Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  Oalla and Erita choose not to attend the Ceremony and stay behind to oversee the incoming data on the multiple feeds. My friends and siblings also stay behind, but only because I ask them not to bother going out there into the unruly crowds at a time like this—and besides they will see it all on the TV. Meanwhile, Aeson, Xelio, Keruvat, and I, plus Aeson’s six Imperial guards and an additional four guards assigned to me, head downtown to the Khemetareon.

  Aeson drives the two-seater hover car, keeping his eyes on the air lane, but frequently glances at his wrist which is alive with recurrent tones and incoming data. I sit next to him silently, watching the blazing white sky and the urban landscape below. I’m almost afraid to speak so as not to interrupt him in his multitasking concentration. My quick glances confirm im amrevu’s intense expression of utmost focus.

  Soon I see the tall buildings of downtown Poseidon. Surrounded by the skyscrapers, the multi-stadium complex shines in metallic radiance under the noonday light of Hel. At the same time, I see the familiar sight of the ancient ark-ship, its “Grail” nose-section thrust out of the broken Stadion ground and leaning slightly, like an Atlantean analogue to the leaning Tower of Pisa. I imagine the deep, bone-jarring hum it’s emitting, even now. . . .

  “How are you feeling, Gwen?” Aeson’s voice causes me to turn and force a smile, even as he looks at me with his serious gaze.

  “I’m fine. This is going to be easy,” I lie gently. “How are you dealing with all that’s incoming?”

  “I want you to not worry about any of it right now,” he replies with a reassuring glance, starting to bring us down for a landing in the nearby parking area of the Khemetareon. “Promise me you will simply try to enjoy your Champion status and whatever else happens at the Ceremony. The worst is over. My Father has too many other problems to occupy him now, so for once his focus will not be on you. Nothing about these bashtooh Games poses any more threat to you, so—”

  I glance down at my white uniform and the mouth logo on my chest.

  And then I smile and take a deep breath.

  We descend.

  Surrounded by security guards, Aeson and I hurry along the specially designated walkway from the parking structure, railed off on both sides to keep back the gathered audience crowds. The astra daimon head for a different public entrance to meet up with Aeson later in the spectator seats, while we move directly toward the Contender entrance of the grand Khemetareon building. There is no parade of thousands of Contenders this time, only a handful of us, and I see no one else on the walkway at the same exact time as we arrive.

  Instead, the crowds see us and start screaming and chanting the now familiar slogans:

  “Gwen Lark! Gwen Lark!”

  “Im-pe-ra-tris! Im-pe-ra-tris!”

  “Shoe-lace girl!”

  And there’s that creepy new one:

  “Gebi Goddess! Gebi Goddess!”

  Aeson’s hand closes around mine, and I feel the comforting strength of his fingers. We exchange intense glances, and he barely nods to me with encouragement before letting go of my hand.

  Suddenly I remember to wave back and smile at all these people calling my name. The fans expect no less, and so I give it to them. I only stop waving and lower my hands once we’re inside the building.

  Aeson accompanies me as far as he is permitted by Games regulations, which is to the lobby entrance where Games officials wait. I check in at the desk, then turn and this time give my Bridegroom an almost confident, forcibly relaxed smile. He leans in for a quick kiss on the lips—which still manages to send an inappropriately timed jolt of desire running through me—and then we come apart.

  “See you in a few hours!” I whisper, grateful that there’s none of that tragic desperation between us as there had been a month ago when we said our awful goodbyes on the first day of the Commencement Ceremony at the very beginning of the Games. This feels much different.

  “As always, I’ll be watching every moment from the Imperial balcony up above,” he replies, then kisses me again, harder. And reluctantly he stays behind while I am told to follow an official into the corridor.

  I arrive in a small, sterile chamber with a tall ceiling and pale walls. Three rows of seats—no more than thirty, total—are arranged before a podium. This is our staging area, where the Champions and tied Contenders are supposed to receive instructions for the Final Ceremony.

  There are about a dozen people in the room. At once I see a rainbow of uniforms and my fellow teammates and Contenders, some already seated, others milling about with what looks like a mixture of nerves and boredom. Several Games officials and guards wait nearby. It’s interesting—right now, none of our uniforms is glowing brightly to indicate Champion status. The Games techs must’ve decided to hold off lighting us up until every Category winner is official.

  There’s Hedj Kukkait, tall and lanky, with his long white hair, wearing Warrior Red. He stands next to my teammate Kateb Nuletat in Inventor Yellow. Both of them see me, and their expressions change to a kind of intense, questioning wonder—they’re seeing me for the first time since the disastrous moment when I raised the Grail. . . .

  Then I notice Brie Walton, also in White, with the Entrepreneur logo, her purple hair done up in three tight knots on top of her head. With her is Kokayi Jeet, elegant in Entertainer Green, with five long, colorful braids and dramatic face paint.

  “Oh! Gwen Lark! Over here, amrevet!” Kokayi sees me and opens his eyes wide for just one moment—as if not sure how to react to me—then makes up his mind and grins, showing his white teeth. He is wearing dark kohl, dark green and plum eye shadow, rouge over his cheeks and dark lip color, and his lean, handsome face is fierce with energy.

  “Hi, there!” I say, approaching them with an uncertain smile.

  “Well, look who the Atlantean cat dragged in!” Brie gives me a sideways stare, then snorts. “Lark, dearly beloved, we’re gathered here again, for better or worse. Listen—I have no idea what happened the other day at the stadium—whatever impossible voice crap you did, or didn’t do, to break everything in that building—” and Brie widens her eyes meaningfully at me. “But let’s try to enjoy this one.”

  “Oh, Walton,” I say, shaking my head and pretending to ignore her meaning. “Hope you’ve had some decent rest and are enjoying your Champion status.”

  “Oh yeah, having a total blast in my four-star cell in Correctional,” she replies flippantly. “You know they won’t let me out until this thing is official. So, yeah, I’m enjoying it, all right. Though, your ex did let me have one decent celebratory meal. Looks like Sangre is getting soft on me.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Gwen!”

  I turn and see Lolu Eetatu, in Technician Blue, with a very nervous expression, standing behind me.

  “Hi, Lolu!” I smile at her. And then a strange feeling washes over me, as I’m reminded of her sick mother . . . and the fact that she still has to participate in a tiebreaker event.

  With Lolu is Chihar Agwath, calm and stoic as usual, also in Blue, but with the Scientist logo. Today his unruly, thin white hair is smoothed back neatly over his balding head. “Nefero dea, Imperial Lady Gwen,” Chihar says to me in his most normal, mild voice, showing no sign of awe or fear of me, or maybe just keeping his real thoughts well concealed. “It is good to see you.”

  I notice that one of his hands is wrapped in a bandage and recall vividly how his hand was injured during the Triathlon Race. However, I’m not surprised that he hasn’t resorted to any kind of accelerated (and expensive) medical treatment—now that there’s no urgent need for him to be healed overnight.

  Except, maybe there is, I remind myself. Chihar also has to deal with a tiebreaker, and who knows what kind of thing might be required of him.

  I glance at the other remaining Scientist Contender, a petite, dark-skinned woman whose name, I believe, is Rea Bunit. She’s in Blue, standing a few feet away talking to Ukou Dwetat, in Athlete Red.

  In that moment, more
Champions and Contenders arrive.

  Leetana Chipuo, the Green Animal Handler, enters the room, and my heart constricts painfully as I think of Zaap, my teammate and friend. . . . Leetana wouldn’t be here if Zaap hadn’t lost his life at the hands of Thalassa, during that damned final Race, giving up his Category slot for Leetana to occupy.

  The next arrival is a large man with messy, undyed brown hair in a Blue uniform. He is Lolu’s Category rival, the other remaining Technician, whose name is Mineb Inei.

  So that’s everyone. But wait, no—

  I turn around and see Rurim Kiv, the Yellow Artist, seated in the third and last row, in the corner chair, so that he is easily overlooked. Once again, the elusive Rurim seems to be playing his favorite invisibility game. Our gazes make contact, and I see a subtle hint of humor—or maybe mockery—in his black eyes.

  However, we’re not done with arrivals. I am somewhat surprised to see my own Category rivals, Sofia Veforoi and Fawzi Boto, enter the room. Fawzi is speaking to her quietly, and his face shows an angry expression. Sofia, on the other hand, is neutral and composed. She cuts off Fawzi’s speech with a cool nod and heads directly toward her own teammate, Hedj Kukkait.

  A weird moment of panic overcomes me, so that my breath slows down.

  Why are they here?

  After I raised the Grail, I was pronounced the winner by the Imperator himself, so why are they here?

  But there’s no time to wonder, because another Games official enters the room, followed by none other than Miramis Opu, the Priest of the Grail.

  Both men walk up to the podium and the official clears his throat, waiting for all of us to take our seats.

  “Contenders, welcome back! We are pleased to be able to hold the closing portion of the Games of the Atlantis Grail today, after being interrupted by the unexpected natural events earlier. In a few moments we will have you line up, walk out into the arena, and face the same lineup of judges you faced on the final day of competition.”

  The official pauses. “Except for the venue, nothing has changed, Contenders! You will resume from the same moment you were interrupted—in other words, when our Imperial Sovereign pronounced Contender Gwen Lark to be the winner in her Category.”

  “With all respect, I dispute this conclusion!” From the row behind me, Fawzi Boto interrupts.

  We all turn to stare at him, as Fawzi stands, frowning, and points at me. “When it was her turn during the tiebreaker, she did absolutely nothing of consequence! Or else, regardless of what we’re being told, she clearly caused the destruction of the stadium by means of a dangerous vocal routine—a poor choice of Voice demonstration, to say the least! Either way, the Imperial Sovereign merely put an end to her performance! Therefore, I question the true intent and meaning behind his declaration!”

  My heart starts pounding as I stare at Fawzi Boto. Meanwhile everyone now turns to look at me. In particular, I note the Priest of the Grail’s extremely anxious gaze upon me.

  “Contender Boto,” the official says. “The words ‘You’ve won’ were spoken by the Imperial Sovereign, and it is a clear judgement of fact.”

  “I accept no such thing!” Fawzi retorts. Ironically, in that moment he’s expressing my own favorite response to adversity. “It is within my right to dispute the meaning of such an inconclusive statement, especially considering that it wasn’t even made by the designated judges. How to interpret these Imperial words is yet to be seen!”

  The official pauses again before speaking. “Very well. It is indeed every Contender’s legal right to dispute the judges’ decision in case of tiebreakers—and there is sufficient cause for some minor doubt, if only because of the unfortunate timing of the events—so you will have the opportunity to present your case before them. Now, please, sit down, and allow me to proceed.”

  Fawzi Boto nods, still frowning, and lowers himself down. He gives me dirty looks from his seat, but now I turn my back on him and return my attention to the podium. In the row before me I see my other Vocalist rival, Sofia Veforoi, and now I understand why they are both here.

  Yes, they all have to be here to recreate that exact moment we were “interrupted.”

  But as a result, my Games Champion status is being put under question.

  Chapter 17

  The Games official at the podium stands aside to allow the Priest of the Grail to continue presenting our Final Ceremony Instructions.

  Miramis Opu steps up and looks around at all of us, and his fretful gaze definitely lingers on me. But he looks away and addresses everyone.

  “Champions and Contenders! The Games are Forever! You will now stand and form a line, and you will follow me inside the arena. Remain silent and respectful of this ancient tradition, and wait your turn to be called before the judges!”

  And without another word he raises the palm of his hand dramatically, motioning for us to rise.

  I stand with the others and fall into line right after Brie, with Chihar directly behind me. Silently we follow the short but impressive figure of the Priest of the Grail in his formal ceremonial robes, as he leads us through a long, dimly lit corridor into the thunderous crowd noise and bright lights of the arena entrance.

  The Khemetareon stadium is one-third smaller than the Stadion, similarly oval but, unlike the larger structure, it is completely enclosed by a permanent domed roof. It has even more tiers and rows of seats, stacked higher, all the way to the ceiling.

  There are no monolithic statues, but instead grand pillars and fancy overhanging balconies intended for the wealthiest patrons. The Imperial box is prominent among them, occupying a low central balcony with the most advantageous view of the arena below. I recognize the great golden sunburst that is the symbol of the Imperial Kassiopei Dynasty, sculpted in relief along the balcony’s front, and the row of high-backed seats sparkling with gilded metal under the day-bright artificial illumination. At the moment it’s unoccupied, so I assume the Imperator, Aeson, and anyone else with them will be entering the balcony later, probably to make a dramatic appearance.

  Meanwhile, the rest of the tiers and balconies are full to capacity with the audience crowds, and there are no empty seats that I can see in my quick examination of the whole immense venue.

  The Priest of the Grail walks from the far entrance and enters the arena, accompanied by uplifting music and the rich choral sound of the Games musicians. At once a roar greets him and only increases as we, the fourteen remaining Contenders, follow him, still moving in a line, heading toward the center, waving with all our hands uplifted to the audience. Looking up, I notice the huge smartboards located near the highest tiers, spaced evenly all around the stadium—they are alive with scores and live feeds of the arena, then close-ups of our faces as we emerge.

  The center of this current arena configuration includes an oval-shaped dais, with ten seats for the Category judges. They are already seated in place, stern and motionless, each holding up a circular sign flag with the color background and logo of their Category. I recognize the older woman judge in the Vocalist Category who gave us the singing tiebreaker task. She is looking directly ahead of her, not acknowledging me or the other Vocalists.

  “Wixameret, to all the brave Contenders!” the Priest of the Grail exclaims in an amplified voice that resounds around the stadium. He stops before the dais and turns to face us. “Ascend the platform and stand before your judges to receive their final decisions!”

  One by one we go up the five stairs leading to the dais and pause before our Category judge.

  I find myself between Fawzi Boto and Sofia Veforoi, facing our judge. Nerves hit me, and I feel sick to my stomach. . . .

  In that moment, the Games Choir sings, and everyone stares as the Imperator arrives in the Imperial box.

  From the distance of the arena, I can see Romhutat Kassiopei make his entrance, wearing a deep red robe with a golden Khepresh headdress that is the Imperial Crown of Atlantida. He is stone-faced, showing his usual dragon demeanor to the public. Ae
son is just behind him, far more casual, and I see him look right at me.

  Somehow I’m certain of Aeson’s expression and his encouraging smile from all the way across the expanse—even before the jumbo-sized boards switch to show closeups of the Imperator and the Crown Prince . . . and the crowds roar.

  The Priest of the Grail raises one hand, palm up, and points to the Imperial box, then inclines his head in a courtly bow. “The Final Ceremony of the Games of the Atlantis Grail will resume, as the Imperial Sovereign Himself pronounces the Winner of the Vocalist Category.”

  My heart starts to race.

  At once, the crowd noise falls as everyone grows quiet, in terrible suspense.

  I look up at the Imperial balcony, my heart now beating out of my chest. Maybe this is completely irrational, and I have nothing to worry about—based on a simple logical deduction that the Imperator has much more to lose right now if he undermines his own earlier statement. It would be like opening a can of worms to question what really happened, what I did or didn’t do. . . .

  And yet. . . .

  What will he say now? What if he decides to toy with me, punish me for everything, and changes his mind? On the other hand, wouldn’t he be accused of blatant nepotism if he grants the win to his son’s Bride?

  What an interminable, awful pause. . . .

  As my frantic thoughts race, the Imperator speaks, and his own dark voice is amplified to carry across the expanse. “The Vocalist winner is—Gwenevere Lark.”

  He looks directly at me.

  In that moment I understand something basic that for some reason eluded me before.

  The Imperator really, really needs me right now. He needs me to cooperate fully, in order to deal with whatever else might lie before us, whatever disaster, or merely the alien unknown. . . .

  The audience explodes in a thunderous roar. There are screams, noise, of every kind.