Qualify (59 page)

From my own dorm there’s smart and dark-haired Ken Fisher at #6, followed by stocky and tattooed Jaime Robles at #7, huge and muscular Samuel Duarte at #8, perky redhead Isabella Saltwater at #9, and finally very dark, tall, and intellectually brilliant Mamraj Shahad at #10.

The rest of us start lining up, based on our own far less exciting numbers. We jostle and move around, backing up past those of the Candidates who have already found their spot in line.

Knowing how far back I will end up being, I basically walk backward and outward past the line, seeing how as it’s growing it will soon form concentric circles around the building and eventually fill the block. At some point I see Dawn get in line, and
whoa!
Girl’s got a #98 on her chest! I had no idea Dawn scored so well!

My jaw falls open in surprise. I wave at her and smile as I hurry past her, and Dawn waves back, looking somewhat sheepish and embarrassed. No wonder she didn’t want to tell anyone her score.

“Way to go, Dawn!” I mouth at her in passing, and she rolls her eyes and says, “Shut up!” But she smiles back at me.

The line keeps growing as more of us get into our places, and now it’s snaking backward around the AC Building, going all the way around and back again, and forming another row.

Soon after, I see Logan get in line in spot #143. I pass him and he turns his head to watch me, and calls out my name. “Gwen! Remember, stay focused!” Our fingers brush past each other, and his warm hazel eyes follow me. I smile at him nervously, then move away.

As the numbers get higher, I start seeing more and more people I know. I watch Claudia get in line and toss me a sneer.

However I am more interested in seeing Blayne in his wheelchair get in line at #1,692, his toned arms moving rapidly to turn the wheels. He is remarkably fast and yet my gut sinks in worry on his behalf, since there is no hoverboard here to help him. How is he going to manage with whatever it is we have to do? The Candidates around him are staring, giving him curious, disdainful, pitiful, even stunned looks—a whole range of reactions, the works. I know he’s used to it.

But Blayne sees me and gives me a light crooked smile that for him is almost a grin. He nods at me and I mutter something semi-stupid, like “Hey, good luck there.”

“Hey, Lark,” he says suddenly, as I am several steps away. “When all else fails, remember you can sing.”

I know it’s a play on my name, and yeah, I’ve heard it a million times before from teasing kids and bullies, all my life. But somehow this time it really works. It’s the perfect expression of encouragement.

“Thank you!” I mouth the words and wave at him with a “thumbs up.”

By this point, over a thousand Candidates are now in line. There’s Gordie at #1,941, looking relaxed and sleepy in his place in line. “Gordie!” I exclaim, move in quickly and squeeze his shoulder. The boy comes awake practically, and then grins at me. “Hey!”

“Be strong, and never give up! Love yah, Gee Three!”

“You too, okay, hugs, whatever, yeah . . . see you! We Qualify, yeah!” he mumbles, but I know his gaze is following me as I move away. I am suddenly crazy glad I have this unexpected, last-second chance to see my younger bro, and possibly the rest of the Gees, as we all line up.

One by one I see others—Tremaine, then my brother George who holds me, pats my shoulder and tells me to Qualify or else. Then, there’s Laronda who gives me a quick hug, then Raj, Mateo, and a bunch of other people from my dorm.

Then there’s Gracie getting in line. Her number is close to mine, so I know my own spot is not too far ahead. I squeeze Gracie’s fingers and she clutches my hand desperately, and her eyes—oh, her eyes are suddenly again those of a very lost little girl.

“You’re a
winner
, Gracie! Remember that, you just keep going, sweetie! Love you tons and tons!” I speak quickly into her ear, and we separate.

At last, somewhere in the fourth concentric row of Candidates standing in line, I find the person whose Standing Score is the number right before mine, a younger teen boy with freckles and a green token.

I take my place in line right after him.

Moments later, the person who comes next after me, a blond teen girl my own age with a blue token, gets in line behind me.

And the line still just keeps growing and growing. . . .

A
t eight AM exactly, the doors of the AC Building are opened and we are allowed to enter.

I am still far away from the entrance, in the outer middle concentric circles of the spiraling line, but the noise inside the building hits us, as the microphones and voices of the announcers echo and reverb through the stadium. The media film crews are in there, I recall, and oh yeah, they are beginning the broadcast. . . . Loud, up-beat theme music plays on giant super-speakers from all directions, so that the AC Building rumbles and shakes from the low bass notes of the drum track, interspersed with the announcer voices.

I even recognize some of them, the TV celebrity anchors who now speak urgently and with excitement to introduce the start of the Qualification Semi-Finals programming for the day.

Candidates are moving quickly—even though it seems they are allowing us inside in batches of six people at a time.

As we file along, exchanging nervous looks, some of us move in place with athletic exercise warm-ups, others stand stiff, frozen with an immobilizing fear of what awaits us—as all of this is happening, we can hear the announcer voices describing the events.

“Good morning to our viewers across the country and around the world, and welcome to the international Atlantis Qualification Semi-Finals! To all our eastern time zone and other audiences just tuning in, please note this presentation has a live internet simulcast and is being live streamed on ENNThisMorning dot com and on all our local affiliates . . .”

The wind moves tendrils of my hair that’s been pulled back tight in a functional ponytail. I glance up at the morning sky, blue and clear, and think about how it looks like it’s going to be a bright and sunny day ahead. . . .

This might be the day I die.

No, stop thinking like that . . . pull it together, Gwen Lark
. . . .

“ . . . The first hour portion of the program is simple sorting,” says the deep and soothing voice of Bill Anderson, the Eastern National Network prime time anchor, echoing loudly from the outdoor speakers, so it is heard outside the super structure building and beyond. “The Candidates run a single lap around the track, in bursts of six teens at a time, separated by only ten seconds per set, to compete for objects and tools that will be assigned to them for the tasks ahead. . . .”

As he speaks, I can just imagine his clean-cut, bland features, the graying hair smoothed back, the neatly trimmed beard, tailored suit and subdued tie. It is unlikely he’s here in person, in our own RQC today, but rather back at the network studio—but I suppose I’ll find out soon enough once I actually make it inside and
see
.

Most likely, only his hologram is being projected inside the Arena Commons Building stadium onto the media podium panel which is holo-installed here and at every other one of the thousands of RQCs nationwide and globally. This virtual panel allows local and global anchors to take up prominent spots and feature only the networks of their choice that are relevant to their country or region. Other international major network anchors in other places are also holo-projected the same way. Furthermore, viewers can select what feeds to follow with whose commentary, and which language dubs.

“So explain to me, Bill, how exactly does this work, then? With only ten seconds of advantage given each group of six, plus Candidates with better scores on the inner lanes, the Standing Scores don’t seem to play all that great a role, do they?” This time it’s the voice of Cathy Estrada, the sassy raven-haired Latina ENN co-anchor who rolls her r’s and wears bright colored tops to match her trademark fire-engine red lipstick.

“Well, Cathy, as you know, the Atlanteans don’t really tell us much of anything ahead, to build suspense, one might suppose, but we
are
told to expect many surprises. After the top two hundred, might as well forget the Standing Scores, they tell us! Each lap around the track determines what kind of prizes—if you want to call it that—our teen competitors receive. For example, we know that the top ten scoring Candidates at each Regional Qualification Center will be given hoverboards automatically, but they will still have to run the lap to determine what other weapons and power-ups they get
in addition
. As for the rest of them, who knows? The farther your Standing Score, the worse are your odds. We can only watch and hope and pray on their behalf! After all, it’s our children out there!—Oh, look! There go the first six Candidates around the track!”

This is hell. I am in idiot hell
, I think, as I slowly approach the doors, while hearing the running commentary only, and having no idea what’s really happening visually.

“Let’s switch quickly to one of our featured ten Regional Qualification Centers and watch the early action at New York RQC-One. Looks like Jimmy Wong is in the lead, with his #4 blazing in front, but ooh, this is going to be a tight one, as Angela Manwell #7 is coming up from behind—”

Shuffling forward slowly in the line, I zone out. Twenty minutes later, they’ve only barely processed two thousand Candidates. I know that’s crazy many people actually, but it feels both insanely slow-mo and urgent-fast.

Well, I think, at least Dawn, Logan, Blayne, and Gordie have gone through. And Claudia Grito. . . . And I’m closer to going inside the building. Maybe another twenty minutes?

Only—how did Blayne manage the running part?
The worry on his behalf comes to me yet again, with a pang. For that matter, why aren’t the announcers saying anything about a boy in a wheelchair? Wouldn’t it be something to comment on?

“So, as they run around the track,” Bill Anderson’s hologram says, “we see that they are getting scanned automatically at the finish line by a row of sensors. Here’s an interesting note for our viewers—all those ID tokens—notice how they are lit up in one of four colors—are based on something the Atlanteans call the Four Quadrants—”

“But wait, what awaits our Candidates at the finish line, Bill? I am still confused—” Cathy Estrada’s projection voice sounds whiny and nasal.

“A choice, Cathy! A tough choice!”

“What choice, Bill?”

“We are told we cannot say it on the air, in order not to influence the Candidates who are possibly listening to us speak, and so, viewers at home, watch the bottom of your display screens for the marquee with the answer! Yes, folks, this is the tough choice that the Candidates have to make at the finish line! Now, how about that, ain’t that something? That should give you an idea of what awaits our Candidates in the next few hours—”

I can’t tell how many more minutes have passed, but I am finally at the doors, am about to enter the AC stadium. Guards rush us inside, counting us off in batches of six, saying, “Go, go, go!”

I pick up the pace, matching the others before me, and we are greeted by a blast of noise, canned music, and lights. Officials stand at all wall perimeters and we are told to advance directly to the racing track.

We move at a run. With my peripheral vision I see a projection screen that shows what’s happening on the track in real time, and in huge several-story-tall format. There is a podium bathed in light with a semi-circle holographic virtual panel of media personalities, projected at three times life-size. Bill Anderson’s holo-head is huge, I think stupidly, it’s the size of my whole torso. The anchors are rotated every few minutes, so that the holo-panel lineup changes constantly.

I realize the media nonsense is just a part of the atmosphere of hype, and it’s apparently there to add to the sports-event flavor.

But it’s absolutely, soul-sickeningly ridiculous.

Meanwhile, on the track, Candidates are running . . . and running. We approach the starting line, and I see how a signal shot goes off every ten seconds, just enough time for people to line up in the six inner lanes out of the available eight, and then take off.

There are no pauses, no waiting for each group to complete their lap—that would take too long, all day, probably, for over six thousand Candidates. Instead, it’s a constant moving stream. I see that a large display smart panel awaits at the finish line, where Candidates pause momentarily, and then press some kind of lever to make a choice. Then they rush onward and disappear into the outer building, going lord knows where. . . .

“Line up! Get ready to run! Go!”

Suddenly I am in the middle of my batch of six teens, in the fourth lane from the middle, at the starting line. I place my feet in the proper places and crouch down.

This is it
. . . .

The starting gun signal goes off.

I take off and run.

The previous batch of runners is still pounding the track, only about twenty feet in front of me.

I suck at running, even now, after four weeks of hard training and yes, some improvement. Very quickly, in a matter of just five paces, the boy to my left and the girl to my right both overtake me, and I am running behind them—not the last person in my batch, but definitely toward the back.