by Zen, Raeden
“Candidates, look here,” Isabelle said. She held her hand in the air and shook it until all the millions of candidates turned to her. “Each molecule in the universe, whether strands of hair or water,” she bent and lifted water from a nearby pool, allowing it to trickle from her hands, “has a unique frequency. The language it uses to speak to the universe is a resonating wave.”
The candidates whispered. Oriana recalled a similar theory in her quantum physics studies.
“Molecules speak to each other in oscillating frequencies along the zeropoint field, or what those of us who study quantum phenomenon refer to simply as the ZPF.”
Oriana had not encountered the ZPF in her studies. She wondered if it would allow her to control the Granville panels.
“It is mind and matter at their most fundamental.” Isabelle brought her hands together and separated them, and an electric neon grid overtook the rooftop. “All conscious beings create the world as we interpret it from the ZPF.”
She plucked one of the lines. It vibrated along the others, and when she cleared the grid from view, the building next to the candidates cracked, shattered, and collapsed.
The candidates gasped.
“To me, class, to me,” Isabelle said. They turned. “Did that building truly exist? Did it truly collapse? Or have I influenced your senses through the ZPF?” More whispers. Oriana turned to Pasha, saw her own excitement reflected in his expression. “These communications are instantaneous. Perception of the world is a matter of tuning your mind in to the ZPF. With the neurochips and meshes installed in our brains, every neuron can log on at the same time and speak to every other neuron simultaneously. This is how you will communicate with Marstone and with Beimenians across the continent. This is how those of you who join the strike teams will transmit messages throughout the solar system, and other galaxies.
“This is how you will create a livable surface in an unlivable underground.”
A transport whizzed through a nearby elevated maglev tube. Oriana turned to watch with all the other candidates. A flash of silver phosphorescent light blinded her, and when it cleared, they had shifted to ground level. From down here, the buildings were so vast and tall that the sun barely broke through. The air smelled of burnt plastic. Men and women dressed in biomats. A red neon sign blinked:
Thunderclouds gathered and plumed overhead, and raindrops pounded the candidates. The transport tubes collapsed, and transports crashed into each other. People and buildings and trees and alloy fences and gargoyles collapsed around the candidates, who screamed. Oriana hugged Pasha.
“Relax,” Isabelle said. She suspended the scene, jumpers midfall, stones midcrash, alloy midcrack. “Don’t move.”
The destruction resumed.
Jumpers smashed into the pavement, and blood flooded the pedestrian paths. Alarms blared, sirens wailed, people screamed and ran. The slab of concrete on which the candidates stood cracked at the edges and curled, lifting the candidates into the sky.
The city transformed. Transport tubes and pedestrian paths caved. Buildings collapsed. Water geysered up from the sewers. Day turned to night, and day again, the sun moving up, across, down, and up. Hurricane winds hissed through the mangled city, raising dust in the broken sunlight.
“What is this?” Oriana said to Pasha.
“Our first history lesson,” he said.
Foundations buckled from flooding, fires raged, and one by one the skyscrapers crumbled. Day shifted to night shifted to day, over and over and over, so many times that Oriana lost count. She realized that this represented the passage of time.
“You’ve just witnessed the destruction of the capital of the Western Hegemony during the last three hundred sixty-eight years upon the surface of the Earth after the Reassortment Atmospheric Anomaly wiped out most of humanity. In temperate climates, forests bloomed where old-world cities once stood, like here in what we now call the Island of Reverie.”
The forest grew rapidly all around them, weeping willows and pine trees, the gentle flow of streams took over where transport paths and pedestrian paths once stood, the songs from mockingbirds filled the morning. Oriana took a step back, confused. She’d dreamed of places this beautiful.
A flash of golden phosphorescent light overtook them.
Now Oriana peered over a desert landscape. Dead weeds tumbled by, and the sun scorched a city’s wilted buildings. The sun crossed the sky again and again. One by one, the structures collapsed.
“In the deserts,” Isabelle said, “the plastics flaked and peeled quickly as polymer chains cracked under the ultraviolet assault. Alloys also corroded rapidly from contact with the salty desert soils.” The crumbled buildings disappeared to dust. “All over the world, cast-iron stoves, fire hydrants, and arch bridges built for the ancient railways are the lasting remnants of our former society.”
Isabelle clapped, and again the candidates stood in their wooden stadium with clouds and gray atmosphere and the Harpoon insignia rotating high above.
“Reassortment is the plague in the paradise,” Isabelle said, “and we must not forget what we survived. Our ancestors built the Livelle city-state, all the time under fear of death, Reassortment seepage, collapse inside the Earth, and untenable heat and pressure until we dug deeper, further adjusted the transhuman genome, and built sophisticated cooling systems. Previously unknown viruses and bacteria that lived inside the planet ravaged whole villages. Starvation and thirst could kill as quickly.” Isabelle looked up. “This is your first lesson in world history, but not the last. You will be required to understand all the Earth’s history for the first half of the Harpoon Exams.”
Isabelle turned, her cape twisting around her. “Oriana Barão … come hither.”
Oriana’s heart sang. Her ears felt afire. She looked to Pasha for reassurance, and when he didn’t give it, she hesitated. Was this her first test? Would she need to use the ZPF so soon? Oriana found her legs still worked and she moved, step for step, plank for plank, taking careful strides down the steps, then across the deck toward Isabelle. She sensed all the candidates’ eyes on her, millions and millions of eyes, and a spell of vertigo shook her balance. Don’t fall, she thought, don’t fall.
“Certainly took your time, child.”
Isabelle’s tone didn’t ease Oriana’s nerves or the ringing in her ears, or the drip, drip, drip of sweat down her spine. The lady still spoke, but all Oriana’s enhanced hearing discerned were the murmurs of other candidates: “So glad that isn’t me right now,” and “Lady Isabelle should’ve chosen one of us,” and “No way Barão gets it on the first try.” “She looks feeble,” someone said, “She’s terrified,” said another, and “We’ll outperform her,” “We’ll crush her,” and “Gods, didn’t her developers teach her how to walk?” and then the comment that struck her dumb: “She’s beautiful,” spoken simply and breathlessly by Nathan Storm. She turned, casually, but far enough to see him looking back at her through the corners of his reddish-green eyes, though his head was turned toward Desaray.
“Silence!” Lady Isabelle said.
As much as the comments tormented Oriana, all she heard after the call to decorum was the blood in her ears, and somehow, this seemed worse. Isabelle orbited her, and Oriana sensed an animus she’d never encountered. What was it about her that interested Lady Isabelle? What had Oriana done to draw this attention? Was it the way she stood, or the way she set her hair, or the way she hugged Pasha during the lesson?
“Miss Oriana, the time has come.” Oriana nodded and swallowed. Isabelle inclined her head. “Recite for us the Pledge to Beimeni.” Oriana searched the depths of her neurochip and extended her consciousness. Isabelle held up her hand and shattered the invisible database. Oriana cringed. “Child, never extend your consciousness in my presence.”
The candidates laughed.
You know this. Pasha’s lips moved, and Oriana focused on them. She heard his thoughts as if they were her own. You know it. We pledge ourselves to the Great Commonwealth—<
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“We pledge ourselves to the Great Commonwealth of Beimeni,” Oriana began, and soon she recalled it by heart, “the underground paradise of humanity, the place where everything we can imagine is real, where service is rewarded with immortality, where freedom and justice are supreme, and where proper and significant conversions are a sign of our commitment to excellence.
“We reject hatred and malice, the equivalent to disorder and disarray, for these traitorous temptations could lead to our ruin.
“We understand that the common goal of the commonwealth is to return to the surface from where a new Beimeni may be born, though we will never forget the seeds that allowed us to avert extinction.
“Reassortment is the plague in the paradise upon the surface, the great bane of our time, and as cruel as it can be to humanity atop, it chisels at our psyche below, unleashing forbidden emotions. But we will not allow the depression and envy distributed by the plague to enter our minds, for these feelings often lead to hatred and malice and disorder and disarray … and …”
Time stopped. Oriana’s head throbbed. She couldn’t recall the conclusion. She lowered her gaze. The polished wooden planks beneath her feet didn’t hold the answer. She rolled her head back and took in the cool vanilla-scented air in quick breaths. She searched her mind for the final verses before she looked to Pasha.
The Dark Age has ended. The Great Commonwealth and its thirty territories—
“Miss Oriana, is that all—”
“The Dark Age has ended,” Oriana interrupted, “the Great Commonwealth and its thirty territories are the light. Long live Beimeni and its eternal populace, and may we accept endless expansion, endless conversion, endless peace, and endless prosperity for all—”
Isabelle put up her hand. “Not terrible, Miss Oriana,” she said through clenched teeth. She twisted, her cape all swirls around her, and spoke with fervor. “Let’s hear the concluding verse from the entire class, shall we?”
In unison and emotionlessly the candidates said, “And may we serve Beimeni and live forever.”
“You haven’t convinced me,” Isabelle said. “You serve whom?”
“We serve Beimeni.”
“I want the gods to tremble at the collective voice of the second-trimester class of three-six-eight!”
“We serve Beimeni.”
“Louder!”
“We serve Beimeni!”
“And when you serve, what do you gain?”
“Immortality!”
“Serve Beimeni!” Isabelle said, whirling her arms as if to lift the Earth.
“LIVE FOREVER!”
“Serve Beimeni!”
“LIVE FOREVER!”
No one yelled louder than Oriana and Pasha as the chants went on and on.
Oriana meandered partway back to the stands, feeling victorious and glad to be out of the spotlight. The group continued chanting.
Then they stopped.
“I’m not finished with you yet, child.” Lady Isabelle’s voice could’ve melted sugar.
Oriana turned and held her head high. The clouds overhead parted. A Granville sphere sank above the stadium of candidates, looking not unlike a falling star. Isabelle delivered a barrage of instructions, which Oriana repeated in her head.
“The waves emitted from the Granville sphere are all around you in the ZPF.”
Oriana’s mouth dried.
“Once you understand that the signals from the sphere are no different than the signals sent from your brain to the rest of your body, you will realize the two are one and the same.”
Oriana searched but could not find a trace of the sphere’s signals.
“Beware that candidates who have failed to understand this concept, particularly as it relates to the Granville connection, are those who have failed to garner a bid at the auction.”
To be the champion, Oriana knew she must receive the first and highest bid, which would ensure her entry to aera training in Palaestra. Isabelle lifted her arms, and her cape sailed. She cut a slit into the atmosphere with her finger, then withdrew a rod the length of a transhuman, which lengthened to either side of the stadium. Along the rod hung millions of alloyed rings lined with a transparent tube. She telekinetically removed the rings from the rod, and they glowed and spread over the candidates, who looked up in wonderment.
“Face me,” Isabelle said, “and allow the Granville Crowns to ease onto your skulls.”
Oriana grew goose skin as the ring rested on her head. A new world materialized above the Granville sphere, sprawling and beautiful, unlike anything she’d ever seen. Black onyx skyscrapers with moon-shaped windows arced around an oasis, its aquamarine water topped by alloy platforms extending up to a glowing orb.
“You knew the pledge,” Isabelle said to Oriana, “a basic requirement on the first day.” She paused and lowered her voice. “Let’s see how you handle a Granville world.”
A silhouette of an adolescent girl’s body formed on the sand. As the three-dimensional image focused, Oriana understood she was in the Granville world. How strange to be suspended in House Summerset and standing with the candidates and feeling the sand with her toes all at once!
“This Granville sphere is part of the third-generation variety used by consortiums throughout the commonwealth,” Isabelle said. “You’ve seen the smaller spheres and flattened variations of Granville syntech in your developer’s houses, no doubt.” The candidates agreed with nods and yeses. To Oriana, Isabelle said, “Where were the spheres invented?”
“Palaestra,” Oriana said.
Lady Isabelle circled her. “And what do the scientists and engineers in Palaestra believe?”
“Everything you can imagine is real.”
“What is it you imagine, child?”
Beads of perspiration gathered over Oriana’s face. She thought of the holographic artwork in her room, the one with falling leaves and roses surrounding the First Aera, who stood by a stream, clouds overhead. She imagined the silver necklace around Aera’s neck, the shuriken in her hand, the radiance in her amethyst eyes that made Oriana imagine she was Aera.
And Oriana wished that Aera was with her now.
“I know what you see, child, for in this world I know all.”
Oriana turned to Lady Isabelle.
“Override my Granville world. Pull the rest of us into your vision and let us see what you see. This would be the mark of the champion on day one.”
Oriana couldn’t breathe. She wanted to run, to be anywhere but in front of the trimester class with the towering Lady Isabelle who demanded something she could not do, a skill the Summersets had never taught, an ability she did not understand. Did Lady Isabelle presume she had learned about the ZPF? That she had trained with Granville panels and spheres? Should she have trained with them? Had the Summersets led her astray? Set her up for failure? Doomed her to life in a lesser territory, or worse—the Lower Level?
Gods, Oriana thought, I hate them for this!
“An ominous introduction, Miss Oriana,” Isabelle said near her ear, her voice soft and fierce. “Not even your Aera will be able to save you during the Harpoons. You’re relieved.”
She scurried back to Pasha, biting back sobs.
The whispers resumed until Lady Isabelle declared, “Falcon Torres! Come hither!” Falcon moved with the stride of a champion, the stride of a boy developed by the house synonymous with champions, House Variscan.
“I want you all to learn from Miss Oriana’s failure.” Isabelle strutted around Falcon’s godly physique and eyed the candidates, her boots clicking over the wooden deck. “I want you to understand that your capability to interact with the ZPF and with Beimenian technology is vital to your and humanity’s survival.” She raised her arms. “Falcon Torres, I want you to enter my Granville world and breathe the arid air, run along the sand, ascend the platforms, all the way to the orb.”
The clouds above and below the candidate stadium darkened. The Granville sphere glowed bright, and the atmosphere it
generated in the world above whirled into a frenzy. Lightning clapped the water, the platforms, and the black buildings.
Falcon stood calmly, his eyes determined, his bluish-brown hair brushed to a ridge atop his head, like a striker. He balled his fingers into fists and lowered his head. The ramblings among the candidates picked up once more when he materialized in the Granville world, and the bolts ceased, the clouds lightened and parted, and the sun’s rays struck the oasis, platforms, and skyscrapers.
“Yes,” Isabelle said, “candidates, learn from Falcon Torres.” Falcon sprinted across the sand. By the time he reached the shore, the sun had set and the moon rose with the night. “Open your minds to the possibilities of the commonwealth!” Isabelle said. “To its energy, its technology, its power to which there has never been an equal in the history of the world!”
Isabelle joined Falcon in the Granville world near the oasis. She sashayed across the water, a whip in hand. She snapped it toward Falcon with a crack, but he lunged an impossibly far distance over Isabelle, up to the first platform. He crashed into it and slid backward but pulled himself up. Isabelle slapped the whip around his ankle and pulled. Falcon struggled to hold his position. She yanked harder, but Falcon didn’t fall. He twisted on the platform and shook the whip loose from his leg. Isabelle fell forward and rolled across the water before she knelt, looking up.
The platforms activated.
They zigzagged and moved up, down, and side to side. Falcon timed his jumps and moved with the grace of a mountain lion all the way to the orb. He held it high above his head and roared. The musings began in earnest, candidates saying, “That doesn’t mean anything,” and “We can’t let him win,” and “He’d make a sturdy comrade,” and “What a loser.”