Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  “Correct,” the Imperator says. “An immense undertaking.”

  “Forgive me if I’m missing something, Imperial Sovereign,” Charles Lark, my father says suddenly. “But why does it have to be you specifically, who must take the ancient remains to the Rim of Ae-Leiterra? If it’s so critical for you to be a part of this astroctadra alignment, in one of the six spots, why can’t you assign your people—someone else from the Fleet—to manage the travel to the Rim?”

  “Because only Kassiopei can do it properly.” The Imperator turns to look at my Dad. “All Rim missions have been the traditional duty of this Dynasty, since the beginning of time. A Logos voice and advanced training to control the Stationary Quantum Stream are needed to survive the black hole long enough to do the job. Yes, in theory, others with suitable Logos voices can be trained, but the honing of this skill requires time which we again don’t have. Furthermore, the entire ugly schedule has now been sped up even more adversely for us.”

  “How so?” Dad asks.

  “Instead of a projected 40 days before the next attack, we only have 15,” Aeson says. “Based on this hunch, of course—we’ll still need to run probability stats scenarios to confirm.”

  “Yes, yes, run your analysis, naturally. . . . Meanwhile, we no longer have a choice in the matter of how to close the dimensional rift on Earth,” the Imperator elaborates. “All this time I put my trust in the asteroid to do the job, but its arrival is now too late to matter—”

  “Yes!” I gasp. “Oh God! The asteroid! That’s in sixteen days from now! But—but this astroctadra alignment of the alien grids and Helios system destruction is in fifteen—one day before the asteroid is supposed to arrive on Earth!”

  “Yes, the irony does not escape me,” the Imperator says bitterly. “Years of massive work, global plans set in motion, all for nothing. Assuming, any of this closing-the-rift effort would’ve even made any difference as far as our ancient enemy is concerned.”

  My mouth falls open. “So, then stop it! We can still save Earth from destruction! Stop the asteroid! Just redirect it! You no longer need it to strike those coordinates because the pegasei will close the rift for us!”

  “For that to happen, I must urgently deliver this Arlenari to Ae-Leiterra, then hand off her remains to the pegasei, and trust them to complete the mission.”

  We will complete it.

  Arion’s voice sounds in my mind—and presumably in the minds of everyone present.

  “Please!” I say, continuing to stare at the Imperator. “Please save Earth!”

  “My Father, at this point it would seem to be an easy decision for you to make,” Aeson says. “Give your consent and I will contact the remaining Earth Mission vessel, AS-1999 and order Nefir Mekei to abort the command sequence—”

  “No.” The Imperator’s impassive voice interrupts.

  “What?” I exclaim. “Why not?”

  “Indeed, my Husband, why would you say no? Why not agree to save all those poor people?” Devora puts in, and her expression is distraught. “I had no idea of these abysmal details, no notion that you had something to do with directing this asteroid in the first place! Unthinkable that you would perpetrate such evil upon our ancient home world, full of billions of lives!”

  “A necessary evil,” Romhutat says, looking at his wife with a fixed mask of an expression. “It was a plan conceived long before we had any other options.”

  “But now you have them!” Devora says in a voice of emotion. “Rom, I beg you, stop this atrocity!”

  There is a pause of silence as we all stare.

  “Regretfully, there’s nothing I can do,” the Imperator says. “When my Son and his then-Bride defied me on that fateful morning after the Games of the Atlantis Grail—threatening to fry the orichalcum technology in my Red Office—I gave in to my own anger. . . . I contacted AS-1999 and used my Logos voice across the universe to fry the orichalcum guidance system of the resonance chamber inside the asteroid. It is fixed in its present course now. . . .”

  “Oh my God,” I whisper.

  “There may be other, less elegant means of redirecting it off course,” the Imperator continues, “But voice control is no longer an option.”

  “Oh, Rom, Rom, what have you done?” Devora is shaking her head in disbelief.

  But the Imperator does not meet her gaze. He now glances at me and then Aeson. “Very well, I give you permission to abort the Earth mission final protocol—whatever is left of it. Call Mekei and tell him that such are my orders—that he is to cooperate with you in whatever way possible. Do not look so glum, you still have weapons capability on AS-1999. The guidance program overrides may be gone, but you have our excellent technology at your disposal—now that it’s no longer fighting itself, our own secret, anti-tampering programming as related to the asteroid. You’ll come up with something.”

  Aeson’s expression is cold with anger. “I will contact Mekei at once and see what can be done.”

  “Good. Now we can discuss our local defense options.” The Imperator nods, almost relieved to change the subject from Earth to Atlantis.

  “That would be SPC business,” Aeson says in a hard voice. “Now that I’ve been alerted to this new set of information and the possibility of major activity happening on Mar-Yan 16, I’ll have my techs run various projections and play with quite a number of data parameters before I can safely say this is the right course of action for us.”

  “Don’t take too long,” the Imperator says. “To set up the Helios-wide astroctadra alignment in opposition to the enemy grid, and to mobilize most of this planet, you’ll need to start the process immediately or you will not be ready in time—”

  “No need to tell me how to do my job,” Aeson cuts him off. And then he uses his wrist comm to start making arrangements with his SPC subordinates.

  The Imperator mutters something about the sarcophagus and the pegasei. My Dad, George, and Devora all focus on him and his words. The Sphinx who is Arion rests on the floor in the classical position, observing all of us.

  But I am only half-listening. . . . My mind is reeling with the implications, both horrified and hopeful, at what could be the potential fate of Earth.

  The asteroid must be diverted.

  There has to be a way.

  While I think all these randomly hopeful, outlandish thoughts, my Dad walks over and starts to examine the sarcophagus and Arlenari herself. His fingertips brush against the etched golden surface of the lid with reverence. Then he bends down to stare up-close at the ancient body miraculously encased in Pegasus Blood.

  “So much history . . .” Dad whispers. “I wonder what she saw, this ancient girl. What wonders, with her own eyes. . . . Remarkable, to be so well preserved. Ancient Egyptians with their natron salt and oil-and-resin-soaked linen preservation methods would be so envious of this perfection.”

  “Like an insect in amber,” George adds, looking down also.

  Meanwhile, the Imperator stands with his back turned to us, watching the daylight in the window. Devora glances from him to us anxiously. She also looks down at the little Sphinx shape of Arion, and I assume she’s communicating silently with him.

  “I’ve set plans in motion,” Aeson announces minutes later, looking up from his wrist comm. He looks at me. “I’ve notified Nefir Mekei of the change in mission plans. And just in case he does not take me at my word, I told him to confirm with my Imperial Father.”

  “Thank you, Aeson,” I say, then throw a glance at the Imperator’s turned back.

  My husband nods. “It’s a start. We will see what can be done for Earth when the time comes. But now, we must deal with the urgent problem that is Atlantis.”

  It is hard to put into words the immense machinery of war and self-preservation that takes over when a highly advanced technological civilization is faced with the inevitability of destruction from an even more advanced source.

  Atlantis—Atlantida—the planet of almost seventy nations and a billion people, is
mobilizing for the greatest fight for survival it has seen in millennia. . . .

  After we conclude the painful interaction with the Imperator in his chamber, Aeson leaves to begin the process of global defense that falls upon him as the SPC Commander. Meanwhile, the Imperator secludes himself for the rest of the day while he, too, prepares to face what must be done, to consider all options, and to accept what is a part of his own duties, both in the astroctadra alignment, and the perilous journey with Arlenari’s body to the Rim.

  We have only fifteen days.

  Fifteen days to prepare the Fleets across the globe for military action, to move the immense battle-barges in position around the Helios system, to deliver the six Logos voice wielders to the six different coordinates next to the alien grids in the biggest astroctadra alignment in human history.

  So, what exactly will we be doing? The purpose of the grand resonance procedure that we’re about to undertake with six Logos voices during the astroctadra alignment of the grids is to give us a fighting chance.

  Our intent is twofold.

  First, to counter and contain whatever energy forces the unified alien grids will “release” into the system at the moment of their attack with our own great quantum containment field—a kind of force field similar to the Great Quantum Shield around Ae-Leiterra.

  Second, to bring the enemy out of the safety of their own dimensional bubble into our own space-time so that we can try to fight them with conventional weapons on our own terms.

  Will it work? Can it work? Do we even know what we’re doing, what we’re up against? The saddest thing is, there are no guarantees.

  No guarantees that any of our efforts will even make a dent.

  The honest answer is, we simply don’t know. There’s no historical precedent for such military actions, and what we think we know is all based on faulty records and legends.

  But we’re going to do it anyway—because humanity must defend itself from annihilation.

  So far, the Atlantean weapons have been entirely ineffective against the untouchable golden light spheres that reside in some other dimension. If—as in the case of the Ghost Moon—we can somehow manage to “bring them out” of that dimensional otherwhere into our present space-time reality, there is still no certainty that we can do enough damage to defeat them with ordinary physics.

  And then, the Imperator’s effort in conjunction with the pegasei to close the rift on Earth is also rife with uncertainty. There is no way of knowing that this will satisfy the alien enemy’s demands. All we have is some inadequate ancient records of the Original Colony and mythic lore as far as the realities of Ancient Atlantis. Even Arlenari’s Book of Everything is only one young girl’s diary.

  This is all there is by which to formulate our present planetary defense. That’s putting a lot of trust into some very nebulous things under the guise of cultural tradition.

  If I allow myself to think about it too closely, it’s easy to go crazy with fear.

  My family is there with me, all of us trying not to think, not to imagine, simply trying to function. We have work to do.

  Fifteen days.

  As soon as Aeson issues the orders, the SPC analysts begin to run tests and data correlations of every sort. They officially confirm the probability and odds of the massive alien system-wide attack taking place on Red Mar-Yan 16. Then the experts repeat the tests, look at more data, alternate data, rerun numbers. This is done at various foreign locations by different think tanks, starting today, the morning of Red Mar-Yan 1. It goes on for the rest of the night, and continues for the sake of redundancies, on the day following—even as global preparations begin to take effect before the data analysis is completed.

  Global heads of state receive urgent notifications the same evening.

  And now, the public is being notified, and the media is in turmoil as they try to explain what is happening and what the plans are for military defense.

  Fleet Pilots are being recalled to active duty, and this time Cadets are mobilized also.

  All on the same day, all today, Red Mar-Yan 1, because there is no time to think it over, argue, or debate. Let the media do all that.

  No time. . . .

  Feeling numb and somehow aimless, I spend the rest of the day with Dad and George in their quarters, with Manala coming by inevitably as she is newly informed of the situation, while Gracie and Gordie join us after work hours.

  Four of us—Aeson, Gordie, Manala, and myself—will reprise our roles in the lineup of the six Logos voices needed in the astroctadra alignment. George will once again travel with Manala to lend his support. Gracie will be deployed with the other Cadets here, in planetary defense of Atlantis. And our Dad has volunteered to go on any ship with whichever one of us needs him most.

  Furthermore, in this grand astroctadra scenario, the fifth Logos voice wielder will once again be Anen Qur, First Speaker of the Ennead of Ubasti who has been urgently notified and has agreed at once.

  And then, later in the evening, a bombshell is dropped. The Imperator has a problem. After painfully considering the situation, consulting with his inner circle of Shirahtet and others, it turns out—it’s logistically impossible for him to do both the Rim mission and the astroctadra, no matter what he attempts—not even if he uses the unsafe quantum Jump to be in both places within a short period of time. Simply put, there is only time for a one-way trip to the Rim.

  Therefore, as his Kassiopei duty, the Rim mission takes precedence. The Imperator will leave tomorrow, with Arlenari’s remains, to travel at a high, unsafe speed to Ae-Leiterra.

  Meanwhile, another sixth person will have to be found with a Logos voice to take his place.

  We are so screwed.

  Remarkably, even later that very same night, the situation is rescued by New Deshret. The Pharikon calls to say that while he himself is too old, his young relative and possible Heir to the Throne has a Logos voice and will be happy to take part in the astroctadra alignment. Princess Sheolaat Heru, daughter of his deceased younger brother, will make travel preparations at once.

  “When were you going to tell me that you have a viable, young Logos voice in the family?” the Imperator asks, staring at the Pharikon’s wrinkled face in the screen, even as Aeson and I stand watching the exchange.

  “It never came up,” the old man replies with a crafty smile.

  The next morning, Red Mar-Yan 2, the Atlantean mobilization process begins in earnest.

  I get up before seventh hour, after an agonizing, mostly sleepless night for both Aeson and me—we tossed and turned, holding and consoling each other all through the pre-dawn hours—and Aeson is already gone to deal with everything.

  When I get to the family guest quarters, Dad has just woken up and is watching the media madness on the TV feeds with a resigned look on his face. Images of airfields filled with deploying Fleet Pilots all around the globe are interspersed with expert panels discussing military strategy, and the various alien grids are shown repeatedly against the backgrounds of Rah, Septu, Tammuz, and Helios itself.

  George shows up, with tousled hair, from his own room. He’s just in time for the eos bread service.

  Then half an hour later, Manala arrives in a hurry, to let us know that her Imperial Mother, the Imperatris, is crying in her Quarters. . . . That’s because even earlier this morning, at dawn, her Imperial Father had left on a velo-cruiser with the ancient sarcophagus of Arlenari Kassiopei and no one else.

  “He is all alone!” Manala exclaims, with widened eyes. “Mother says he will have to pilot that ship by himself for nearly three weeks!”

  I try to console Manala the best I can, even as George watches us intently with a grave expression, while pouring himself lvikao.

  I’m glad George is not making any acerbic commentary right now, because Manala is so clearly missing the obvious, whether intentionally or not—not only is her father alone, but he will very likely not survive a mission where he has to make a quantum Jump with inadequate prelimin
ary acceleration directly into the inferno of the black hole. . . .

  Just then, I look up for some reason, and my gaze falls at the bright window and the fierce morning daylight outside. I notice, the aurora borealis rainbow colors are missing from the skies over Poseidon.

  The pegasei are gone.

  Arion! I think with a stab of wistful sorrow. He left without saying goodbye.

  But right in that instant a familiar plasma flash materializes in the room, and Arion’s voice sounds inside my mind.

  I am not gone yet, Gwen Lark who is Kassiopei, he tells me calmly, with a note of humor in his mind-voice. I am here and there simultaneously, for as long as the rift remains open and we are on this side of it. Right now, others of my kind and I are traveling along with the Imperator on his physical transport vessel. I will continue to traverse the expanse of your space-time to be with you and with him for as long as I am able.

  “Promise you won’t leave without a proper farewell,” I whisper.

  There is never a proper farewell. But I promise not to terminate our contact without your acceptance of the precise ending of our time together.

  “I don’t know what that means,” I say—even though on some level I know precisely what it means. “But I appreciate it, Arion.”

  In a few hours, Aeson returns briefly to update us on the details of our situation.

  “Aeson, what is happening?” I ask, speaking as gently as possible, even though I feel like screaming from unresolved stress.

  And he tells us.

  In short, we leave for the astroctadra mission on Red Mar-Yan 6, four days from now. Until then, all the preparations are being made, and the battle barges that will ferry us to our destinations are being readied with supplies and personnel.

  War-1, recently transferred from its usual post in the outer system, around Atlas, is currently in high orbit of Atlantis. It will remain here, under the command of Manakteon Resoi, serving as the last line of defense of Atlantis. Most of the Cadet Pilots will be assigned to serve under its oversight. That includes Gracie, and my shìrén friends.