C-E-G.
His dark, deep voice does not require amplification as it echoes with power throughout the stadium, bringing immediate silence.
We listen with rapt attention, and the guards listen from afar, as he follows the keying command with the intricate Imperial Aural Block sequence that resounds with eerie beauty.
The ship responds. Moments later, the resulting sonic blast we experience at this proximity feels like a small explosion. Aeson grabs my arm to keep me from falling, while I huddle against him and put my hands over my ears, as though that would help.
Surely this cannot be healthy. . . . At least not prolonged exposure to such sound. Ugh!
The Grail is now silent. Only the local birds continue to screech and flap their wings as they rise into the sky all around us. Poor birds.
The Imperator remains in the same position, head still down, eyes closed, hands splayed against the ark-ship surface. It almost looks as if he’s praying. . . .
And then he takes in a harsh breath and looks up, glancing at his son and at me. The light of Hel paints his face with washed out pallor. “Note the time,” he says to Aeson. “We wait and time it—the interval of silence until—if it begins again.”
Aeson glances at his wrist and marks the time on his multi-function comm gadget. I watch his movements, frowning with tension behind the illusion of privacy from my wraparound glasses.
Unfortunately, it does not take long.
Only a few minutes later the hum returns, swelling from the ground, filling us with its excruciating rattle.
“Seven daydreams and eighteen heartbeats,” Aeson says in Atlanteo, which—if I recall correctly—is the approximate Atlantean equivalent of “seven minutes and eighteen seconds.”
In one of my weird mental asides I recall out of the blue that this oddball term referring to a minute, roughly translated as “daydream” or “reverie” was never officially used by anyone during the Games. It has archaic connotations and—according to my Atlantean instructors—is slowly being phased out (with much resistance, especially by the military and the science and tech sectors) in favor of actual Earth minutes, to both modernize and integrate the two populations. Meanwhile, “heartbeat,” the term for a “second,” is still persistently used by the general population.
In any case, apparently the Imperator likes using this older form, and Aeson accommodates him. Or maybe for some reason they need this level of old-school precision for whatever measurements are associated with the ancient ark-ship, and Earth-style minutes just won’t do.
While my stupid thoughts nervously ramble, the Imperator nods to his son, then redirects his dark stare at me. “Gwen Lark, it has come to this. I will now teach you the Imperial Aural Block. Let’s see how capable you really are.”
And that’s how, for the next twenty minutes—or daydreams, or better yet, nightmares—I am treated to the dubious honor of a private Voice lesson from the Archaeon Imperator of Atlantida himself.
Romhutat is a ruthless instructor. He makes me repeat notes and sequences over and over, correcting me harshly at the smallest imperfection of tone and pitch. The command sequence is not particularly long, but it is very complex, so it takes a while until I can echo the whole thing back correctly. Aeson listens and observes us, and I’m certain he is silently learning the sequence for himself.
At last I am more or less ready.
“Place your hands on the ship,” the Imperator tells me. “Feel it, know it, become one with it. I don’t care how you choose to focus your energy, just do it. What is it you Gebi do to focus? Meditation, you call it? Meditate, if you must—or pray to your Gebi gods.”
I nod silently and rest my numb fingers against the vibrating gold metal of the Grail.
I should probably stop thinking of it as “the Grail.” It’s a ship, a great ancient relic of metal alloy and other artificial material that has travelled across the universe. . . .
It’s an object from Earth.
My breath catches, and my heart starts to pound with the sudden basic realization.
But before I can begin the keying process, one of the guards approaches, and the Imperator steps aside to talk to him.
Aeson and I stare with worry because the Imperator has a deeper frown when he comes back, while the guard departs to his original security distance.
“What?” Aeson asks.
His father shakes his head with annoyance. “Reports of protesters gathering outside the complex. Apparently, the public is concerned with the sonic activity here, and also the Games nonsense. They are chanting for the final Champions Ceremony, demanding we resume tonight or tomorrow. Also, the media is out there, snooping, trying to interview the evacuated staff. Just what we need. . . .”
“The timing cannot be worse,” Aeson says. “But something must be concluded, as far as the Games. You’ll have to give them something—unless you want to explain all this.”
The Imperator makes a disdainful hiss and curses in Atlanteo, then once again turns to me.
“All right, girl, are you ready? Proceed!”
Don’t think . . . just don’t think. Do it.
I take several big breaths and focus, clenching my hands into fists, while I sing the commands in a clean, perfect voice stripped of any emotion.
When I’m done, the result is silence. Then comes the same rising shriek culminating in the awful sonic boom, and more silence. More flapping screeching birds.
“Good! Time it!” the Imperator tells Aeson, who nods.
Here we go again.
I stand, breathing, hearing the pulsebeat racing in my temples, while minutes pass. The Imperator slowly walks around the stem portion of the goblet, glancing around periodically into the distance, at the guards, at the buildings of the complex. Aeson just stands next to me with his arms folded and waits.
“How much time has passed?” I ask im amrevu nervously.
“About fifteen daydreams—minutes, if you prefer,” he says, checking his wrist. “So far so good.”
“Okay,” I mutter. “Maybe it worked?”
“Let’s hope so, for all our sakes,” he replies in a calming voice.
But about a minute later, the humming returns, rising from the ground underneath like an ocean swell.
My heart jumps painfully.
Romhutat Kassiopei stops his pacing and makes a harsh, angry sound. “So much for your Bride’s vocal abilities,” he hisses. “We have a serious problem. How much time elapsed?”
“Sixteen daydreams and twelve heartbeats. It lasted a bit longer this time.”
“Much good it does us.” The Imperator looks around again, noting the guards with their stoic expressions, working hard at pretending that nothing is out of the ordinary. Then he looks at his son with an evaluating stare. “Your turn, boy.”
Aeson raises one brow.
“Don’t dawdle now, I know you memorized the sequence too. Let’s see how well you can perform at least one of your future official duties. Do it now.”
And Aeson begins singing the command sequence—impeccably.
When he’s done, and his haunting, gorgeous baritone goes silent, the ship reacts as usual. Silence, rising screech, sonic boom, silence again.
Without needing to be told, Aeson notes the time.
We wait.
Twenty minutes later, the terrible humming sound is back.
It becomes obvious now—the ark-ship will not be silenced.
The rest of the morning turns into a painful farce. The Imperator does not permit us to leave the stadium and attempts various other voice commands. He teaches them to Aeson and me and forces us to key the ship and execute each one, over and over and over again. . . . Our voices are getting such a long workout that guards are sent to bring us drinking water laced with a special soothing tonic for the throat and vocal cords.
At some point, after initial hesitation and some pointed arguments, Aeson and his father sing the Imperial Aural Block together, their dual Logos voices cutting i
nto me with incredible power that sends goosebumps along my skin and seems to carve up the arena and the sky, land and air, with subtle vibrations. The guards listen, equally rapt with attention, the impact of the Plural Logos Voice felt by everyone.
The ship obeys and is complacent and inert for over an hour—which makes everyone think it finally worked, so that we even return to the cars and sit inside comfortably waiting.
But then, just as the Imperator decides it’s safely over, the humming sound returns, stubbornly eternal.
The Imperator curses and jumps out of the hover car. “Both of you, come!” he tells Aeson and me.
And so, we get out, climb back over the broken ground, and place our hands over the golden stem.
This time we do the Plural Voice as a chorus of three Logos voices.
The power and beauty of the sound we make is hard to describe. . . .
My rich mezzo soprano mixes with their two profound baritones, forming a river of glorious sound that swells into a cosmic-scale sound ocean and fills the Stadion and the surrounding area with a strange, almost tangible sonic structure. As I sing my own part, I feel our tonal intertwining, happening in real time . . . particle-wave-strings of energy and matter being pulled into artful constructs . . . and I understand suddenly why multiple Logos voices joined together in song are a dangerous thing.
Not only have we keyed the massive ship beneath us but, apparently, we have keyed the entire stadium complex. Somehow, I am certain of it—I can feel it.
Everything that has any trace of orichalcum content in the immediate vicinity is now connected to us on a bizarre, personal, quantum level.
It is all ours to control—if we choose.
Chapter 11
At the moment we only intend to exercise this immense power over this one thing. The ancient ark-ship responds to our Plural Voice Chorus and after the sonic boom, goes predictably silent.
“Is it—is it done?” I ask, breaking the magic silence. “Will this hold it?”
“It had better,” Aeson replies grimly. And he once again marks the time on his wrist comm.
The Imperator makes an effort to appear expressionless, then checks his own wrist device which has been emitting a gentle tone. “Eh! It’s your Mother,” he says with a burst of annoyance, glancing at Aeson. “She wants to know where we are and if we’re available for dea meal.”
“By ‘we’ does she mean you, Father, or all of us?” Aeson watches him, fighting to maintain his own masked expression.
“Bashtooh! Who do you think? You, me, your Bride—everyone.” The Imperator pauses, frowning, looks from Aeson to me, then back. “She must not be told about any of this. Do you understand? No one is to be told. Not any of your daimon friends, not any member of the IEC, no one.”
“What of the guards?” I say. “They must know or at least hear and see something is happening—”
“The Imperial guards are trained to be discreet and silent. Both of you could learn discretion from them.” Romhutat continues to glare at his son and at me. Not a word of praise for either of our performances in the Plural Voice.
“So, what now?” I ask.
“We continue to wait.” The Imperator taps his wrist comm and enters something with decisive quick movements. “But we do it back at the Palace.”
“Is that wise?” Aeson asks. “If we leave now and the ship reactivates yet again?”
His father’s cheek muscle twitches with anger. “Nothing to be done beyond what has just been done. If three Logos voices working together could not accomplish—no, it is ridiculous. We sealed the safety lock. I am certain the Imperial Aural Block will hold now, and therefore I am leaving. Come! Or don’t, your choice. Your Imperial Mother will expect your presence at dea meal, but feel free to disappoint her.”
In the next half an hour we return to the Imperial Palace in the Imperator’s hover car, tense and silent. Romhutat Kassiopei wears a permanent frown on his face and barely speaks to us. He and Aeson both continue to check the live feed of the Grail on various devices, and it remains blessedly silent.
“How long has it been now?” I ask Aeson quietly as he stares at his wrist. And then I point to his hand. “By the way, maybe I need to get one of these—one of my own—these wrist gadget things, Aeson.”
Aeson looks up at me and raises one brow, then widens his eyes and exhales. “Of course! I’ve been meaning to get you a personal unit—sorry it’s slipped my mind repeatedly. . . . When we get home, I’ll have Gennio configure one for you tonight.”
“No rush,” I say with a tiny smile at the sight of his earnest distress in regard to me. And then I glance at the Imperator’s stern profile in the seat in front of me. A bitter feeling stabs me in the gut, a reminder of what harm this man has done to my mother. And then I swallow the feeling and force myself to think of the here and now and what set of new difficulties lies ahead.
One problem at a time.
It is Noon Ghost Time when we arrive, and the Imperator dismisses us so that we can return to Aeson’s own Palace Quarters to freshen up before dea meal, which will be served in the Imperial Quarters.
Once we’re alone in the Imperial Crown Prince’s Quarters, the first thing I do is call Gracie and Gordie, who are presumably still at the estate in Phoinios Heights. I don’t bother with a video call through one of the monitor displays on Aeson’s desk computer that uses the Palace Network because I want to bypass triggering the Palace surveillance algorithms. Instead I borrow Aeson’s wrist comm.
We connect, and Gracie’s voice sounds very worried on the other end. She is bursting with questions, and I can hear Gordie in the background. Immediately I force myself into a steady and relaxed tone and use my big sister voice to tell her that “all is well” and that we were successful in dealing with “that certain issue.”
I don’t mention the Grail or the Ra Disk by name, since the Imperator forbade us to discuss the situation with anyone—again, this is the Palace, filled with hidden surveillance everywhere. Yes, even though that particular cat’s been out of the bag since last night, and my siblings and friends and the astra daimon are already somewhat aware there’s some kind of problem with the Grail—the Imperator doesn’t need to know about it.
“Okay . . .” Gracie mumbles. “So that Ra thing—the Ra Disk—is all okay too, right? So, what exactly was wrong with it?”
“Uh-huh, all good,” I say in an extra-bland voice, hoping she’ll get a clue. “More about that later.”
“Lord, you must be exhausted—after everything—and now, this. Are you even—”
“It’s okay. I’m fine.”
Gracie pauses, then says, “So when are you coming back here? Dea meal? Gordie is gonna eat the flower arrangements if we don’t eat soon—”
“You guys go ahead. We’ve been invited for an official meal here, so. . . .”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, feeling a little guilty that I can’t just have my own sister and brother come over and have a normal casual meal with us here. “Sorry about that, Gee Four.”
“Oh yeah, no problem,” she says firmly. “We’ll just eat in here and watch all the crazy news on the TV. Oalla and Ker and Xel are downstairs, and Erita has gone to pick up some of those pseudo-donut pastries you like so much—”
“What crazy news?”
“I guess you were too busy dealing with your top-secret stuff, but there are Games protests all over downtown Poseidon, and other crazies screaming about all kinds of weird things happening, noise explosions and strange lights in the sky and other junk.”
“What?”
“Just turn on the news,” Gracie says. “And don’t bother with the Hel-Ra Network, they are underplaying all of it, as if it’s not even happening. Watch the Free Poseidon News—they are showing everything. Amazing insane stuff!”
“All right,” I say. “Will watch when I get the chance, gotta go now. Love you! Tell Gordie what I said, and you go eat now, okay? See you later tonight.
”
I disconnect the call and sit back on the sofa with a frown, while a new worry starts to gnaw at my gut. Aeson glances up at me from his desk where he’s logged in to take care of some business. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah, I think. It’s the news. Bad stuff all over, I guess.”
“We’ll watch later,” he says. “As long as it’s not the ark-ship again, it can wait. Now, get a few minutes of rest before we head to dea meal.”
The fact remains unspoken between us: having gone through the Games ordeal, I’m not really at my best, not at my full strength—in fact, far from it.
And with my Mom gone, I am fragile and pitiful and pathetic. . . .
No. Stop.
“Should I change clothing? Who else will be there?” I tuck my feet under me on the sofa as a sudden burst of emotional exhaustion slams me. And I lean against the comfy back cushions, now also feeling my chronically sore muscles acting up. We happen to be in the familiar workroom that separates Aeson’s personal bedroom and mine—one of the rooms of the Imperial Crown Prince’s Quarters that we use most commonly. Neither Anu nor Gennio is here today—they are both working back at Aeson’s estate in Phoinios Heights.
“Not sure who else,” he replies. “We can assume it will be intimate. Although, my Mother might’ve invited some other suitable high-ranking guests to defuse the potential situation of being one-on-one with my Father. Don’t bother changing, you are fine as you are.”
I smile tiredly. “Ah, Aeson, you always say I’m fine as I am. Even when I look and dress awful.”
He smiles back at me. “To be honest, what you consider awful is usually charming.”
“Ah, stop.” But I’m smiling widely back at him.
In that moment a small tone sequence sounds from his desk computer display and it’s echoed on his wrist comm that I’m still holding between my fingers. It startles me in a bad way—the way a chronic stressor affects someone stuck in a constant verge-of-panic alert state. My heart skips a beat painfully.
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