappy #4,796.”

“Hey, that’s not so bad,” George says, while his expression is forcibly calm, and I can tell he is trying hard to make me feel better. “Mine is #3,298. Middle of the road, I guess. What about you, Sangre?”

I start to tell him Logan’s amazing score, but Logan gives me a modest and quick “no” look and a meaningful brow raise. He then mutters something about getting by and skillfully changes the subject.

We chat nervously, while the crowd of Candidates grows, and we watch the elevated platform that remains empty. Finally, several Earth officials ascend the platform stairs. There are no Atlanteans among them. Moments later a microphone sounds with reverb in the great stadium space, as one of the officials speaks to address the crowd.

“Candidates for Qualification at Pennsylvania Regional Qualification Center Three. You are gathered here after four weeks of arduous training that has prepared you for the Qualification Semi-Finals. We trust you are in good spirits and good health, because the day after tomorrow will require all your effort, focus and strength. There are some things you need to know in advance of Semi-Finals.”

The man pauses, as whispers pass in waves through the crowd.

“First, you need to know your
odds
. There are 6,023 Candidates in this Regional Qualification Center. Only
two hundred
of you will pass Semi-Finals to advance to the Finals. Let me repeat that. Only two hundred Candidates out of six thousand and twenty-three.”

Anxious voices swell in the stadium. . . .

“These are the same odds for all the RQCs across the country and around the world. That’s how many Candidates will compete in the Finals from each of the RQCs. And of those two hundred, only one half—that’s just
one hundred
of you per RQC—will actually win the final spots on the ships heading for Atlantis.”

There is a pause. The speaker lets it sink in, and we are stunned. For some reason, although we knew the competition was going to be tough, we had no idea
how
tough.

“Oh, well then, we’re screwed,” says one of George’s dorm-mates.

Everyone’s looking around, looking at each other, and everyone’s got the same evaluating nervous stare.
Will the person next to me make it? Will I make it?

“All right,” I say suddenly. Not sure what it is, but something weird prompts me to open my usual big mouth. “We knew the odds were sucky going in. So, nothing has changed. We are still going to try as hard as we can! All of us. . . . Right?” And I look around at my brother, at Logan, the others nearest to me, at their faces full of depression.

Yeah, great going, idiot cheerleader Gwen.

Meanwhile the official on the podium is telling us more unpleasant stuff.

“I was instructed by the Atlantis Central Agency to inform you that you have one day, tomorrow, to rest and prepare for the Semi-Finals. As you know, there are no classes tomorrow, and your time is yours, up to the 10:00 PM curfew. However you will be ready at 8:00 AM sharp the following morning, which is Semi-Finals day.

“Your instructions for that morning are the following. You must wear the standard grey uniform that you were issued on your first night here. You must wear the armband with the color of your Quadrant, and your ID token. You must line up, in order of your Standing Score number, at the doors of this building at 8:00 AM. Further instructions will be given on the day of Semi-Finals, and no earlier. Do not attempt to find out ahead of time, and do not attempt to circumvent or cheat the process in any way, or you will be Disqualified.”

As the official speaks, the sea of Candidates is filled with turbulent whispers.

“The Semi-Finals will begin at 8:00 AM local time and end at 5:00 PM local time, in every time zone. You will also need to know that the entire Semi-Finals process will be televised and fed to the various media, for the whole eight hours from start to finish. Every moment of your progress will be recorded and transmitted via live-feed. For obvious reasons—since there are sixteen-thousand-five-hundred Regional Qualification Centers worldwide—not every RQC will be shown on the main prime time broadcast, with the exception of special highlights, although every site will have a dedicated pay-per-view channel and net feed available for the general public. However—and this is where it becomes important for all of
you
here present—Pennsylvania Regional Qualification Center Three has been selected for
prime time feed
, together with ten others. Which means that the eyes of the nation and the world will be on you even more so than on other sites.”

The noise in the stadium swells up another notch.

“Interesting,” George says. “I wonder why they chose us out of so many thousand others?”

“I have a pretty good idea.” Amy Calver glances at George. I notice how she seems to stare directly into his eyes, and her own eyes open really wide every time she looks at my brother.

“What?” George looks back at her. His expression when he meets her eyes is pretty interesting too, I note.

“It’s because of that Atlantean big shot Command Pilot, whassisname,” she says. “He’s always here, every day, apparently. We appear to be his special project. Plus there’s that awful shuttle investigation. . . . So yeah, I bet the Atlantis Central Agency has its eye on us for all these reasons.”

“You’re likely right,” George muses.

I say nothing, but again the image comes to me, of Aeson Kass, as he’s speaking in sorrow and leashed fury from the platform, surrounded by the terrifying stone-like Correctors. . . .

“Gwen . . .” Logan is telling me something and I realize I’ve spaced out.

“Yeah, sorry,” I say, blinking.

“Let’s go for a walk tonight after dinner,” he says. And his eyes get the momentary intense focus that I know very well by now . . . and it sends pleasant shivers through me.

“Okay,” I reply, starting to smile because I know what this is leading up to—our favorite hidden nook in the alley, and the two of us
alone
.

“Do you still have to see Kass at eight tonight?” Logan says.

“Yeah. Though, I think this might be the last time.”

Logan nods. “In that case, pay special attention to what he might tell you this last time. It might be especially useful.”

I nod, thinking of what to expect. As usual I get a feeling of minor shame for partially lying to Logan about what happens with me at those training sessions. But I’ve been asked to not talk about it, and for the sake of Blayne and his special training, I don’t. And even so, keeping a minor secret from Logan, even one that’s not entirely my own, feels wrong somehow. . . .

The official up on the platform is talking about the Standing Scores and the Achievement Score breakdown. This is all super important, and yet for some reason I’ve stopped paying attention.

Instead, I am thinking about what will happen tonight.

Chapter 30