“No, actually, it is not.” He points to one of the four visitor chairs before his desk. “Now, please sit. We have work to do.”
I frown, and step across and sit down in the closest chair.
He takes a deep breath and sits at his desk also. I watch his profile, the tired hollows of his lean cheeks, the fall of his golden metallic hair. It has been a long day for him too.
He then reaches for a small box, which I recognize to be the familiar sound damper box containing orichalcum pieces—it’s the same box we’ve been using to train with, back in Colorado.
I stare at it as though it’s my last connection with Earth. Which is nonsense, but it’s how my mind is working now, attaching significance to little things.
“How was your first day?” he asks me suddenly, as he opens the box to take out several charcoal-grey pieces with fine gold flecks. Orichalcum is like fool’s gold—or better to say, magician’s gold—sparkling with hidden yellow under bright lights, and dull grey the rest of the time.
“Okay . . .” I mumble, still frowning, angry at his refusal to speak about Earth. “The classes were fine. I think I’m going to enjoy Pilot Training, and Culture.”
“Good. And what do you think of your two fellow Aides? Not counting this morning’s incident, any work issues?”
“Gennio is great. He’s been helping me with many things. Anu is—”
At my hesitation, I notice Aeson Kassiopei glances at me briefly, and the corners of his mouth almost imperceptibly turn up. “Anu is Anu,” the Command Pilot says. “He’s a bitter pill to swallow at first, but you will get used to him.”
I make a small sound of sarcasm.
But now he’s all business. Ignoring my reaction he points to the orichalcum that’s sitting on the desk surface before us. “Today’s voice lesson will involve temperature. You will learn to change the quantum state of orichalcum to heat it up and cool it down.”
I sit up straight with interest. “You can do that?”
He notes my heightened attention and continues. “In your Earth physics terms, it involves quantum harmonic oscillation—but not exactly. There are many additional parameters involved in eliciting this particular thermal reaction via acoustics. For now, all you need to know is that you are influencing the vibration frequency of orichalcum.”
“Wait! Is this similar to those awful burning batons during the Semi-Finals?” I recall with a shudder.
Command Pilot Kassiopei watches my growing dismay at the memory of the hellish Qualification ordeal I went through . . . those last moments of Semi-Finals, with me holding on to the burning baton with one hand and to my sister Gracie with the other (that other hand was attached to my wounded arm, with a bullet lodged inside), as we rose up in the air toward the shuttle over Los Angeles. That baton—it had burned my hand right through to the bone. . . . If not for the high-end Atlantean medical technology that restored my limb after Semi-Finals, I would have no hand right now. In fact, I might not have both hands.
“Yes, it’s a similar process,” he says. “The batons were keyed on a more complex level, to remain cool and inert when submerged in water, but to heat up when in contact with air. Today, you will attempt a much simpler variant.”
He looks down at the small lumps of orichalcum and points to one. “This one,” he says. “Watch.”
And then he sings a complex note sequence in his rich deep voice, the sound of which sends electricity through me and makes the surface of my skin pucker up and my fine hairs stand on end.
The piece of orichalcum rises, floating a few inches over the top of the desk. And then it starts to glow. The change is imperceptible at first, but with each passing second the metal glows brighter, from deep red to white-hot.
“Put your finger close to it but don’t touch,” Aeson tells me. “Can you feel the heat?”
I move my hand toward the levitating piece. Just as he described, I feel radiating warmth, then significant heat coming from the flaming orichalcum.
“Yes . . . wow. . . .”
I keep my hand raised, my fingers trembling, as I stare in wonder.
“Careful,” he says. “And now, this—to stop the thermal reaction.”
And he sings again.
When the sequence is done, I note the way the burning piece starts immediately to fade in brightness. This cooling process seems to happen much faster.
“Can I touch it now?”
“In a minute. Still too hot.” And he continues looking at the floating lump of metal.
I look up suddenly, because a strange other memory comes to me. And I just have to ask. . . .
“Command Pilot Kassiopei,” I say softly, watching his averted eyes, the amazing thick fringe of his lashes. “Back then, during the Semi-Finals, when you were in that shuttle in the very end. . . . You put your bare hand directly on the burning baton and pulled us inside—what command did you use to make the baton cool down instantly, so you could hold it?”
Aeson does not respond at once. Instead, I note he grows somewhat still. “I didn’t use any command. There was no time,” he says at last, in a tone that might be almost careless.
For a moment I don’t process the meaning. And then I get it, and I am stunned.
“Oh my God . . .” I whisper. “You mean you held it while it was still burning and you pulled us in? What about your hand? What must have happened to your own hand? You burned your hand, didn’t you?”
He looks up in that moment, looks into my eyes. His gaze is clear and profound and filled with intensity that cuts through me like a shaft of light.
“Hands can be repaired,” he says. “You know it for yourself.”
My lips part as I stare at him in wonder. “How badly was it hurt?”
“It was repaired. It doesn’t matter.”
But I don’t relent. “Oh, wow! Thank you! I had no idea at what cost you saved our lives!”
But he simply nods at the piece of cooling orichalcum floating in the air between us. “Lark,” he says. “Your turn to make it burn.”
About fifteen minutes of singing later, I am still unable to elicit the quantum thermal reaction necessary to create the heat. While I practice, Aeson opens up a console and starts working on something. Periodically I glance up to watch his face in quarter-turn, the composed fine angles of his lean jaw, the way he presses his lips into a controlled line as he focuses on the work before him.
At some point I must have paused way too long, and spaced out while looking at him. Because without taking his eyes away from his task he says, “Stop staring and continue. There is nothing here of any concern to you.”
I feel an instant flush of heat in my cheeks. “Sorry . . .” I mumble. He must think I’m trying to see what’s up on his display screen. Better he thinks so than realizes I am staring at him.
So I fake a yawn and put a palm over my mouth. “Long day . . . I’m a little tired.”
He finally looks at me. “All right. It’s your first day, and it’s close to eight-thirty. You may go. Also—there’s supposed to be a mandatory group lecture given to all Earth refugees, Cadets and Civilians, in their residential quarters, in about fifteen minutes. It’s about—matters of personal health and—” He pauses, and blinks momentarily, which I’ve discovered, is his only “tell,” the only crack in his control. “—and sexual conduct. You need to attend.”
“Okay,” I say, while my brows rise. “Oh, but I don’t have a dorm or barracks. I’m in my own cabin on Command Deck Four. . . . So where do I go?”
“Feel free to choose any nearest Civilian residential dorm or Cadet barracks. It doesn’t matter,” he tells me curtly, once again turning his face away.
“All right. But are you sure I need this?” I say, just before I rise from my chair. “My Culture Instructor gave us an abbreviated version today, basically preaching abstinence for the duration of our trip. So, I get it—space flight is developmentally bad for my body and bad for pregnancies. It’s not like I plan to have kids—”<
br />
“You have a boyfriend,” he says suddenly. “If you plan to—be intimate, you will need to know this. So, yes, you need to attend. Now, dismissed!”
I get up in a hurry—not only because his tone has become menacingly cold, hard, and unyielding but because my cheeks are now flaming in embarrassment—and then I flee his office.
Since I don’t have a Cadet star and don’t want to be conspicuous, I drop by Residential Deck Four, Yellow Quadrant, and go find a Civilian dorm. It looks exactly like that shipboard dorm we were first placed into on our first day, with ceiling-high rows of bunk beds, and a narrow corridor between them, with washrooms in the back—I’m assuming it’s the standard personal quarters layout for all the dorms and barracks on each ship. I perch against the wall next to complete strangers and listen to an Atlantean officer give a ten-minute sex conduct talk to a room full of annoyed teens.
For the most part, it’s not anything I haven’t already heard. Except for one thing, which is suddenly made clear to us, with all its striking implications. . . .
“All of you chosen for rescue, ages twelve through nineteen,” the Atlantean officer is saying, “are best suited to travel through interstellar space and survive the effects of the Quantum Stream, and especially the Jump. Your hormone levels are sufficiently high that the inevitable cell damage that occurs can be self-repaired by your strong young bodies. Children younger than you and adults older than you cannot handle the effects without significant irreparable harm to their bodies and minds. Yes, even our advanced medical technology cannot fix this level of damage. And pregnancies at this time will result in tragedies.”
A dark-brown skinned girl with long African locks raises her hand. “So are you saying that the only reason we are being rescued is that we can survive this journey? Oh sweet Jesus! Is that why you wouldn’t take adults or babies? All those other people left behind on Earth?”
“Yes,” says the Atlantean, keeping his face impassive. “That is mostly correct.”
The dorm quarters are suddenly filled with noisy tumult. Everyone’s talking all at once.
The Atlantean raises his hands for silence.
“How come none of this was said back on Earth?” a boy cries out. “Those people had the right to know!”
“Yeah, not to mention, so did we!” another boy yells. “We should’ve been told that this is an unsafe option!”
“Be quiet, all of you!” The Atlantean officer raises his voice and it rolls through the room like a peal of thunder. He’s using a power voice, it occurs to me—because as soon as he speaks, the dorm goes silent, as though everyone’s been mildly stunned. So, this is a form of crowd control. My mind is racing as I stand and listen.
“Knowing this—would it really have made a difference as far as your ultimate choices?” the Atlantean officer continues. “You were given the opportunity to be rescued. All of you gladly and wisely took it. And as for your loved ones on Earth who did not Qualify due to age—would it have been kinder for them to know they were doomed outright? That they could not even hope to step aboard our ark-ships? In my opinion—and the opinion of the Atlantis Central Agency—the less painful information was disseminated, the better for everyone, your loved ones included.”
As the Atlantean speaks, my mind races with another horrible realization. My parents! Oh, God! If this is true then Mom and Dad would not be able to survive the trip to Atlantis anyway, even if I could somehow smuggle them on board!
No! No!
I do not accept this.
I stand shaking, clenching white-knuckled fingers against my uniform shirt, while wave after cold wave washes over me, filling my insides. . . .
But then, in the middle of all this numbness, a bright thought comes.
What about my Pilot Training Instructor Mithrat Okoi? Compared to the other Atlantean officers and crew who are all teens our age, he’s ancient! He has to be way over the safe age for interstellar flight, and yet he’s on this ship!
And, for that matter, what about the only other “old” Atlantean I know, the Fleet Commander himself? Yes, he seems younger than Instructor Okoi. But still, Manakteon Resoi has to be at least twice as old as any of the other Atlanteans in the Fleet!
So, how is it that they are allowed to be here?
I frown, thinking. . . . And I resolve to grab and “interrogate” the one friendly and reliable source of knowledge, as soon as I can find him—Gennio Rukkat.
The sex-and-health talk goes on for about five more minutes. The Atlantean officer concludes by telling us about the location of the nearest medical facilities on this deck, and that we all have to see a doctor as soon as possible for a physical exam and hormonal evaluation.
It will be used to determine our personal physical condition—not only in regards to birth control for family planning, but to regulate hormone levels for those of us who might require hormonal treatments for other medical conditions, and for overall balancing.
Apparently our physiology must be checked, and then some of us might have to be variously medicated and tweaked just to keep our bodies safe from the stress of interstellar space and the dreaded Jump six months from now. In short—hormonal balance is something they are going to keep track of very carefully, for all of us, male and female, for as long as we are on this trip.
“Don’t worry, for the majority of you there will be no treatment necessary,” the Atlantean adds. “But for some of you, yes, minor adjustments will be needed to survive the trip in good health.”
Suddenly the androgynous, now familiar machine voice comes from the walls of the ship around us.
“Thirty minutes warning. Approaching Saturn orbital perihelion,” the ship computer announces, cutting off the Atlantean officer’s final words.
“All right, we are pretty much done here, so you are all free to go,” he says. “According to our flight trajectory calculations, Saturn is going to be visible, so you might want to attend this final planetary fly-by. Also—this is probably the last opportunity you will have to see Earth with the naked eye. Once we are beyond Saturn, Earth is much too small to observe without magnification unless you have extraordinary eyesight. Go, take that final look.”
At his words, the room gets noisy again.
My chest feels a painful twinge. So I race, together with most of the dorm, to the observation deck.
Everyone wants to say that final goodbye to Earth.
Chapter Eleven
Saturn’s a big draw, but I’m guessing it’s mostly the notion of a final glimpse of Earth that brings everyone to the outside windows.
There are so many people on the ICS-2 Observation Deck this time that it’s elbow-room only. Once again, the fly-by pass will only be seen from one side of the ship, so everyone has converged here.
I push my way inward, jostled by other teens, hearing the din of many languages all around me, smelling sweaty humanity.
In this messy crowd, there’s no one I know, and I wonder momentarily if Blayne has made it here with his hoverboard. I scan the vicinity, but if Blayne’s here, there’s no sign of him. Seriously, there’s got to be thousands of people on this ship, and it feels like they all crammed onto this one deck.
I think of my siblings, Gracie and Gordie, probably also crammed in a similar observation deck on their own ark-ship, and elsewhere in the Fleet, Laronda, Dawn, Hasmik, Logan. . . .
I wish Gennio was here.
“How close will we be when we pass Saturn? Anyone know?” a skinny dark boy asks behind me.
“No idea,” the girl immediately next to me says. “I hope we at least get to see the Rings. I mean Jupiter was a big ’ole let down. Or should I say a teeny tiny one.”
“At least we got to see Jupiter at all,” I say, as I crane my neck to look over the crowd at the large windows and the blackness of space beyond. There are hardly any stars visible, only rich darkness.
“Okay, that bright thing on the left, what is it?” a boy says. And now that everyone notices, voices rise in ama
zement.
“Nyet, ne mozhet bitz—neuzheli eto sontse?”
“¡Sí, creo que esto es el Sol!”
“Is that the Sun? No way! That’s tiny!”
And as we point and stare at the far left of the panorama, there’s only one solitary star-sized object, but extraordinarily bright, and it has to be the Sun.
Wow. . . .
The Sun. It has grown so unbelievably remote. . . . All that’s left of the familiar orange fire disk is now smaller than the head of a pin. . . . But it’s still powerful enough to cause retinal damage, even at this distance, if we stare at it directly without the shielding filter on the windows.
“What about Earth? Can anyone see it?”
“Now entering Saturn orbital perihelion,” the ship’s computer says.
Instantly the crowd goes silent.
And then we see it.
It starts as a tiny point of light in the general center of the window panorama, and it grows in split seconds to immense proportions, filling up all the observation windows with faded yellow pallor, like a balloon being blown up—and oh, the Rings! They are huge! Great oval fixtures spanning the whole cosmic vista outside unfurl like great wings, all in a split second. . . .
Saturn is hurtling directly at us! Or we are crashing into it!
There’s not even time to blink!
People on the observation deck scream, because suddenly we are being swallowed by Saturn’s immense albedo. There is no more black space outside, only Saturn, casting the grand illusion of a universe of soft pallor and light, and the Rings are overwhelming . . . and oh lord, did I just see one of its many moons briefly silhouetted against the Rings? Atlas? Titan?
There is no time for the mind to acknowledge or correctly process anything that’s suddenly visible out there, because it’s all happening too crazy-fast. . . .
We fall, we crash . . . we plummet into mist pallor.
And we emerge on the other side, having seen none of it really, none of the faint field of ice particles born of moon geyser plumes that comprise the Ring through which we just passed—probably the most visually prominent outer A Ring or the Cassini Division between Rings A and B, or maybe it’s the B Ring?
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