“Okay, that seems very weird,” I say.
“Not weird at all,” Manala’s voice sounds. The Imperial Princess comes up to us, abandoning her plate of fruit and pastries on the low table before the sofa. “That special video feed was recorded with the Hel-Ra Imperial Poseidon Network nano-cameras—those sparks of light you saw falling and swirling all around you, those were tiny cameras!”
“Oh, wow . . .” I say. “Are you serious? How amazing!”
“Yes, I love those things—how pretty they look falling down, and how lovely they make the subject appear, coming alive from all impossible angles, as they levitate around you,” Manala continues. “Though, they might seem a little odd and intrusive at first. Father only allows them to be used during the most formal Imperial Court events, because otherwise they can record too much personal and private detail. HRIPN uses the nano-cameras at stadium events for super accuracy. They will be using them at various points during the Games of the Atlantis Grail.”
“I was wondering what they were,” I say. “Good to know.”
“Well, as I was saying,” Chiyoko resumes. “You were shown from almost every angle, and some people were making comments about you and making bets on you—or rather, against you.” Chiyoko pauses and seems to be embarrassed to continue. “These Atlantean Palace servants were saying some very rude things, if I understood their Atlanteo correctly, things like you’re a conniving gold digger or a stupid Earth bimbo who took advantage of their Prince and—they were saying you’ll not last in the Games, you were ‘dead meat,’ and you should’ve stayed back on Earth with the other Earth dogs. I’m sorry to have to repeat this stuff, but I thought it might be important for you to know. . . .”
I feel a return of the cold, as it sweeps through me, filling my insides with painful twinges, cramps of nerves. “Thank you, Chiyoko.” I bite my lip and pat her on her arm in turn. “Glad you told me, and you’re right, I need to hear this. It’s what average ordinary people are going to be thinking about me, and I should know their opinion of me.”
“I’m so sorry,” Chiyoko mutters.
“Earth dogs?” Dawn raises one brow.
“Oh, Gwen, but they don’t know anything about you!” Laronda says. “Don’t let this get to you, they’re just clueless fools—”
“But they’re kind of right.” I glance at her, then back to Chiyoko. “I don’t blame them for thinking the worst of me. I did come out of nowhere and take their Prince.”
“Nonsense,” Aeson says, still preoccupied with reading the screen over Gennio’s shoulder. He looks up momentarily, giving me one intense glance and a smile. “I was the one who took you first. They can all blame me, if they must blame someone.”
I notice in that moment how Logan is looking very intensely at both Aeson and me, with a complex expression that’s hard to read. I wonder what he’s thinking? Do I even want to know?
Fortunately, I’m saved from pursuing that weirdly unpleasant train of imagination.
“All right, I’ve seen enough of Brie Walton’s records and she’s very competent.” Aeson steps away from the desk and returns to us. “Walton has extraordinary high marks in Combat, and both Technology and Culture. She passed Qualification easily. She’s clearly intelligent enough to have gotten where she is in EU. The only questions remaining are her loyalty, her motives, and whether or not she’ll keep her word about protecting Gwen.”
Logan listens and his expression seems to reflect agreement.
“Trust is out of the question, naturally.” Aeson continues. “But I have decided. Let’s put Brie Walton in the Games. Sangre, make it happen.”
Logan talks some more with Aeson about the logistics of this arrangement, then leaves soon after, with only one polite, opaque glance at me.
My friends and siblings remain, and for the rest of the afternoon it’s a brainstorming session, with the levitating TV playing various feeds of the Pre-Games Trials in the background.
“I feel bad. . . . I’m keeping you away from your new life, your new work assignments,” I say at one point to Laronda and Hasmik and Dawn. “I know you have your own lives to deal with here. Sorry to be taking up so much of your arrival on Atlantis with this evil junk. . . .”
“My post at the Fleet Cadet School does not start until the second week of Green Pegasus,” Blayne says. “So, just chill, Lark, all’s cool. Besides, keeping you alive is a bit of a priority right now, I would say.”
“Agreed,” Dawn says firmly. “My job at Heri Agriculture, here at the Poseidon HQ, also gives me a couple of weeks to settle in. No rush.”
“Heri Agriculture?” Gordie says with interest. “Nice! What kind of position is it?”
“Thanks.” Dawn glances at him. “It’s the Earth Seed Bank, I’m in the bio-analysis division. And yeah, I’m really happy with this placement.”
“Sweet!” Gordie grins at her. “I’m at Heri too, but not the Seed Bank. Cultivation and crops production design tech. Supposed to start some time in a week or something.”
“Gee Three, I’m so proud of you!” I say with a smile in my little brother’s direction. I can’t believe that Gordie, who’s only fifteen, has a real grown-up job!
“Heri is a major agri-corporation,” Manala tells us. “Working there should be a very good experience for you.”
“I hope so,” Dawn says. “It’s definitely not something I expected to get so early in my career. I guess I owe you for this one, Gwen.”
“No, you don’t,” I hurry to say, with a glance at Aeson, who only reveals a fleeting smile.
“So what do you do exactly?” Laronda says.
“Atlantean staple food crops are based on ancient Earth wheat and barley. I get to do DNA analysis and compare the Atlantean varieties that have evolved here under alien conditions over these many thousands of years, and the modern Earth native ones we just brought from Earth. Fascinating possibilities,” Dawn says.
“I get to design crop planting patterns, among other things,” Gordie says. “Both horizontal and vertical, because the Atlanteans plant not only in the soil but in the air and water like hydroponics—the kind we saw up on the ark-ships. Really awesome use of physical 3D space!”
“Wow,” Laronda says. “That sounds surprisingly less boring than I expected.”
At which point Dawn walks up to the sofa and punches her in the arm.
“What about you, Hasmik?” I say, while giggles issue from the sofa.
“I’m not in agriculture,” Hasmik replies, carefully stirring her hot lvikao with a kipt stick. “I am in manufacturing.”
“Oh, yeah?” Gordie says glancing away from the flickering multi-screen carousel of the levitating TV panel. “What kind?”
“Well, it’s a little weird,” Hasmik mutters shyly. “It’s textiles. Defense textiles.”
“What’s that?” Gracie says. “Is that like the mass production of Fleet uniforms or something?”
Hasmik smiles, and for the first time, I see her usual beaming smile turn a little crafty. “No, not quite. I’m not really supposed to talk about it, since it has to do with a military industry. But it’s the manufacturing of fabrics and even weapons based on textiles. Think of our Yellow Quadrant Weapon—nets and cords. I get to work with materials which they use to make them.”
“So, you’re the Atlantean equivalent of a government military defense contractor,” Blayne says with amusement. “Hasmik Tigranian, I didn’t know you had it in you. Well, actually I did, having seen firsthand your hardcore crochet and ninja knitting skillz—and yes, I do mean ‘skillz’ with a ‘z.’ I think you once made a net in like five seconds then hogtied me with it.”
Hasmik starts to blush. “Akh, vochinch. . . . It’s only textiles,” she repeats. “I don’t actually get to make the weapons, just the materials—”
“Yeah, right, we know your secret ninja activities, girl!” Laronda snorts. “I witnessed you knitting, late nights at the RQC, and let me tell you, that was some scary stuff—”
In that moment as the conversation turns silly, Aeson checks his wrist comm gadget then gets up from his seat and quietly goes to open the door of his bedroom. I immediately turn to look, observe him step inside and then return a moment later.
“Gwen,” he says, motioning to me. “Come. . . .”
I get up, while my friends grow quiet.
As I approach, I see the open doorway and someone else standing inside Aeson’s bedroom.
It is Devora Kassiopei, the Imperatris.
Chapter 18
Aeson’s mother is dressed in a dark subdued outfit layered with veils. She looks at me with anxious concern in her normally serene eyes, and motions silently for me to come inside. We all go in, and Aeson closes the bedroom door behind us for privacy.
“My Sovereign Lady!” I say, with some surprise. “So good to see you!”
But the Imperatris simply reaches out and pulls me to her in a solid embrace. One moment I am standing before her, and the next I feel the steady loving pressure of her arms around me, and I am enveloped in the delicate floral aura of her clothing and hair.
“Gwen, child,” she says, so faintly it is almost a whisper, finally letting me go. “It is unforgivable, what was done to you by my Husband yesterday at the Imperial Assembly. The terrible gift he imposed upon you. . . . I am so sorry! There is nothing I can say or do to change his mind.”
“Oh,” I say. “Thank you—for trying.”
Devora Kassiopei gasps suddenly, and I see that her eyes glisten with moisture. “What pains me greatly—and forgive me, if you can—but I could not even try. There are no words I may use in your defense that would not make it worse. So I closed my eyes and said nothing to him. But my heart is breaking. And I don’t know what to do. . . . I am here. I am with you, and I will do all I can to help—but I may not interfere on your behalf—not directly.”
I look at the older woman before me, and see the sincere anguish in her eyes. Her face is beautiful with it, real and true, as if in that moment she’s my own mother.
“It’s okay,” I say bravely, with a light smile. “I do understand, and I thank you for caring. It really means a lot to me. And—and I think it will turn out okay, somehow. Everyone is so willing to stand with me in this.”
“Good!” The Imperatris touches my arm again, with a squeeze. The anxiety in her expression is not alleviated, but at least now she is smiling sadly at me.
“Mother, I am going to make sure that Gwen survives this,” Aeson says in a calm, steady voice. “She is going to have the best training possible, the best preparation, I will train her myself—”
“I know,” Devora interrupts him gently.
“And,” Aeson continues, “I am taking her away from the Palace tonight. She will stay with me in Phoinios Heights.”
“A wise decision.” The Imperatris runs her fingers lightly along Aeson’s cheek, and then smoothes away a few golden-blond strands of his hair from his forehead. “Go, as soon as possible, keep her safe in your apartments, and do whatever must be done to train her. Call me if you need my help—both of you.”
She watches her son fondly, then glances at me. “And now I must go. It is best I am not seen visiting here today. . . .”
Aeson nods. “Understood. And thank you, Mother.”
I echo his thanks, and both of us incline our heads in respectful bows. The Imperatris gives us another caring glance, then retreats from the Imperial Crown Prince’s Quarters back the way she arrived, through another discreet entrance.
When she is gone, Aeson takes my hand in both of his, caressing it, and his expression is intense. “We are leaving now—no time to waste. Tell your friends we will be staying in town—Anu and Gennio will make sure they know the address. Now, take whatever clothing and things you think you might need for an overnight stay, and no more. All else will be provided for you.”
Half an hour later, after a hasty goodbye to Gracie and Gordie and the others, Aeson and I exit the Palace, with the usual security detail, and make our way through the brightly-sunlit landscaped park, heading for the private Imperial airfield.
I wear the dark wraparound sunglasses, because once again the sky is burning white, with no hint of overcast, only the daylight inferno, and Aeson does not permit me to carry anything. Our things are carried by two of the guards.
We walk along the mauve surface of the airfield toward a row of hangars.
“Are we taking a shuttle?” I ask, slightly out of breath, as I hurry along at Aeson’s side.
“No, my car,” he tells me with a light smile.
“Really? At an airport?”
“It’s a hover car,” he explains with amusement.
My lips part. . . .
Inside the relative shade of the hangar, we see rows of gleaming colored metal parked vehicles, in all colors of the rainbow. To compare them with Earth cars would be a stretch, because these are more like multi-function land-and-air vehicles. I suppose they are made with orichalcum, at least in part, but they definitely have the sporty, streamlined look of speed and aerodynamic elegance. Unlike the small personal shuttle flyers that look like oval saucers, these resemble “bullets” or pill capsules. Not sure how else to describe them, as they are smooth and blunt-nosed on both ends, except the rear has a kind of sharp rudder-like fin that extends backward from the roof like a claw.
Aeson walks up to one of the cars, silvery-grey in color. And he sings a tone sequence.
The vehicle comes alive—there’s a low soft hum of vibration that rises from it, and the nose area facing us lights up suddenly, so that it looks like a giant flashlight has gone on. Before I have time to comment, the car moves forward, gliding smoothly toward us out of its parking space, and I realize it is already hovering.
The car pauses, and side panels appear, along a previously invisible seam. A vertical hinge extends about two inches, running along the top of each panel, and then, instead of the door panels sweeping up like wings—which is what I’d expected to happen, for some reason—they slide forward horizontally along the hinge like a curtain rod, in an economy of movement.
It occurs to me, this allows the car to be parked in narrow spaces, since the doors don’t need all that clearing to unfurl, like wings. . . .
As my brain is taking in the elegance of this technology, Aeson touches my arm gently. “Gwen, get inside.”
I see the compact interior, note the two comfortable “captain” seats in the front and a small storage area in the back—this is a two-seater vehicle—and pause just for a moment.
“Which side is the driver’s seat?” I say.
Aeson smiles. “Either one, so take your pick.”
“Oh, okay. . . .” And then I add, still hesitating, “Which side do you normally prefer?”
“The one that’s next to you after you sit down.”
I look in his warm eyes and see he is teasing me.
Immediately a wave of emotion rises inside me. . . . And that’s when I feel the strangest, most out-of-place, and powerful response—an unexpected stab of desire, triggered by the meaning of his words, the sound of his voice, the sight of him.
My expression goes slack as I stare into his eyes. “Aeson . . . you are just so—”
“What?” he says, not taking his gaze off me, in turn. “I’m what?”
“You are—I don’t know. Odd—just oddly silly, and amazing. You are—you.”
The unwavering intensity of his gaze does not change, but his smile becomes slightly wicked. “If you keep talking like that, you know I’m going to have to kiss you,” he says, and his voice fades into a whisper. “So you need to get inside before I do.”
Okay, I can take a hint. So I get in the car—while my heart pounds, and my cheeks burn—and I sit down in a comfortable seat that reminds me of a shuttle pilot chair. Aeson comes around from the other side and gets in on my right, giving me one glance that again seems to momentarily knock out my ability to think or breathe. The car doors glide back over the side entrances a
nd recede, joining the wall seamlessly so that we are enclosed, apparently airtight.
As I try to compose myself from an onslaught of reasons (his proximity to me, the fact that I’m in an honest-to-goodness, actual hover car, and we’re about to go flying through an alien city), I watch through the clear windshield window how the security guards call up the other cars around us.
Wow, so this is going to be a cavalcade. . . .
“Seatbelts,” Aeson tells me, pointing to the button on the armrest between us. I press it, and the belts snake out from the sides, capturing me in the seat. I stare at the complicated orichalcum dashboard before us, similar in its lumpy asymmetry to the shuttle control panels. I notice there is no steering wheel, so it must work like a touchpad, just like shuttle controls.
“Ready?” he says, glancing at me with a hint of that same wicked smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“Uh-huh.” I nod and take in a deep breath, expecting a crazy lurch or something.
Aeson sings in his rich deep voice, a brief sequence of easy tones. The dashboard lights up with hair-thin lines of golden radiance, and several colored spots appear, seeming to swim just below the frosted “membrane” exterior. I watch with fascination how Aeson’s fingers play along the surface, engaging touch commands.
And then the hover car sails gently about five feet off the ground, and we exit the hangar into scalding whiteness of daylight, like a feather floating, carried by the breeze.
The moment we’re in the airfield, we start climbing into the sky. I hear no noise except for the faint hum in the car walls. But the panorama of the Imperial Palace complex around us drops away as we gain altitude, and now we are probably a hundred stories up, soaring through the air and gaining speed. The Palace buildings recede, the park grounds also, and in seconds we cross the boundary of the Imperial Palace walls . . . and we are outside. I notice three other hover cars following us closely, which must be the security detail.
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