by Kobe Bryant
“And then?”
“You will run,” the man replied.
“For how long?”
“We will need to see you split yourself,” the leader thundered, his amplified voice echoing through the amphitheater.
“What if I can’t?”
“You will run until you can,” was his reply.
“But what if I injure or tire myself?”
“You will run until you split yourself,” the leader insisted.
Pretia hesitated. Cleopatra had insisted on taper training, which meant she wasn’t supposed to exert herself until her events. But she couldn’t split herself unless she pushed herself to her limit.
“I don’t—” she began to object. But then she thought better of it. If she didn’t submit to this test, her games were over. And she’d risked too much for that to happen now, before she’d even competed. She’d run away from home. She’d defied her parents. She would need to meet this challenge to prove that she had been right to come to Phoenis.
Pretia took a deep breath. She closed her eyes momentarily and, once more, turned inward. You are the Princess of Epoca, she told herself. Meet this with dignity.
She was ready.
Pretia stepped into the box. She heard the door close and seal behind her. She saw the Mensa Crown on the floor. It was similar to the ones she had used in Satis’s class last year to project her visualizations. She put it on.
“Where will I see my thoughts projected,” she asked into a small intercom.
“You won’t,” the harsh white-haired woman said through the speaker. “They are for the use of the tribunal members only.”
Pretia leveled her voice, trying to remain calm. “But they’re my thoughts!”
“While you are in this room, your thoughts belong to the tribunal.”
Pretia shuddered, but she put on the crown. Before she knew what was happening, the track began to roll and she had no choice but to run. The pace was steady, at the upper limit of a comfortable jog.
Pretia could feel the eyes of the tribunal on her, boring into her, searching and probing. She knew they were watching her every step.
She ran. Time passed at a slow drip.
“We are waiting for a demonstration,” boomed the tribunal leader.
It didn’t work that way, but they hadn’t given Pretia a chance to explain. She couldn’t split herself on a whim; she could only do it when challenged. She could do it when she needed to, not simply because she wanted to.
She wondered about her thoughts. What was the tribunal seeing? What images were flying out of her mind?
She felt the track accelerate. Now she had to sprint to keep up with it. After two minutes at 80 percent effort she flapped her hands wildly, indicating that they needed to slow it down. Eventually she felt the treadmill return to a more reasonable pace.
“Pretia, we are waiting,” the leader said.
She wanted to scream at them, but the full-out sprint had stolen her voice. She thought about closing her eyes, searching deep down for her grana, looking for a way to split herself. But she didn’t want to risk losing her balance and tipping off the moving track. She kept running.
She could sense the tribunal members growing impatient. She tried not to lose focus.
Just run, she told herself. Just run and be yourself.
But it was hard to be herself in a sealed box, jogging monotonously with a group of imposing adults staring at her, judging her every movement and seeing her every thought.
Soon her mind went blank, sinking into the dull task. And in the blankness of her mind, in the space she cleared there, rose the image from her Grana Book—the twisted road through the mountains.
This treadmill—it wasn’t the road in the image in her book. Not exactly. But the image had warned her there would be difficulty and obstacles on the way to Junior Epic Glory, and the treadmill certainly presented those things. This had been foretold—this and other obstacles, Pretia supposed. She needed to relax and figure out a way to overcome this test.
This knowledge made her calmer.
But no sooner had it done so than the glass cabin filled with wind rushing against Pretia’s body. She lowered her chin and shoulders, driving herself forward into the resistant gust. Her body strained as she fought against the pressure.
Her lungs burned. Her limbs felt as if they were pressing into a solid wall. Soon she could barely move at all. If the wind resistance increased, Pretia realized that she’d be flung toward the back of the enclosure.
She pressed on, using all her strength to stay upright, fight the wind, and make some progress on the treadmill so she wasn’t lifted off her feet. But it wasn’t working. She reached forward, grabbing the air, trying to keep herself upright.
And then she felt it happen—her shadow self emerged, pressing ahead on the treadmill, running effortlessly through the wind as her physical body stepped back. From solid ground, she watched herself move freely, smoothly, as if nothing could bother her.
Then the wind stopped. The treadmill stopped. And her two selves came back together where she stood just behind the moving track.
She stumbled as her selves collided. She heard the door unseal.
“You may step out,” thundered the leader of the tribunal.
Pretia discarded the Mensa Crown and stood outside. Her lungs were scraped and raw. Her legs wobbled. She placed her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.
“Now you will swim,” the leader bellowed.
“Wait a minute,” Pretia said, her voice an exhausted whisper. “I need to recover. I can’t swim right now.”
“You may take ten minutes,” the tribunal head conceded. “In the hall there is a dressing room. You may change into a swimsuit there.”
One of the tribunal members hurried to hand Pretia a plain black bathing suit with no house or academy affiliation.
Pretia stepped off the platform and pulled open the heavy door, careful not to let her exhaustion show. When the door closed behind her, she slid to the floor. She knew from all her Ecrof training that what she should do was keep moving so her legs wouldn’t seize up. But she didn’t have the physical or the emotional strength to stand. She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her forehead there.
She did not want to return to the room. She did not want to swim for the tribunal. She didn’t want them to see inside her mind. She just wanted to be allowed to be herself without interference and without protests.
She felt as if she were in a tug-of-war between Dreamers and Realists. A constant tug-of-war with herself over who she was and what she should do.
A knock came from the other side of the door. Pretia’s ten minutes were up. Quickly she darted to the changing room, pulled on the bathing suit, and returned to the testing room.
She stood in front of a ladder that ascended to the top of the tank of water.
“Please climb up,” the leader commanded. “There is a Mensa Crown hanging at the top for you.” Pretia did as instructed, taking the crown from a small hook. She fitted it to her head, then slipped into the water. The water began to roil with a current that pressed against her body, providing resistance so that she swam in place, making no progress. Like before, the practice was dull and monotonous—stroke after stroke going nowhere. She wished she could make her shadow self emerge. But she couldn’t. She needed a challenge for that to happen, and she feared its arrival.
She waited for the current to strengthen so she would have to fight against it, knowing that ultimately she’d have to split herself to do so. On she swam, her legs tiring, her breathing growing ragged. She felt her pace slow. How much longer did she need to do this? How much longer could she do this?
And then she felt something tugging at her legs. The current wasn’t pressing harder against her; it was spinning her in circles into the center of the tank. The
water in the enclosure had turned into a whirlpool that was pulling her into the dead center of the box. Pretia swam harder. She kicked her legs frantically. But the water was winning, trapping her in the middle of the whirlpool. Her grana was blocked—waterlogged. Her shadow self wouldn’t appear.
The whirlpool let up, and she tried to rein in her thoughts. She needed to concentrate. Before she could make a plan, the swirling in the bottom of the tank resumed. Pretia swam as hard as she could, fighting the current that spun her in tighter and tighter circles until it nearly held her in place.
If I don’t split, are they just going to watch me drown? she wondered.
Then it came. A weak, flickering version of her shadow self. She saw it emerge. It took a few lame strokes, then crashed back into her. She couldn’t sustain it.
The current died down. She swam at a regular pace, trying to figure out how to maintain her shadow self the next time.
When the whirlpool started up, Pretia was ready. Her mind was still, her nerves calm. She swam hard until her shadow self emerged. But just like the previous effort, no sooner had her shadow self appeared and taken three or four strokes than it crashed back into Pretia, and she was her regular old self, barely managing to fight the whirlpool.
After two more attempts, the whirlpool and the regular current died down altogether.
“You may get out of the tank,” the tribunal leader announced.
Pretia hauled herself from the water and climbed down the ladder. She wrapped herself in a towel, teeth chattering.
“That will be all,” the leader concluded.
The entire tribunal stood and exited the viewing theater, leaving Pretia alone on the cold, harshly lit stage. She shivered and pulled the towel closer.
The door to the room opened and a man entered. Pretia recognized him as one of the Phoenician guards Rovi had pointed out in the stadium earlier that night. “I’ll take you back to the Dreamer Village.”
“That was it? That was the entire test?” Pretia asked.
The guard didn’t answer.
“Did I pass?”
“Please come with me.” He held the door open.
She pulled on her tracksuit and sneakers.
“When will they tell me the results?”
“This way,” the guard said, leading Pretia to a side exit from the court building. She followed in silence.
Pretia felt hollow. Her body was exhausted, but worse, her soul felt crushed. The games were off to a horrible start. First the protests, then the tribunal. If this kept up, she’d never make her parents proud. She’d never be able to prove to them she’d been right in running away to Ecrof and then to Phoenis.
She climbed into the van and slumped against the window. She closed her eyes, not even caring about the dazzling city outside.
12
ROVI
AN OLD FRIEND
The sorna horn echoed through the Junior Epic Village, marking the beginning of the first day of the games. Rovi paused outside his residential tower, taking it all in.
The village was buzzing with athletes who mobbed the kiosks, stocking up on flags, T-shirts, noisemakers, and sparklers to support their teams. The grana temple was filled with silent competitors lighting flames before their events. The anthem of House Somni blasted from every speaker, while clusters of Dreamers chanted their fight song as they marched through the immaculate rows of buildings.
Last night when Rovi returned from the opening ceremony, he’d found his event assignment slipped under his door. He’d be competing in the 800, the 4x400 relay, and the Epic Mile—the 1,500. The 800 was the leadoff event on the track, which meant he’d be in the spotlight in the Crescent Stadium right away. But his happiness at his selections was tempered with anxiety.
What had happened to Pretia? Where had she been taken?
Rovi chose the outdoor cafeteria for breakfast, where he could soak in the sights and sounds of the village. He filled his tray and ate slowly, keeping an eye out for his best friend. His eyes wandered from the walkways to the fountains bursting with purple water. Pretia never appeared.
On his way out of the cafeteria, he bumped into Virgil and a crew of divers from Aquiis. “Have you seen Pretia?” Rovi asked.
“No,” Virgil said, tossing his long blond hair. “I heard she got in some sort of trouble, though.” Rovi didn’t appreciating the diver’s gossipy tone. Before he could craft a snippy reply, the sorna horn announcing the imminent departure of the event transport sounded.
Rovi hurried toward the Grand Concourse just in time to board the Epic Coach—a special bus for competitors that carried them to the stadium in extreme comfort. It was outfitted with screens and grana gadgets to measure anxiety, review past performance, and aid visualization. On board, he found a crew of Dreamers all wearing their game faces. He slid into a seat and immediately felt a tap on his shoulder. Eshe had taken the place next to him.
“Looks like it’s you and me today striving for Dreamer and Ecrof Glory,” she said. “We need to lead off strong for House Somni and Ecrof.”
“Looks that way,” Rovi replied. He pressed his nose to the window, scanning the village. “Have you seen Pretia?” he asked.
“No,” Eshe said. “She’s probably going with the spectators. This coach is only for competing athletes. As you can tell.”
“But did you see her this morning?” Rovi asked.
Eshe shook her head. “Maybe she’s training with Vera. You know, Vera is in every one of my events but this one.”
“That’s not surprising,” Rovi said.
“Do you think she’s going to do it?”
“Do what?” Rovi was growing irritated. It was hard enough to try to focus on his event instead of worrying about Pretia without Eshe babbling in his ear.
“Tie Farnaka Stellus.”
“Maybe. Who knows.”
Rovi closed his eyes. He needed to focus. He pulled his Memory Master out of his pocket and slid it on over his forehead. Soon he was watching himself execute a perfect 800.
Thankfully, Eshe slid on the Mensa Crown dangling from her headrest and let him concentrate in silence for the rest of the ride to the Crescent Stadium.
After a while, Rovi realized he wasn’t actually paying attention to the Memory Master. He’d opened his eyes and was once more scanning the streets of the Upper City for Star Stealers. He was so distracted by searching for Issa on the sparkling streets that he didn’t notice the coach come to a halt.
“Rovi.” Eshe was shaking him. “Let’s go.”
He looked at her blankly.
“We’re here.”
The stadium was even more impressive in the full light of day than it had been under the silvery moonlight the night before. The bronze arches glittered and seemed to emit a warm glow. Rovi felt his heart flutter as he stepped from the van.
The Realist convoy had pulled up at the same time, and an equal number of serious-faced Realists were disembarking. Rovi spotted two Epic Elite upperclassmen from Ecrof. They acknowledged each other with a stiff wave. But that was it. Everyone knew the importance of academy glory fell far below house victory and personal triumph. As Rovi saw it, he was a Dreamer first, an individual second, and an Ecrof student third.
Thirty runners had been selected for the 800. They would compete in heats until they were down to the top ten finishers. Then it would be, as always, a single race for the three podium positions. Rovi followed the Dreamers to a desk where they were instructed to sign in with a race official and receive their heat assignments.
The stands were filled to capacity and crackling with excited electricity. Blue and purple banners fluttered from every seat. Rovi could see a group of young Phoenician Dreamers blowing sorna horns. Nearby, a bunch of Realists from Hydros or possibly Megos were waving blue sparklers. As he walked past, someone threw a stuffed Dreamer Pegasus from
the top of the stands. Once more the eyes of fifty thousand spectators were on Rovi. But it didn’t make him nervous this time. Instead, he was filled with confidence. He was on home turf. He was ready.
He began his warm-up, jogging several laps of the track, and finished with some half-paced sprints. He’d been drawn in the third heat. To stay warm, he continued to jog off the track so as not to be in the way of the race.
He touched his toes. He did a few fast-feet drills. He kept his mind on his own movement, never once letting his eyes stray to the action on the track. Whatever his competitors were doing was immaterial. This race was his and his alone.
With his back to the action in the starting blocks, he put on his Memory Master, then stepped forward into a lunge.
“Pssst, Rovi!”
He stood, pushed back his Memory Master, and glanced around. Seeing no one, he replaced his Memory Master and continued lunging.
“Rovi! Rovi Myrios!”
He righted himself and took off his Memory Master again, dialing in the stadium instead of his visualization.
“Rovi! Over here.”
He looked into the stands. It took him a moment to figure out what he was seeing. In the front row someone was extending an arm into the air with the palm raised skyward and the fingers cupped as if plucking a star from the heavens—the Star Stealer salute.
“Or do you not talk to Star Stealers anymore?” the person said.
Issa! His Star Stealer brother dropped his arm as Rovi dashed over to where he was sitting with five members of their gang, three girls and two boys. The old gang looked a little thinner and more ragged than when he’d left them. But their garb was unmistakable and marked them as Star Stealers—loose tan pants and ragged tunics with no house colors in sight.
Issa put a finger to his lips, his dark eyes twinkling. Then he reached over the barrier to give Rovi a high five.
“You’re here!” Rovi exclaimed.
“Where else would we be?” Issa replied. “There’s no way in the world I’m missing Swiftfoot in the Junior Epics.”