“Oh!” Buhaat exclaims, also facing the invisible camera. “You heard it here first, Grail Games worshippers! Time for a new wager! Place your bets on Deneb Gratu earning early points at the expense of Gwen Lark, the Imperial Bride!”
As I stand petrified, my gaze glued to the screen, I feel Aeson’s touch on my shoulder. “You shouldn’t be watching,” he says. “Enough.”
I look around, and see everyone’s serious faces. There are different flavors of concern, worry, pity, even pain on my behalf.
“On the contrary.” Oalla gets up from the sofa and comes up to pat me on my arm. “You need to see this, Gwen, and you need to continue hearing devastating things and not let them get to you. Deep breath, now. . . .”
“Well, she’s been hearing this evil junk for over a month,” Laronda says from behind me. “Every time the TV is on, someone is badmouthing her. She needs a break, at least for one more day.”
“Agreed,” Dawn says.
“She’ll have that break tomorrow,” Xelio interrupts in his calm, slightly mocking voice. I see him standing in the back of the room with Erita next to the late dea meal serving table where Gordie, Chiyoko, and Hasmik are putting food on their plates and glancing in my direction. Princess Manala is with them too, but she keeps herself strategically turned away from the TV display and is preoccupied with taking bites out of a large exotic red-and-green fruit called a biyu which looks like a striated prickly apple.
“Yes, tomorrow is your final day of freedom before the Games,” Keruvat says to me from the sofa, where he’s holding his own plate and Oalla’s. “You can rest then. Today, you still need to focus, and use your strength to work on whatever you can. That big skyball player’s correct about only one thing—you have been given a lot of resources and support. You’ve trained hard for many weeks now, and it shows.”
“Ker’s right.” Oalla nods, and her expression is hard and meaningful. “As of this moment, you are very well prepared, Gwen. Don’t ever forget that. You are not going down, and you can win.”
“Thanks,” I say, thinking of all the amazing, intricate, genuinely difficult fighting techniques that Oalla and the others have taught me over these endless days of training. If I’m honest with myself, I must admit that I now know so much more, and can do so much more than I did even a month ago!
And then I turn back to the screen, to watch more Atlantean media feeds, denigrating me in every way possible. There are more montages of my pitiful babbling, more biting commentary and analysis of my weak performance, lack of confidence, lack of charm, poor command of Atlanteo, and all kinds of other criticisms by media hosts and news anchors. There’s even the equivalent of a grotesque soap opera with actors portraying me and Aeson—called Regal Love Story. In today’s episode the “Gwen” actress is wearing a similar blue outfit, has wildly unkempt brown hair, waves her hands madly and stutters about “missing love gifts,” while the actor who’s supposed to be “Aeson” shakes his head in disgust and turns his back on his crazy Bride, while an Atlantean female who is reminiscent of Lady Tiri beckons him with a seductive smile. . . .
My sister Gracie quietly hands me a plate full of food, and Aeson pushes me down to sit on the sofa next to him, placing his arm around me.
“Hang in there, Gwen,” Chiyoko says, taking a seat nearby. “This is unfair, and not a reflection of reality. Don’t listen to these media people. Some of them have likely been paid to say certain things about you, to try to undermine you.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s the case,” I reply.
“Oh, yes, paid propaganda is a fact of life,” Oalla says, heading back to the sofa. “I love your Earth English word for it—‘spin.’ People get paid to say things a certain way, to emphasize vaguely related details and draw logically dubious conclusions. They repeat it long enough until truth itself gets so dizzy from all the spinning that it wants to hide its face and weep bitter tears.”
“Nice,” Erita says with a laugh, bringing her own plate over to the sofa on the other side of us. “Was that actual bitter poetry coming from you, Oalla?”
Oalla snorts.
In that moment, a strange crackle comes from the levitating display screen, and all the multiple feed windows go dark with a loud acoustic pop sound.
Everyone glances at the display that appears to have turned itself off. Manala stops eating the biyu near the table and turns around. Even Anu and Gennio look up from their work at Aeson’s large desk.
“Huh?” Gordie says. “Someone broke the TV?”
“Not sure,” Keruvat mutters.
But the next instant the display comes alive again. There’s a similar crackle, except every one of the multiple viewing windows has the same identical feed.
It’s nothing but a face against a dark background, wearing a golden mask. The mask is a bland oval, vaguely reminiscent of an ancient Egyptian funerary mask, with barely sculpted androgynous human features, and only small round holes in place of pupils.
“Whoa!” Anu stares, and his jaw drops. “That’s disturbing. . . .”
“Nefero dea, Atlantida, open your eyes. You are now awake,” says a strange computer-modulated voice, issuing from behind the mask in Atlanteo. It is impossible to tell if the speaker is young or old, male or female. “We interrupt your apathy. This viewing device is not broken, but your existence is. This is your own face looking at you out of the abyss. We are the Rim of the Grail, always on the outer edge, always one step away from darkness.”
“What’s going on?” I say.
Next to me Aeson frowns and leans forward. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”
“What or who is that?” Blayne says, tapping his fingers along the vertical length of his hoverboard that’s gently bobbing in the air, parked upright next to his seat. “Is that supposed to be on, and why is it on all the channels?”
“No, it’s definitely unauthorized,” Oalla says, setting down her plate. “I should call my father at Hel-Ra—”
Meanwhile Gracie makes a small gasp, because the masked speaker, wearing all black, including black gloves, is suddenly holding a small golden replica of the Atlantis Grail—one of the many cheap souvenirs you can buy on the street.
The speaker lifts the grail, in a mockery of a toast, raising it up at the camera. “See this, Atlantida? This is your empty life that you drink from every day. Complacent, stupid, insignificant, corrupt. You are ruled by an equally complacent government made up of the tyrannical and the dead. How long will you let the ancient Kassiopei plague guide your generations of lives? Open your eyes! You worship no gods but the dead!”
“Now this is very interesting, and very unusual,” Xel says softly, as everyone crowds around the display. He rests his hand on top of the sofa head-rest cushion and leans forward, standing directly behind where Aeson’s sitting. “A little Imperial hatred going on here—wouldn’t you say, Kass?”
“We are the Rim,” says the golden mask. “Death to the Imperial stagnation! Join us and live!”
“Okay, what the hell is this?” Laronda grumbles. “Some kind of pirate broadcast?”
“Looks like it,” Keruvat says, raising one brow.
“People of Atlantida! People of Earth!” continues the anonymous speaker, suddenly switching into English, also modulated and disguised. “This is your only chance to survive!”
“Talking about propaganda—hmmm, as if on cue.” Keruvat taps Oalla on her shoulder. “Very curious. . . . How did they get their feed in past the firewalls?”
Oalla does not look away from the screen. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Work together, or work apart,” the golden mask continues. “But work against the status quo! Put your anger in the right direction, focus your anger against a common enemy—”
“So is this some kind of anti-Kassiopei faction?” I ask.
“Apparently.” Erita throws a glance at Aeson to gauge his reaction.
Aeson remains grim and silent, watching intently.
His younger sister stares at the screen with wide-eyed curiosity, fear, and fascination. She too glances at her brother Aeson for reassurance.
“Atlantida, embrace your new Earth sisters and brothers. Embrace them all, for they are you and you are them,” the golden mask says. “We are the Rim, and we hear your anger and your fear! Do not let the Kassiopei plague condemn and destroy you, just as the Imperator has condemned the Earth Bride to die in the Games of this very Grail that you drink every day! Yes, such is the truth which you now know, even as you are fed Kassiopei lies.”
I freeze and my breath grows very still.
“Oh, how weird,” Gordie says. “They’re talking about you, Gee Two.”
“Who are they?” I whisper.
“We are the Rim,” the anonymous speaker replies in a very creepy case of coincidence, as though answering me directly. “We stand with you, Atlantida, and we stand with you, Gwen Lark, and all your fellow refugees of Earth. Do not believe the lies, and do not wait another moment. Open your eyes, join us—at the Rim!”
The anonymous voice grows silent. The black gloved hand slowly tips the grail to the camera in another parody of a toast, then lowers it off screen, so that the only thing that remains is the golden mask, silhouetted sharply against darkness.
And then, with another crackle, the video feed fades out.
I take in a trembling breath, hearing others also react around me.
A few seconds later the normal network broadcasts return, as the screen windows come alive with various regular programming.
“Okay, that was extremely creepy and strange,” Chiyoko says with a shudder.
I look at Aeson. “Should we be concerned?”
But he is already up, and moving to his desk, after giving me an intense glance. He speaks to Anu and Gennio, and the two aides start entering something on their computers. Meanwhile Aeson taps his wrist gadget and begins making calls and issuing commands in cold businesslike Atlanteo to what sounds like security personnel.
“What is he doing?” I say to the astra daimon.
“Don’t worry, he’ll take care of it.” Erita squeezes my shoulder.
“With the full forces of Imperial security at his disposal, it shouldn’t take long,” Xel says. “First, they’ll find out everything possible about this Rim, whatever and whoever. Then they’re going to deal with the unauthorized media break-in.”
“I’m guessing it was citywide,” Oalla says. “Should be quite entertaining for my poor father and the entirety of the Hel-Ra network staff—and especially considering it’s just two days before the Games begin. Really bad timing for a security breach.” She makes a sarcastic grimace.
But I’m hardly listening.
Once again the levitating display screen is playing another ugly montage of me answering interview questions, speaking awkwardly with Tiago. I stare at it, mesmerized with disgust at myself. Ugh, I look horrible, pathetic, weak. . . .
A few minutes later Aeson is back. He sits down next to me, and draws me to him. “Gwen,” he says, looking at me with his intense heavy gaze that misses nothing. “I have people working on what just happened, don’t worry about any of it. Do you understand?” He strokes my neck softly with his fingers.
“Okay.” I smile lightly at him, forcing myself to breathe evenly.
I have no idea what had just happened, or any of the significance. It’s just another strange disturbing thing to add to so many other things that’s happened today and in the last few days.
The gathering is eventually over, and all our friends leave. Gracie gives me a hug and a smooch on the cheek, and my brother Gordie pats my back, before heading out with the others.
All that’s left is the rest of the evening, and then the whole free day tomorrow, the last day before the Games.
I just need to survive it.
Chapter 33
I wake up very late the next day, Green Mar-Yan 8, because Aeson tells me to sleep in as much as possible.
“For once, im amrevu, I’m not going to wake you up, and no one will disturb you, since you need this rest to gather as much strength as possible before the Games,” he tells me the night before, as we exchange our usual extended and very romantic “good-nights” at the doors between our two bedrooms.
“Should I really waste the day sleeping?” I ask, looking dreamily and also very tiredly into his eyes.
“You will not be wasting a moment. Sleep is valuable and you’ll need to be recharged and relaxed before everything begins,” he says, leaning in for a gentle, almost brotherly kiss on my forehead. I notice how, most recently, Aeson has become overly protective of me, treating me almost gingerly, and at times afraid to touch me or express any kind of sensual affection. He’s holding back, very much so, it occurs to me, because he wants me to be as focused as possible on what lies ahead.
No distractions. . . .
And so, the chaste kiss on my forehead. And then he closes the bedroom door while watching me with such intense, raw eyes as though he’s afraid he’ll never see me again.
I sigh, and go into my own bedroom, and go to bed.
When I finally open my eyes late morning on Green Mar-Yan 8, stretching luxuriously after an uninterrupted sleep, cold reality comes to me. Today is the last day before the Games.
Tomorrow is Commencement Day—a day of high ceremony and pomp and circumstance, and displays of Imperial power and splendor. I know vaguely what to expect on Commencement Day—no competition yet, only a fancy Atlantean show—but it terrifies me nevertheless. Because that’s when I will finally be separated from everyone I know and care about, from my entire wonderful support network. . . . I’ll be entirely on my own.
Once I enter the ranks of the Games Contenders, I will participate in the Commencement Ceremony held tomorrow at noon. Afterwards, there will be no going back home—I’ll be taken to a special overnight dormitory with all the others where we all have to spend the single night before the actual competition. And then in the morning, we will be put directly into the Game Zone of Stage One.
By the time I get dressed and come out of my bedroom, it’s close to noon.
Aeson is in our favorite living room with the great view of the city, and a very late eos bread is being served, just for me.
While I was asleep, my official Games uniform had arrived, delivered by a Games official. It’s enclosed in clear sterile packaging, reflective and gleaming pearl-white, with a crisp black mouth logo of a Vocalist, and next to it is my matching Games-issued and specially sanctioned equipment bag, the only thing I’m allowed to take with me into the Games. What goes inside that bag, however, is entirely up to me.
“How did you sleep?” Aeson asks me, as I examine the items.
“Very well, thanks. But what about you?” I look up at him with renewed concern, seeing his permanently weary, serious face. All these stressful weeks have taken their toll on Aeson also, even though he hides it from me as well as he can.
“Don’t you worry about me,” he replies with a smile, and forcefully directs me to the meal table. “Now, I’ve packed your equipment bag myself and we’re going over it together after you eat.”
I don’t protest, and consume my eos bread as quickly as possible, because I’m bursting with stress and curiosity. I also recall the weird network interruption from last night and the anonymous creepy mask calling themselves “The Rim,” so I ask Aeson about it.
“Any idea who was responsible for that media break-in yesterday?” I ask, taking a gulp of juice. “The Rim, or whatever. The person in the gold mask who seemed to know all about me?”
“We’re still investigating.” Aeson gives me a tense smile. “But—don’t worry, there’s nothing to be concerned about, at least not for you personally. If anything, it’s a good thing, Gwen. They seemed to speak well of the Earth Bride, even if there was vitriol directed at the rest of Imperial Kassiopei.”
He pauses, looks at me thoughtfully. “This could be turned around in our favor, if we treat it as mi
xed message propaganda—whatever might help you in the Games. You appear to have some unexpected fans.”
I take another absentminded bite from my plate. “It’s still weird and disturbing. . . . I hope you find out who’s behind it.”
He raises one brow in amusement. “Oh, you can be certain of it. Now, please stop worrying, relax, and eat. I promise you, I’m on it.”
I finish my meal. Then Aeson and I go through that equipment bag, and he explains every single tiny, high-tech item in there, ranging from various small firearms and ammo cartridges, knives and bladed weapons, to silvery viatoios nets, magnetized cords, and body armor gloves.
The bag is both roomy and portable, with a number of straps. It’s elongated enough to fit a mid-length sword, a blunt impact mace, or a hatchet or axe-style weapon. And it’s intended to be carried in the field in a variety of ways—as a backpack, a hand-tote that doubles as a bludgeon weapon, and strung on a long strap across the shoulder. Inside, special compartments hold pouches filled with micro-gadgets that cause explosions, electroshocks, temporary fog, release poison and various chemicals, micro-beads filled with corrosive materials, shock-flares to cause temporary deafness and blindness, and other crazy stuff that I had to learn how to use.
There’s also a small inner bag of concentrated field rations and an empty water bottle, a first aid med-kit, and a rolled up ultra-thin shelter and blanket. Finally, there’s even an extra pack of disposable anti-glare contact sun lenses—yes, I’ll be wearing a discreet pair of protective sun lenses to keep myself from going blind in the sunlight.
“You are going to enjoy this,” Aeson says with amusement, as he hands me a small wound bundle that looks like silvery cords. “One-of-a-kind orichalcum magnetized shoelaces—I had them specially made for you. Lace them in your sports shoes that you’ll be wearing in the arena, they’ll prove useful at some point as a spare weapon for my Shoelace Girl—”
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