Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  Aeson’s expression grows serious, and he turns his attention back to the screen and says, “It’s done. I finished configuring the alarm to sync with my own and my Father’s personal units and our network accounts. In other words, if the ark-ship status changes, we will know immediately.”

  I nod, with a pained expression. “Was that the ship—”

  “No, don’t worry, that was just a test of the system. Not a real alarm notification.”

  Phew. . . .

  “I’m just so used to getting bad news that a little thing like a test alarm only is a relief,” I say.

  Aeson looks at me with intensity. “I know.”

  A little later we arrive back on the Imperial Quarters floor, pass the now-familiar grand marble lobby with the elevators and the array of honor guards, and enter the antechamber with the lesser thrones. This time the attendant servant directs us to a different interior doorway that takes us to the Imperatris’ Quarters adjacent to the Imperator’s, situated on the same main portion of the floor.

  As we pause at the entrance, Aeson casually runs his hand along my lower back and lingers there for a moment, pressing and caressing me reassuringly. His firm touch gives me a pleasant jolt of warmth and confidence, and we enter the chamber.

  The room is basically a long interior balcony, completely enclosed with the Atlantean version of glass along the outer wall. It has a lofty trellis ceiling of mixed glass and veined gold that mimics natural plant vines and leaves entwining to create a diffuse mesh of surprisingly effective protection against the fierce sunlight—good thing, because at the moment Hel shines from directly above, only a little past zenith. The interior wall is magnificent in deep mauve and red marble stone trimmed in black, and also veined in gold. A row of slender columns runs alongside it, creating a corridor nook with multiple seating areas and one long narrow table with seating for twelve on both long sides.

  I see immediately that we have additional company for dea meal. Devora Kassiopei, exuding casual elegance in her shimmering layered outfit of verdigris, persimmon, and gold, sits at one end of the long table as the meal hostess—according to Imperial Protocol, as I recall from my lessons with Consul Denu—and the Imperator sits in the first side seat to her right, the position of the honored guest.

  Across from him, in the side seat directly to Devora’s left, I see a vaguely familiar middle-aged man in a dark grey and black jacket, with shoulder-long hair gilded in impeccable courtier fashion, deep bronze skin, and a composed, self-important demeanor. He is the ACA Director Hijep Tiofon—one of the IEC members whom I met at some point over the past month or so before the Games, an Imperial loyalist and also the man in charge of the imposing agency that handled all the Earth and Atlantis formal interactions back on Earth.

  Next to him is another man whom I recognize as another one of the Imperial inner circle, the First Priest Shirahtet himself, of the prominent noble family Kuruam that serves the cult of Kassiopei. Shirahtet is an older man, not decrepit but in late middle years, with a clean-shaven skull except for one gilded forelock running from his forehead all the way to the back of his head and culminating in a long, segmented tail—a symbol of his sect. He has leathery red-clay skin and unreadable dark eyes thickly outlined with kohl. His clothing is not ceremonial, but a formal court jacket trimmed in earth colors, and he has a preponderance of jeweled rings on his fingers.

  Across the table from Shirahtet and next to the Imperator is the Imperial Princess Manala—poor girl—dressed in a lovely rose outfit similarly formed of layers of veils like her mother’s, looking humbly down at her place setting.

  Next to Manala, thankfully, is Consul Suval Denu, wearing his tallest wig and a similar elegant jacket of deep plum and sage artfully embroidered with fine gold thread. His fingers are also laden with gold and jewel rings. Underneath his artful mask of kohl and rouge, his expression is almost beatific, but I know him enough to recognize the lively darting movements of his eyes as he watches everything.

  Finally, across the table from Consul Denu, seated next to the First Priest Shirahtet, is an unfamiliar, bony, middle-aged woman with hawkish features that are handsome instead of beautiful—a fierce aquiline nose and very dark eyebrows over deep-set eyes. Her dark brown hair, free of any dye, is gathered in a stern knot up-do, but a fine net of gold threads rests over it, and long dangling earrings connect to the netting of the headdress. She is wrapped in a pale cream robe, and her hands sparkle with faceted crystals around her wrists and fingers, also part of an intricate golden net that extends from her sleeves.

  At once I feel a momentary pang of familiar social anxiety. Who is she? Should I know this woman? At least I sort of recognize the others. . . .

  As we are announced and approach the table, with everyone staring at us, the Imperator looks up at Aeson with a minor frown. “My Son decides to join us. And his lovely Bride. You are both late, sit!” And he points to the nearest empty seats.

  Devora, meanwhile, merely smiles at us from her hostess position at the head of the table.

  “Apologies, my Father, Mother,” Aeson replies smoothly with a nod to both his parents. And he directs me to the seat next to Consul Denu—perfect choice as far as I’m concerned—while he himself takes the seat across the table from me and next to the unfamiliar woman.

  The moment we are seated, the Imperatris motions to the discreet servants in the alcoves along the interior wall behind us to begin serving our dea meal.

  At the same time, the Imperator checks his wrist and exchanges a quick glance with Aeson. Aeson lightly raises his brow and then also discreetly looks down at his personal unit.

  For once I know exactly what they’re doing. . . .

  I sigh and look down at my own place setting, while moments later a servant leans in and a plate appears, filled with artfully arranged food that smells like savory heaven. Knowing my Imperial Protocol, and with a swift glance to my left for reassurance from Consul Denu—who barely smiles and faintly nods at me just enough to give his affirmative—I refrain from touching any utensils and wait for the Imperial Couple to begin first.

  The Imperator must be famished after the stressful events of our morning because he immediately commences to eat, and everyone at the table follows his lead. For the first few minutes there’s only the clanking of utensils and glasses and silence, as everyone chews and swallows as politely as possible but in haste equal to the Imperator, so as not to be deprived of their still-full plate as soon as he is done.

  I use my eating utensil to snag several bites of whatever is on my plate, and my body tells me it’s hungry and this is good. Meanwhile my mind is still apparently stuck in eternal crisis mode and refuses to process such insignificant sensory input as taste.

  Having allowed us sufficient time to eat enough to take the edge off our hunger, the Imperatris begins to make elegant small talk, following perfect Imperial Protocol. First, she addresses the Imperator, then makes a point of pleasantly engaging each of the guests. “What a lovely day we’re having. The breeze is barely cool and I’ve had my morning walk in the gardens without being blown off the path,” Devora says with a gentle smile, turning to her Imperial Husband. “The month is off to a good start.”

  “Huh,” the Imperator grunts, saying nothing else and taking a long drink from a goblet.

  Now that the hostess has spoken, it is permissible for others to talk also.

  “How was your circuit of our Provinces, Oratorat?” The Imperatris next addresses the unfamiliar woman next to Aeson.

  Oratorat, I wonder, is that a title or an honorific?

  “Both insightful and blessedly uneventful, My Sovereign Lady,” replies the woman in a solid, no-nonsense voice and businesslike manner, setting down her utensil. “We took an extended detour through your Northern Provinces just to avoid the culmination of your Games and the accompanying traffic—and I don’t mean just the routine urban sky collisions. Apparently, we should have taken an even longer detour westward, judging by all the—turb
ulence still happening in Poseidon on the ground. Not normal, by all accounts.”

  “No, it’s not,” says Hijep Tiofon, clearing his throat. “We’ve had some unusual seismic activity in the direct city center, unfortunately. Happened right in the middle of the Final Ceremony yesterday, so the complex had to be evacuated and the Games resolution postponed for safety reasons. The public is agitated until that’s all concluded, hence the turbulence downtown.”

  “Ah,” the woman says. “How odd. I don’t recall this kind of thing happening in Poseidon—not ever.”

  “It happens.” The Imperator suddenly speaks gruffly. “But yes, the timing was atrocious.”

  The woman inclines her head. “Naturally, I could be misinformed. Eos-Heket has its own minor share of ground-shaking activity along the Iaat border, but nothing much reaches us in Ushab. My sympathies on the incident.”

  Eos-Heket? I recall the name of the country to the Northeast of Atlantida. Okay, so she must be a foreign dignitary of some sort.

  “My Imperial Sovereign, when is the situation expected to be under control?” the First Priest Shirahtet asks in a soft voice, addressing the Imperator.

  Romhutat turns to him with an irritated look. “It is under control. We are working on the cleanup of the Stadion and adjacent premises. Safety inspections took place all this morning. The conclusion of the Games will proceed shortly.”

  The First Priest inclines his head with utmost cordiality. “Of course, My Imperial Sovereign. Indeed, it must.”

  “What of these urban protests?” the woman asks. “Seems hard to imagine they will be satisfied with simply more of your spectacle.”

  “The people were frightened, but now they simply want to resolve their bets.” The Imperator looks at her with unblinking eyes. “They shall have their Ceremony and their Top Ten Champions—as early as tomorrow, if necessary. That is all—”

  The Imperatris interrupts gently, sensing the buildup of tension. “Oratorat!” she says with a light exclamation. “How remiss of me—I forgot to introduce you to my son’s Imperial Bride. This is Gwen Lark, from Earth. Gwen, you already know everyone present, but not the honorable Oratorat Kephasa Sewu of Eos-Heket.”

  And now everyone turns to stare at me.

  “Oh,” I say with a stupid jolt because my name was called, as my heart starts to pound for no reason whatsoever. “Very nice to meet you—Oratorat.”

  The Oratorat turns to me with a nod. Her look is shrewd and curious as she examines me. “My pleasure, young Imperial Lady. How unusual. You are from Earth, truly? You must’ve just arrived with all the refugees, how did you come to this arrangement with the Crown Prince of Imperial Atlantida? I don’t recall being informed of any Earth marriage alliance in the works—was that not part of our discussions, Director Tiofon? That we were to be informed of all such details?”

  “Oratorat, it happened very privately,” Aeson speaks up calmly, with a quick, warm glance in my direction. “Nothing was prearranged. We met and grew close naturally. Gwen worked with me during our journey home.”

  “My son has met his match,” the Imperatris says with equal warmth. “Their two hearts are entangled. And I am happy to say the Wedding is set for Red Amrevet 9. You are invited to attend, Oratorat, if it’s still within your plans to be present here on that date.”

  “A love match?” Oratorat Kephasa Sewu asks with an incredulous expression. “Commendable and fortunate indeed, Imperial Lord Aeson. One would think such a thing was not possible, considering you’re a Kassiopei Heir. Your life is arranged from your conception till your last breath, we’re told. Once again, I must be misinformed. Or things are indeed changing in Imperial Atlantida. So then, we have the Earth refugees to thank for this remarkable progress, starting with this one.”

  And the woman smiles at me and at Aeson with amusement, then throws a sharp glance at the Imperator.

  At once, Devora Kassiopei again defuses the conversation by calling on the servants to present the next course of sweet drenched fruit and a savory dish of flaky pastry aromatic with spices.

  Finally, the dea meal is over. The Imperator rises from his seat with a formal nod to his wife and informs the Oratorat he will receive her at her leisure in the next hour, after her visit with the Imperatris is concluded. Then, after giving Aeson a meaningful, hard look that briefly touches me, the Imperator departs to his own Quarters for a private meeting with the ACA director and the First Priest. Since these two men are not merely IEC members but the Imperator’s closest confidants, I have a very good idea what they will be discussing in a locked room. For once, nervous worry makes me want to be a fly on the wall there.

  At least the alarm has not sounded. The ancient ark-ship remains dormant. . . .

  The Oratorat, Consul Denu, and the rest of us remain in the Imperatris’ Quarters to continue the visit and have a leisurely “tea.” We simply pick ourselves up and move to a different large room in the interior, away from the late afternoon sun.

  I glance at Aeson constantly, never losing my awareness of him, and he returns my look with his own steadying gaze even as we move to occupy the other room. No longer constrained by table seating protocol, he takes the place right next to me on the comfortable sofa. Although we retain a slight, proper distance between our bodies as we sit side-by-side, his hand comes around the back of the sofa and his fingers sweep against the side of my shoulder and neck, sending unexpected sweet pangs of sensation throughout me. His faint, steady caress is almost enough to make me forget everything . . . almost.

  While the Imperatris and Kephasa Sewu talk about the details of the Oratorat’s travel itinerary through the Provinces, Consul Denu comes over to sit nearby and makes a point of engaging me in small talk. Even though he’d been seated next to me throughout the entire dea meal, no true conversation was at any point possible.

  “Now that we may speak a bit more at leisure, I must say, my dear Imperial Lady Gwen, it’s my utmost joy to see you triumphant and well, after surviving your ordeal in the Games,” he says, leaning in closer and inclining his bewigged head in an impeccable courtly nod. “Well done, my dear, well done!”

  “Thank you,” I say with minor amusement, as his overwhelming flowery perfume wafts in my direction. “Although I still can’t believe I’m alive.”

  The Consul smiles. “Not merely alive, but a Champion!”

  I purse my lips tiredly and try to match his smile in reply.

  Aeson merely watches us with a carefully composed expression which barely covers his own grave state of worry.

  Meanwhile the Imperatris now calls Aeson over and they speak, while the Oratorat steps toward me and examines me with her matter-of-fact gaze.

  “I have so many questions about your refugee experience, Imperial Lady Gwen—about Earth, and the process of what must’ve been a remarkable journey here,” says Kephasa, and her shrewd dark eyes continue to evaluate me. “Unfortunately, my schedule is very demanding, and my time here is limited, so I must simply ask you for a future conversation. I trust you’ll soon have the opportunity to visit Eos-Heket in a formal capacity and observe how our own share of the Earth refugees is being accommodated and settled. You must have some invaluable advice for us, considering your unique dual perspective as Gebi and now Imperial Atlantida royalty. Promise me a visit.”

  “Oh, of course,” I say, with a glance at Aeson nearby, still talking to Devora. And then it occurs to me—I know so very little of the current political and diplomatic relations between Atlantida and Eos-Heket, that I’m not even sure if I’m permitted to make such a promise or keep it. “I would love to, as soon as my duties permit. Forgive me if I am still somewhat new to all this,” I say, trying to extricate myself from what could be a diplomatic blunder. Fortunately, Consul Denu is here, and he skillfully moves in to the rescue and takes over the conversation.

  After a few general pleasantries, Consul Denu and Oratorat Kephasa Sewu step away to converse quietly on the other end of the room.

  To my
relief, I am left alone, and so I turn and smile at Manala who happens to be perched on a chair nearby. I get up and walk over to stand next to her. “How are you?” I ask gently. “How is Khemji doing?”

  Princess Manala breathes in equal relief, seeming to come alive now that her Imperial Father and all the imposing men are out of the room. She responds to me joyfully and starts to chatter about her big, black, notoriously flatulent cat, having missed seeing me all these days since before the Games ordeal started.

  But now Aeson interrupts her gently and comes up to me. He takes my hand, directing me back to the large sofa, so that Manala follows us, still speaking to me—or rather, at me—with enthusiasm. Thankfully she hasn’t mentioned anything about the events from last night, regarding the whole business of the Ra Disk. It’s possible she had conveniently “forgotten,” as she tends to do when things get too disturbing.

  Devora Kassiopei picks up a glass of tea—that is, the Atlantean version, some kind of a light brew of pleasantly fragrant plant leaves steeped in hot water which, if I remember correctly is called aeojir—and joins us.

  “Hush, Manala, child, move over a little,” the Imperatris says to her daughter mildly, setting down her aeojir on a tray table before the sofa, so that the rich amber-colored liquid dances in the light like an agitated jewel and wafts curls of vapor. She then sits down right between Manala and me and puts her hand on my arm, patting it. “How are you, Gwen? How are you holding up? I hope my Husband was not too hard on you this morning.”

  She doesn’t know about the ship, it occurs to me. She thinks we simply had a horrible confrontation.

  “It’s okay,” I say with a tiny smile, then glance at Aeson who is sitting on my other side.

  “At this point you must be weary beyond all comprehension, my dear. Would you like to go lie down now?” Devora asks. “Just for a little while, at least.”

  “No, I’m all right.” I make a point of speaking in the most lighthearted way possible. Even though I’d love nothing more than to collapse in bed right now and curl up in the fetal position, I know somehow that I cannot—not until the ark-ship situation is resolved.