They might need me again, or at least require the use of my Logos voice.
“Very well.” The Imperatris squeezes my hand. “But the moment you feel tired, please don’t hesitate. Aeson, make sure she gets sufficient rest tonight, since nothing else is scheduled, and the most immediate crises are over—thank the gods.”
Oh, if only she knew. . . .
“That’s a promise,” Aeson says, watching me closely. “We will likely head home soon—in a few hours.” And then he involuntarily checks his wrist comm.
Again, my heart skips a beat.
But I breathe and nod to them, and absently watch Manala as she looks around the room then calls up a smart display and turns on the TV without sound. The smart board screen levitates in the air before her, and I can barely make out four split screens with various newsfeeds. Manala frowns at some of the apparent violence and quickly scrolls through the feeds. I take a deep breath and tell myself not to look—at whatever it is.
Bad, crazy news, as Gracie had called it. Right now, I honestly don’t want to know.
Just for a moment—a stupid, tiny, little, impossible, blessed moment—I’d like some peace.
But that’s not happening.
An hour later, the Oratorat ends her visit and Consul Denu—obviously now acting in his diplomatic capacity—accompanies her to the Imperial Audience.
As soon as the woman is gone, Aeson says to me, “Gwen, you did very well. That woman you just met is very important—she is what you would call a prime minister or president of her country—our important ally and neighbor, Eos-Heket.”
“I had a feeling she was.” I let out a deep breath. “So—what is Oratorat, exactly?”
“It is an elected position of government leadership,” the Imperatris tells me. “I regret, poor Gwen, that you were not warned ahead about her presence. But truly, I had no idea she would choose to join us at today’s intended-to-be-casual dea meal instead of going straight for an Imperial Audience or the latest Imperial Executive Council session. I have a feeling she wanted some fresh gossip about the state of affairs. She must’ve really gotten a bad impression from seeing Poseidon in the middle of urban protests.”
The Imperatris pauses, looking at her son. “Aeson, what is really going on out there? You know I couldn’t bear to watch any of it yesterday, but they tell me the unfortunate quake happened exactly during Gwen’s final tiebreaker event of the Games—is that right? How terrible it must’ve been for you—”
So, the Imperatris also doesn’t know what actually happened at the Games—what I did.
“I believe Gwen doesn’t need to be reminded of it now,” Aeson says softly, glancing at me with intensity. Ah, so many complex meanings in that look of his. . . . But mostly a subtle reminder to me: say nothing.
I am saved from having to make any response by the dreaded alarm tone coming from Aeson’s wrist.
Chapter 12
Okay, this is hell.
Despite the combined efforts of our three Logos Plural Voices, the ancient ark-ship is active again.
Aeson starts—or more accurately, freezes—and his eyes widen slightly. He looks at his wrist, then looks up at me. “Forgive me, Mother, but we need to go now,” he says in the most casual way possible, turning to the Imperatris. “Please excuse us.”
“What’s wrong?” Devora asks her son, with immediate concern. Her maternal senses are strong and, knowing her children’s moods, she picks up something troubling in Aeson’s demeanor.
“Nothing major, but I did promise to take care of a few things, and the appointments can’t wait. Just got a time reminder. We’ll see you very soon again, I promise.”
“All right, but be sure not to overtire Gwen, not today, it’s too soon after—”
“Yes, thank you for the lovely meal.” I stand up, smiling warmly at Devora, to reinforce the fact that all is well. “We’ll see you soon, Manala!” I add to the younger girl whose emotionally transparent face echoes her mother’s worry.
And then we depart the Imperatris’ Quarters.
“What now, Aeson?” I ask as we hurry back to the Imperator’s part of the floor.
“I don’t know.” He glances at me with a troubled look that he no longer bothers to hide now that we’re alone.
“Do we need to do the Plural Voice again?”
“Probably. Though again it might only buy us a few hours.”
I bite my lip and nod, because I’ve got nothing.
Aeson’s wrist comm chimes again, making a different sound, and I’m beginning to recognize the difference between the ring tones. Just as I suspect, it’s the Imperator.
“He wants us in his Red Office, now,” Aeson says, checking his wrist multiple times as more tones sound, one after the other, heralding additional text messages, as we enter the interior corridor. “He got the ship alarm and immediately wrapped up his Audience with the Oratorat, getting rid of her for now with some excuse. From all this haste she may suspect something is wrong, but at this point it doesn’t matter.”
“One crisis at a time,” I whisper, with a bitter smile.
We turn the corner and enter the now familiar Imperial office, hearing several male voices in agitated conversation.
The Imperator is not alone. With him in the small red chamber are the ACA Director, the First Priest, and a third man whom I recognize as Miramis Opu, this year’s designated Priest of the Grail. The last time I saw Miramis was yesterday at noon when I inadvertently raised the Grail, and he called out my act as blasphemy.
The Priest of the Grail is not a large man, but he does have a “large man presence.” Right now, he is very distressed and venting, and we enter in the middle of his diatribe:
“. . . still not working, and if my Imperial Sovereign will concede, the unrelenting news coverage is not helping to calm them at all! I realize that Hel-Ra is being discreet, but the other feeds are out of control! And now these idiots with their nonsense about the pale ghosts and the lights in the sky—”
“They are picking up false sensor signals,” the ACA Director Hijep Tiofon says in a calming voice, sitting back in one of the chairs before the Imperial desk, across from the Imperator. “Very common instrument malfunctions, both atmospheric and orbital satellite level, especially considering the problems they’ve been having in New Deshret configuring all their weather tech. Someone at Hel-Ra at least needs to make a brief announcement to put down the rumors. Have Desher Keigeri read it. Give a solid rundown of the sensor issues, use simple public-oriented language, make it easy to understand—”
“Good—do all that,” the Imperator interrupts. And then he sees Aeson and me. “Come in and close the door.”
Aeson steps forward, glancing with caution at the other men, at the same time as I shut the door behind us. “Father—are we free to discuss—”
“Wait,” the Imperator says with a hard look at his son and at me, putting up his hand. He then addresses the Priest of the Grail, who is the only one standing (with a puffed chest and radiating drama). “Miramis, your concerns have been taken into consideration. I agree, we need to put an urgent end to it before we lose any more control. The IEC membership is well aware of it. I’ll have a public announcement prepared for later tonight that the Final Ceremony will be held tomorrow, at one of the other bigger stadiums—probably the Khemetareon has the next largest seating capacity—the details will be worked out in the next few hours. Meanwhile, we’ll have Tiago’s Grail Games Daily and Hippeis’s Winning the Grail put out advance broadcast promos that the main announcement is coming. It will propagate to all the rest of the feeds, and should be enough to calm them down until tonight and well into tomorrow. Is that satisfactory for you?”
“Yes, My Sovereign Lord,” Miramis says in a slightly less agitated manner. “It will definitely alleviate most of the unrest. But what of the fear and panic-mongers and their ghost lights nonsense? A separate issue, one would think, and not even local to us in Atlantida—”
“Will also
be handled,” the Imperator interrupts again. “Now, Miramis, you have your satisfactory answer, and you will have your Ceremony instructions relayed to you by evening. You are free to go.”
“Yes, My Sovereign Lord . . . I thank you.” The Priest of the Grail swallows whatever else he has to say and makes a courtly bow, responding to the Imperial dismissal. He turns around and makes his way to the exit through the small, definitely overcrowded room, and his glance briefly falls on me. I notice a flash of alarm in his expression, even a kind of awe, as he sees me. . . .
And then he’s gone.
As soon as the door closes behind Miramis Opu, the Imperator turns to Aeson and me. “Now we can talk freely. Opu knows only some things. They know everything.” And he motions with his glance at the other two remaining men. He then leans over his desk, pulls up a monitor, and sings an initializing command to connect remotely to the feed of the Grail stadium.
Aeson and I approach, and First Priest Shirahtet speaks from the other chair, looking at all of us with his unreadable expression. “We need to attempt the Plural Voice joining of the three Logos voices . . . again.”
“The effect lasted less than five hours,” Aeson replies after a small pause, still cautious about discussing this situation in front of the others. “To be precise, it was four hours, twenty-seven daydreams and four heartbeats.”
“I understand, Imperial Lord,” Shirahtet says in a steady tone. “But I would like to observe for myself, and the result might vary. Furthermore, I would like to ascertain that the third voice is indeed a Logos voice—” and he glances at me. “Has the Imperial Bride Gwen Lark—has she been formally tested for it?”
“I would say the fact that she broke the Master Lock and raised the ship out of the ground is sufficient proof unto itself, Shirahtet,” Director Tiofon says, also observing me closely.
Testing me? With a pang of alarm, I’m reminded of the terrifying things Aeson hinted at when he told me about the Imperator’s original plans to turn me into a test subject in his secret labs.
And these same secret research facilities are located inside the ancient ark-ship.
Meanwhile the Imperator growls with barely checked fury at the live feed on the monitor showing the Grail, which is again humming loudly. “This garooi son of a hoohvak will be silent! We will perform the sequence now, and this time it will stick! Come, boy, and your Bride! Over here—come around the desk!” He motions for us to draw closer, while the ACA Director and the First Priest rise and push their chairs further back, giving us room.
We crowd around the Imperator, leaning forward over the display. “Focus, now! Focus!” Romhutat Kassiopei says, with what has now become chronic fury. “Ready?”
And in the next few minutes we perform the keying sequence followed by the Imperial Aural Block sequence. At the sound of our three Voices joined in single tonal melody—especially mine—Hijep and Shirahtet, the two men listening and witnessing, stare in rapt attention.
The sheer force of the Plural Logos Voice Chorus washes over everything like an ocean of electricity, until the room itself seems to be no longer solid matter but energy in a state of quantum uncertainty. Charged with inexplicable power, the walls are seething, dissolving, permeated with unresolved potential on a quantum level. I, myself, feel the effect of it in a headrush that washes through me even as I sing. . . .
When it is over, the ark-ship many miles away downtown responds as before, and goes silent, followed by the screech and sonic boom, then more permanent silence.
Aeson times the moment as always. “This was a remote keying, let’s hope it works as well as it did in person. Or at least not much worse.”
“If it buys us even a few more hours—” the Imperator trails off, looking at the First Priest and the ACA Director. “Well, what do you say?”
However, both men appear to be stunned and petrified from the effect of the Plural Logos Voice. They are staring at us in amazement.
“I have never in my life heard three such voices,” the priest says at last. “Not in all my years, even witnessing your blessed Father and Yourself joined in song, My Imperial Sovereign. There were always only two of you at a time. And Manala is an untested child, though not too young to manifest.”
“Yes.” The Imperator frowns. “There has never been an instance nor a need to include my Son in the voice training alongside his Grandfather and me.”
“And then it was too late.” Aeson watches his father as he speaks.
What happened to his grandfather?
Romhutat Kassiopei glares back and says nothing.
There is a long pause, and then I say, “What if the ship becomes active again in a few hours?”
Everyone looks at me.
“Then we repeat the command again,” the Imperator says, his eyes boring into me.
Aeson shakes his head. “And then again in the middle of the night? Possibly more than once? And what about the next morning?”
The Imperator makes an angry sound. “We repeat for as long as necessary. Set alarms and take turns sleeping, if we must. Meanwhile we search for a more permanent solution.”
“My Imperial Sovereign,” Shirahtet says. “You must realize, that kind of thing is not sustainable. Not even with three people working in shifts.”
“Of course, I realize!” The Imperator slams his palm flat against his desk surface. “Did you not hear me say, we also look for a permanent solution?”
“Yes, My Imperial Sovereign, my apologies.” The priest inclines his head. “I was merely concerned for your own wellbeing and health in this unfortunate situation.”
“So, what exactly will happen if the ship is allowed to remain active?” I ask.
“We are not entirely sure, young Imperial Lady. But it is forbidden. It is simply not an option,” the First Priest replies. He speaks softly, in the same measured, soothing voice, and his expression remains hard to read. “From what we know—from the few oldest records at our disposal—the original ark-ship must always be confined and shielded, else it serves as some kind of relentless beacon to the universe, announcing itself—and hence our existence—to all who might listen, including our oldest enemy.”
“How exactly does it do that?”
“How? Our records are pitifully limited in that regard,” the Imperator interrupts. “But we know that for the last nine thousand seven hundred and seventy-one years, uninterrupted by any incident, the Kassiopei Dynasty has been guarding and maintaining the Master Lock set by our first ancestors who landed and established the Colony. The ship’s inexplicable transmission is contained inside a quantum energy field, which must be reinforced regularly.”
The Imperator glances at Aeson, then continues, “I perform the act of maintenance every year, same as my Father before me—during the Games season, when crowds of easily distracted fools converge around the stadium. It’s easy to incorporate my Voice command sequences into whatever spectacle nonsense they schedule every year.”
I stare, with comprehension dawning.
“You recall the Commencement Ceremony?” the Imperator continues, glancing from his son to me. “When I raised all of you Contenders above the stadium in a circle of platforms, and the fire belched from the statues? When the Grail Monument “sang” at various moments throughout that day? That was the ship responding to Voice prompts! All of it was part of the maintenance sequence. And when it was done, the energy shield program holding the ship was reset and reinforced for another year. That is, until you, little idiot Gwen, destroyed not only the program but the whole quantum containment field, stripping the ship bare and free to broadcast its deadly signal, its antiquated quantum programming now apparently damaged beyond repair—”
“Enough, Father!” Aeson interrupts in turn, his own voice hard as steel. “You will not speak of my Bride in this manner, and it is now irrelevant.”
“Again, I’m very sorry. I didn’t know any of this,” I say to the Imperator. “But then again, you stuck me in the Games and forced me
to fight for my life, which I did, the only way I knew how. So, let’s just call this what it is—the consequence of your own actions, my Imperial Sovereign.”
I end with ringing sarcasm, somewhat amazed at my own words, but also amazed that I frankly no longer care at all about my future father-in-law’s reaction.
The others in the room also seem to be amazed. The First Priest’s bland, unreadable demeanor has cracked at last to reveal alarm, the ACA Director’s eyes are wide with disbelief at my gall, and the Imperator himself is fixed in a kind of rage that can have no proper outlet—at least not right now.
I’ve just mouthed off to the Imperator of Atlantida in front of his closest associates.
And I don’t give a damn.
Aeson is the one who dispels the crazy-tense moment with cold logic. “None of it matters right now, My Father. What’s done is done, but now we have a problem. So, how are we going to fix it?”
“The energy shield around the ship must be restored,” Director Tiofon says, after clearing his throat.
“Or we must come up with a different kind of shield!” Closing up his expression, the Imperator chooses to disregard my defiant speech and instead picks up the constructive part of our conversation—which both surprises me and fills my mind with more worrisome possibilities.
“The answers lie in the depths of the ship archives.” The First Priest resumes likewise, with his face once again a calm mask, and no longer looking at me—as if by doing so he would nullify my presence and the affront I’ve expressed to his divine Imperator. “We must return there and search again—descending as deep as we can. I will dispatch acolytes at once.”
“Agreed.” Romhutat Kassiopei releases a breath of tension and sits back in his desk chair. He too does not look at me as I still stand nearby, with Aeson. “But we must also consider that new, modern tech might be required to fix this one—regardless of what your acolytes would find.”
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