I am stunned. Logan Sangre, so confident and comfortable, so steady and cool, is having personal doubts?
All right, I mean, he’s human—yes, I know it with the rational portion of my mind, sure. But to me he has always seemed perfect and invincible.
“If anyone is going to qualify, Logan, it’s you!” I say passionately, and just as soon as I say it, I realize how my intensity must be coming across.
Stop it, Gwen, cool it. Stop with the crazy!
Logan pauses walking, and turns to me with a blooming smile. “You don’t even know me, but—thanks, Gwen. You make a good cheerleader—in the best sense possible.”
“Thanks for what?” I pause also, and now I’m staring up at him. “I’m being practical here. I just think you seem to be the kind of guy who—who will Qualify for sure! Maybe I’ll be the one heading home, but you definitely won’t be. Want to bet on it?”
He smiles. His expression is so gentle, kind, that it’s melting my heart completely. “No way. Because I don’t want to bet against you, Gwen Lark. So how about this—let’s not think about it for now, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, thinking that the real Logan Sangre is an even better human being than my idea of him has been all these years—way better than I expected him to be.
We resume walking and we’re almost at the end of the airfield clearing, approaching another dorm structure, when one of the hangars comes awake with lights, and its wide doors slide open.
We stare, and it’s an amazing sight. An Atlantean saucer shuttle pulls out of the hangar, hovering silently about three feet in the air. Considering that it’s over a hundred feet away from us, I judge it to be about thirty feet across, flat and slightly oval instead of perfectly round. The material it’s made of is dull grey from the distance, and yet the bright hangar lights give it a strange prickling sheen of gold, which—I’m suddenly very certain—makes it orichalcum.
“Oh, wow!” I say.
Logan watches with equal wonder. “So that’s how they go up and down,” he muses.
As we stare, the shuttle glides away from the hangar, and pauses, then without a sound it seems to pick up a bluish-violet glow around it, and then it streaks upward with impossible speed, and momentarily hangs low above the trees.
At the same time, a second shuttle exits the same hangar.
It too, hovers just off the ground, and pulls away, then pauses. It’s as if it’s waiting for the first shuttle to move away a sufficient distance before following.
In the next moment, two things happen simultaneously. The second shuttle still on the ground now starts climbing. And the first one that’s higher up above suddenly ejects a blinding flash which then turns into a nova. . . .
The night sky is rocked by an explosion.
And the ball of fire that was the first shuttle falls.
As the sonic boom and blast hits, I scream and hide my face, as burning debris rain all over the airfield.
“Oh God! Stay here!” Logan cries to me. He then starts running toward the flaming wreckage in the airfield.
My pulse pounds in my temples and I watch his retreating back, at the same time as I see uniformed guards come running from all directions. A few seconds later, claxons go off and sirens begin to wail. No other Candidates seem to be about, only the guards, converging. . . .
At the same time, I look up, and see the second shuttle. It has barely risen a couple hundred feet above the trees, and its super-violet aura is pulsing, as it seems to stagger horizontally, sweeping wildly back and forth across the sky.
I stare, cringing, in terror, never having seen such impossible lightning-fast patterns of movement of any flying aircraft up-close. Earth planes and helicopters are slow hay wagons compared to this thing.
Oh my God, it suddenly occurs to me. It’s having problems too! It’s about to crash!
I stare helplessly, watching the second shuttle in the sky struggle to stay aloft, and at the same time begin an erratic descent.
Whoever’s flying it must be aware of the burning wreck below, and trying to land the craft safely far away from the crash site. . . .
Whatever the Atlanteans inside are doing, is causing the shuttle to lean sideways, favoring one end, then try to right itself horizontally, meanwhile starting to fall faster, losing its normal gliding smoothness that all the Atlantean ships seem to have.
It’s out of control completely now, spinning wildly, turning over and over, and oh, God—it’s coming down right at me!
I start to back away, then begin to run—even though it’s hopeless to try to outrun a falling object the size of a bus—while with each second the shuttle is plummeting down . . . it’s now a hundred feet, then fifty, then thirty—so that I can see the pulsing colors of its violet-blue aura. Another second, and it looks like an electric charge has covered the entire shuttle in a cocoon of pulsing energy—
I scream.
And then a crazy, last-second-only, desperate idea strikes me.
The ship is probably made of orichalcum. Which means—
My scream turns into a musical note.
I don’t know what it is, but I am singing and holding a single note, at the top of my lungs.
My voice falls into the specific frequency naturally, and I put all my strength and effort into it, and then mold the vowel from an “a-a-a” into an “e-e-e”, which I know is the easiest vowel to sing if you want to make a powerful sound.
The random note that I am holding is a Middle F, and then immediately I follow it with an A and C sequence, to make a major chord progression.
As my voice blasts out in the night air, rising over the crackle of the flames and the claxons and the sirens—cutting through everything, because I am singing with every fiber of my being, as loudly and clearly as I can—the falling shuttle pauses and comes to a jerking standstill in the air.
It hovers, about twenty feet over my head. I see its electric-violet plasma-lit metallic underbelly.
I have keyed it—yes, this huge shuttle-sized piece of orichalcum—to myself.
“F-A-C,” I sing the chord sequence, not daring to stop, else it plummets on my head. . . . Even though I remember in flashes that no, once the levitation state is achieved, it stays in place, on its own, until the next voice command is issued.
And then I feverishly think back on my Atlantis Tech class and recall the other sequence needed to bring objects down.
I desperately continue to sing, even as my mind cringes at the thought of this monster of metal levitating overhead, as I run backward, trying not to stumble and accidentally knock out my breath. . . . This gets me sufficiently away from underneath its hover space, a distance of at least thirty feet, so that the ovaloid saucer is no longer directly over me—where it might drop any second and squash me like a bug.
And now I mentally try to “find” F in an octave higher than the one I’m singing now.
Oh crap! That’s a pretty high note! What in blazes made me go with the Middle F for my tonic, starting note?
How in the world am I going to hit that note cleanly? I haven’t properly sung in ages, in years! My Mom could hit that note just like that, easy as apple pie, make it roll out smooth and rich like honey in butter. . . .
And me? I was just a kid accompanying her in my little kiddie voice.
What’s worse, I have no idea how high I can sing these days!
I am singing now . . . I’m actually singing . . . no, do not think . . . just keep singing . . . just sing!
I quickly take a big gasping breath, and aim for the higher octave F. . . .
I hit it, clean on.
Holy lord!
My voice holds and sustains the F easily, and I realize my voice is rich and earthy, even in the upper register, and I am a mezzo-soprano just like my mother.
And then, I bring it down, sliding an octave below, stopping on the first F.
As I end the slide and hold the original tonic note, the shuttle begins to descend smoothly.
It comes
down, and hovers barely off the ground, maybe a couple of feet, at most.
The colors pulse around it, then suddenly everything goes dark.
And it drops the remaining distance to the ground.
I go silent, balling my fists at my sides, breathing fast in nervous exertion, while a door appears, cleaving the shuttle surface, and a ladder descends. It must be an automated emergency hatch opening, because no one appears to exit. Inside, is near-darkness, and I see the beginnings of smoke coming out.
With my peripheral vision I note guards running in the distance, heading toward me and this barely landed craft. There are also other Candidates coming from the direction of the dorms.
Meanwhile, black thick smoke is really pouring out from the shuttle door.
Where there’s smoke, there’s going to be some pretty ugly and certain fire.
Ugh! What am I doing now? I think, as I take a big gulp of clean night air and then rush forward, grab the rungs and haul myself up the ladder stair and plunge inside.
Chapter 16
The interior of the Atlantean shuttle looks sterile and at the same time strangely old-fashioned, with wall panels alternating orichalcum and another pale material embossed in decorative ornate spiraling designs. Smoke is pouring from one of the wall panels, and there is a fire burning on the floor and engulfing three side panels in one end, throwing orange-red light at the other walls, the floor, and sloping ceiling. It’s a single large chamber, with six central seats in a rotating suspension harness and a control panel hovering before the seventh command chair.
All the seats are empty except one.
I see an Atlantean with pale golden hair, slumped over in the command chair. He is wearing the usual grey uniform, and with an awful sinking feeling, I approach and see the black armband on his sleeve.
It’s Aeson Kass.
He appears dead.
My temples are already pounding wildly, with panic. And now they go into overdrive. At the same time, this terrible, indescribable odd sense of regret comes over me. . . .
I rush toward him, and I take him by his shoulders, raise him up, push him carefully against the back of his chair, and his head lolls to the side. I see his forehead is covered with blood, and his metallic hair is streaking crimson, demonic in the growing flames.
His eyes are closed . . . even now in these insane moments I notice the dark fringe of lashes and the wonderfully exotic lines drawn around the eyelids in kohl—or something else, whatever it is that they use—darkly outlining his eyes, and the lapis tint over his perfectly shaped eyebrows.
I reach with my trembling fingers and feel for a pulse in his wrists, the muscles of his throat—do Atlanteans even have a frigging pulse in the same places we do? Of course they do, what an idiotic thought. And yet I find nothing, or else I don’t know how to properly look for a pulse. At least his skin is warm to the touch. . . .
His chiseled lips are parted slightly, and I place a finger against them, and it seems there might be a very faint breath. . . .
Okay, he just might be alive after all—good! A wild strange relief surges through me at the realization. So now we need to get out of here immediately! The fire is spreading!
I look down, and Aeson Kass is attached to the chair with some kind of seatbelt and shoulder and torso harness, but there appears to be a single spring-button release, which I figure out in three seconds, and push it, until the cords and belts fall away, and his body is free to be moved.
Free of the harness, he starts to slump forward again, and I move in, so he falls against me, and I put my arms around him and start dragging him out of the chair.
He is heavier than I thought, and he is all rock-hard muscle. I strain and barely manage to drag him a few feet, leaning into him with all my strength, and panting hard from the exertion. I am already dead tired, and this—this is just insane.
Furthermore, as the smoke spreads and thickens, it’s getting harder to breathe.
Adrenaline and panic give me a burst of energy, because the smoke is engulfing the cabin interior, and I cough, sputter, and continue grasping him around the waist as I drag him . . . A few steps more, just a few steps more, as I back out of the shuttle.
I reach the outside opening and stairs, and now it’s just a step to fresh cold air. . . .
I manage to feel for the ladder side-rail with one hand, and step backward onto the first rung by feel alone, supporting his entire weight as I descend. Meanwhile, his long, pale gold hair has fallen into my face, and I am now smeared in his blood.
Another step, and I carefully pull him down after me . . . another step. His weight is pulling me down inexorably, and unless I hold on to him and the ladder both we are going to crash hard.
At last I feel the ground under my feet.
Panting, I get him down the last rung, his feet dragging.
I semi-collapse at the base of the shuttle, on the strip of concrete, hitting my knees painfully, and pulling Aeson right after, so he lands on top of me.
“Gwen! Gwen!”
Logan is back. He comes around the shuttle, throws himself down and grabs me, while two uniformed guards are right behind him.
“What happened? Are you crazy? You just disappeared! I turned back and you were gone!” Logan exclaims.
“I’m okay,” I pant. “But he’s hurt! He—he needs help—medical attention, quickly!”
“Oh God, you’re bleeding!” Logan’s strong arms are still around me. Quickly, but super-gently, he examines my face, while I continue to hold Aeson’s limp body to me, keeping his injured head up and away from the hard ground, so that he lies back against my chest. The light of the flaming remains of the first shuttle cast shadows against his hollow cheeks smeared in blood and smoke soot, the angles of his lean jaw and throat, and the faint fluttering pulse-beat there.
“It’s not my blood . . . I’m okay,” I say to Logan, to the guards, as they come around us and finally take over.
When another one of them starts to go inside the shuttle, I hurry to say, “I don’t think anyone else is inside there—”
The guard turns, gives me a hard stare.
“All right! Quickly, everyone get back, as far back as you can from this thing!” an older bearded officer says, coming up behind us. “It can blow at any moment!”
I feel a strange twinge of loss, as Aeson’s limp form is moved off my chest. He is hurriedly lifted under the arms and knees and carried by two guards with grim faces away from the airfield and toward the closest building in the compound. I stare, dazed and in shock, coughing, while a medical team appears, rushes to meet them, and the injured Atlantean is carefully placed on a stretcher. . . .
Mesmerized, I continue staring, except that Logan now helps me get up.
“Let’s go, Gwen, move it!” He shakes me gently.
I come “awake” and start my feet moving. Together we hurry away from the shuttle. All along he’s pulling me by the hand, at the same time as he squeezes my fingers so hard that it hurts.
I nearly stumble then right myself. As I wipe my sweat-and-blood covered face and forehead, my hand comes away covered in black soot.
Logan drags me somewhat, pulls me after him quickly, past a few staring Candidates, and into a narrow alley section between buildings. There is no privacy anywhere, naturally, since cameras are all over. How much of the incident did the surveillance capture?
We stop. I am panting hard, wheezing. I stagger, bend over to hold my knees as I struggle to catch my breath, and cough my irritated lungs out.
“Okay, what exactly happened there?” Logan speaks intensely, leaning into my face. “I told you to stay back, and what did you do? You could’ve been killed!”
“I—I don’t know, I am not sure . . .” I meet his troubled earnest expression, and for a few moments I honestly just don’t know what to say, or how to even begin.
A noisy roar and crash sounds in the distance.
Logan whirls around us with a frown, glances in the direction of t
he airfield, where the claxons and sirens are still going off, and there’s a distant crackle and roar of flames. I suppose he’s expecting the second shuttle to blow up any minute. Considering the kind of huge, scary, blazing-white nova it was that filled the sky for a split second when the first one blew, I am not surprised he’s trigger-nervous.
Holy lord, I am too. . . .
“I hope he’s okay,” I whisper.
“Gwen!” Logan is staring hard at me. “This is bad, really bad. . . . Tell me, what the hell happened there? What—what did you do? Did you try to examine his head injury, or touch him without knowing how serious his injury was—”
“What do you mean?” I blink, because the soot is now in my eyes, and they are tearing.
“I mean, that Atlantean is one of their top brass, and he is badly hurt—if anything happens to him, if he dies, do you have any idea what might happen to you—to all of us? They could blame you for aggravating his injuries, for making things worse! Now, the best thing for you, for both of us, is to stay far away and out of sight.”
“I only got him out of there,” I say. “I couldn’t just leave him inside with the fire—”
“You what?” Logan’s face is now stunned. “You mean you went inside that shuttle? I thought you only got to him when he was already lying on the ground!”
“No . . . Actually, I kind of—landed it. I brought the shuttle down. So that it wouldn’t crash. It was falling—so I sang it down. And then I got him out. But please—don’t tell anyone!”
Logan stares at me like I’m crazy. Shakes his head. His lips part in shock. I have a feeling he does not believe me. Either that, or he does not understand what I just said.
I don’t blame him. I am still not sure what happened, and even I don’t quite believe any of it myself.
“Okay . . .” he says, after a long pause. “But, that is impossible.”
[Atlantis Grail 01.0] Qualify Page 22