Survive: The Atlantis Grail, #4

Chapter 1

August, 2048 / Green Mar-Yan, 9771.

Today is the day everything changes.

What have I done?

I won.

I used my Logos power voice to raise the Atlantis Grail monument but instead I blasted open an ancient, buried secret.

And now I stand in the largest arena in the City of Poseidon, amid the stadium wreckage that I’ve caused, held in the arms of my beloved Aeson, while the nose section of an ancient starship juts forth from the broken ground. . . .

The shocked spectator crowds have grown momentarily quiet. They’re full of confusion, still under the influence of the Imperial compelling voice. . . .

I, on the other hand, have not been compelled. But I have been stopped and silenced—by the enormity of the consequences of my actions.

The stunning things that Aeson Kassiopei, my Imperial Bridegroom, has just told me are ringing violently in my head. Unbelievable, impossible things implicating his Father, the Imperator, my future father-in-law, in a dark plot—an intricate scheme presumably to prevent an alien invasion (although the grim details and causes have yet to be unraveled) that includes Aeson’s father sending the deadly asteroid on a collision course to destroy Earth a few months from now. . . .

The Imperator is responsible for so much.

But then, so am I.

Because of my actions, the ancient ark-ship that had been lying dormant for thousands of years, buried underground, has been activated somehow, and now they will come—they, the mysterious ancient alien enemy of both Earth and Atlantis.

After all that’s happened today and over the past four weeks—the violent insanity of the Games, the relentless uncertainty of my every living moment—this knowledge comes as a heavy blow. I feel as if I’ve been punched in the gut.

My God . . . I’ve caused all this, I continue to whisper even as Aeson tightens his embrace and stares into my eyes with loving force. I caused this. . . . If, as you say, they can track this ship, they will come because of what I did!

Let them come! he repeats fiercely, a hard smile on his lips. "Together we’ll handle them, im amrevu! Look at me! Do you hear?"

Yes. I nod, but the word comes out without conviction.

I glance yet again in the direction of the Imperial Box among the audience tiers, where Romhutat Kassiopei, the Archaeon Imperator of Atlantida, stands looking at me like a dragon.

Our gazes meet.

Or maybe he just never stopped watching me. . . .

Gwen! Aeson’s strong fingers dig into my shoulders, anchoring me, forcing me to turn back to him. It’s over. We must go!

I part my lips just to say something, not even sure what, because I’m trapped in the bizarre moment that somehow must not end . . . because whatever comes next will be impossible.

What have I done?

The Priest of the Grail called it blasphemy. . . .

What does it mean? What happens now?

I glance behind me at the dais in the center of the arena where the other Champions and runners-up remain standing before the judges. . . . Hedj, Kateb, Brie, Kokayi, Leetana, Rurim, Ukou—all in brightly lit uniforms that indicate Champion status. . . . Chihar, Lolu, and two others—their fates as Champions or runners-up are as yet unresolved. . . . Finally, Sofia and Fawzi, my two direct competitors in the Vocalist Category, who lost by virtue of the fact that I won.

They’re all staring at me with shock and fear and other hard-to-describe, complicated expressions. Brie Walton in particular has a stunned look on her face. And the Vocalist judge, the stern woman who assigned our Category tiebreaker task—she is frozen with incredulity as she too fixes her attention on me. . . .

What must they all think? And what about the thousands of people in the audience who have just witnessed an impossible miracle, followed by a disaster, all of it perpetrated by me?

Do they even understand what’s visible in the wreckage around us? The grail is but a tiny fraction of the upper end of an immense object that’s still mostly below ground. . . .

In that moment, the Imperator’s voice sounds again, breaking me out of my stupefied reverie and adding a level of nervous frenzy to my already racing thoughts.

This time he is not using a compelling power voice, merely ordinary stadium amplification, as he speaks with regained composure. But even unenhanced, the deep, ice-cold sound of his voice slithers and reverberates throughout the expanse.

"No. Not blasphemy, but the whim of nature—an unfortunate seismic interruption to our celebratory events—"

What? My heart begins to pound like crazy, kicking up my blood pressure, thundering in my temples. . . .

"It is done. The spectacle is over—for today. The Games will conclude and the remaining Champions will be honored later. You will now return to your homes, Atlantida!"

Saying this, the Imperator turns his back to the stadium and proceeds to leave the Imperial Box, followed by his retinue of Imperial guards. He does not look at me again.

Immediately the crowds surge, and the audience noise level rises as thousands of shocked people are given permission to come alive again and move. . . .

An actual earthquake? Is that the official spin of what took place?

Holy crap!

Seeing him go—just like that!—my mind goes spinning also. Seriously, what just happened? What does it mean? Did he just dismiss the effect of my actions completely? What supreme Imperial disdain. How can he disregard me in the face of recent events? Or is he choosing to conceal his turmoil under a public mask while simply escaping an unbearable reality?

This is crazy! A whole stadium of people witnessed me use a voice command to raise the Atlantis Grail and the resulting mess that followed. Surely at least some of them will question what happened, not merely fall for the ridiculous earthquake explanation! Not to mention, the Imperator had addressed me directly—told me to stop and said that I won—which acknowledges the role of my actions.

Will the rest of the officials go along with this?

As if on cue, the Priest of the Grail raises his hands and echoes the Imperial words in a ceremonial tone of voice. By the firm sound of it, he’s recovered also and embraced an appropriate extended interpretation.

"The Imperial Sovereign has spoken! The Stadion is structurally unsafe! There has been an earthquake. . . . There may be aftershocks. . . . Leave! Leave at once! But proceed in orderly fashion!"

At this point it’s redundant—everyone is already streaming toward the exits. But the Priest must feel it’s his duty to do something, so he continues to intone needless instructions, even as other Games officials remain silent. . . .

Meanwhile my mind is stuck—there are no words. . . .

Come! Aeson’s expression is intense and grim as he grips my hand—and this time I don’t protest—as we hurry toward the nearest exit. I breathe hard and try not to stumble over cracks and broken ground beneath my feet while I walk quickly alongside him. In moments the Crown Prince’s own guards join and surround us.

I look back fleetingly to see that the people on the dais are leaving also—my friends and members of Team Lark, many of them continuing to stare in my wake—but there’s no time to linger.

Some part of me is aware of Hel’s sun glare, shining fiercely over the strange, gleaming grail portion of the nose section of the huge buried ship, turning it to golden fire. . . . It blazes over the turmoil of moving humanity that now fills the audience seating tiers where everything is precarious, structurally unsound. . . . People rush to the exits past grand, divine statues of heroes that now lean, dangerously unbalanced. . . .

Also—I might be hallucinating this, but somehow—I hear, from deep below ground and seemingly from all around, a barely perceptible auditory emanation—a very low humming sound. So low that it’s almost out of human hearing range. Indeed, maybe I’m only feeling it as vibrations along my skin. But it’s undeniable—a constant, metallic din that resonates deep into the bowels of Atlantean hell.

It’s as if an immense, subterranean thing of metal is singing. . . .

Aeson . . . I try to catch my breath and ignore the faint, impossible, metallic noise underfoot. Did you hear what they said? What—what now?

Of course he heard. . . . What a stupid thing to utter.

He glances at me with visceral intensity—the infinite burden contained in his gaze disturbs me somehow, I’m not even sure why. He then quickly looks around before returning his attention to me. First—we’re going to find your sister and brother.

Oh, lord, yes! I exclaim, stunned at myself for momentarily forgetting, not thinking of my siblings, my family—what’s wrong with me? Gracie must be going insane, and Gordie too—

Just as I say it, I see them . . . there, near the arena exit directly ahead, one of several that escaped damage when the ground buckled underneath . . . there’s Gracie, and next to her is my brother Gordie, and behind them a few other familiar faces. Is that Laronda and Dawn, waving and motioning to us? Oalla, maybe? Xelio and Keruvat? Who else?

We move toward them, and they meet us at the doors leading inside the stadium building.

In that first wild moment when we come together, I have eyes only for my two younger siblings, and no one else matters. Gracie! I cry with a surge of warmth and relief, shutting off everything else in my mind, pushing worry back for now.

My sister has a weird deer-in-the-headlights look when she first sees me . . . and then she makes a stifled noise and rushes into my arms.

"Gracie, oh, sweetie! Gordie, come here! It’s okay! Everything is okay!" I mumble and laugh and cry, continuing to hold Gracie, and at the same time pull my brother into a three-way embrace with my other hand. I am crushing them both hard, not coming apart for long breathless moments.

I survived it—we did it! I exclaim. It’s okay now, it’s over! Doesn’t matter what or how—

Gracie’s face is hidden, pressed hard against my chest, and she is now shaking with quiet sobs, and Gordie has a strange, lost look on his face as he looks at me. I can’t imagine what they must think! They must be as shocked as everyone by what just happened, by what I, of all people, have done. . . .

Oh, honey, it’s okay! I smile, smoothing dirty-blond tendrils of Gracie’s hair plastered to her forehead and wet cheeks, tendrils that have escaped her otherwise tight ponytail. It’s the little details . . . I find I can notice them now, make time for them, at long last. . . .

I look up momentarily and see Aeson watching us—watching me—with an indescribable look of compassion.

Gracie shows me her face at last, straightens and moves back a bit, sniffling and wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She then forcibly stops crying, swallows, and says in a hoarse voice, "Gwen . . . Mom is gone."

––––––––

Cold. . . .

Cold emptiness strikes me a sudden blow that I never see coming.

I don’t quite understand it.

What? I look at Gracie, at the oh-so-familiar shape of her face, her sticky cheeks and forehead with its plastered tendrils of hair, her smudged eyes. What did you say?

But Gracie is bawling now, and her face has collapsed into a red twisted mess.

Punched in the gut with cold.

Gracie! My voice is hard and cutting.

It’s Mom. . . . Gordie speaks in an alien voice. She is . . . she is . . .

No, I say, and my voice is a knife. At the same time, I’m very, very calm.

Everything narrows into focus. Everything is very strong and sharp and bright.

I am looking at Gordie, and it’s as if all of this past year, all the growing up on his part, didn’t happen—once again he’s just a little boy with smudged glasses, dumbfounded and helpless. He blinks and opens his mouth and blinks again. We talked with Dad and George—they’re on the ark-ship now—and—and—

"And what?" I interrupt his useless mumble. What?

I’m sorry! So sorry, Gwen! Gracie interrupts in turn, gasping between sobs—and now I turn to her, like a compass needle, cold and numb.

"Mom died. Several days ago. We—we found out and then—" Gordie fades off into useless silence.

No! I say again. And then I repeat violently, with fury, "No! No! No!"

I am shaking. . . . Ice-cold. Dry in the back of my throat. Perfectly calm and alert.

Sharp, sharp focus.

Everyone is looking at me, frozen motionless with pity, tragedy, fear—some of them even stunned at my reaction. Somewhere, with my peripheral vision, I am aware of all of them, my friends and supporters, fellow Earth refugees, Atlantean astra daimon, surrounding us.

But my razor focus is on Gordie and Gracie, because there can be no other way.

When . . . I start, clenching my hands, clenching all of me, so that I become a stiff, unyielding thing of bone. Tell me.

Gwen. . . . I feel Aeson’s gentle touch on my shoulder, but immediately I shake him off.

I take a step back, so that neither Aeson nor my siblings nor anyone else can touch me.

Gracie starts crying again, this time gently and silently, fat tears running down her face, then again sucks in a deep breath to speak. "It was during Stage Two, when you were inside the pyramid—the third day of Stage Two. Mom . . . she was gone on that day, but we only found out later, on day four, when we got the call from the ark-ship. They were—Dad and George—they were picked up, and—"

And they called immediately, Gordie continues. It was afternoon, our time, and we were in the audience at the Game Zone, watching you, and we got called back urgently to Phoinios Heights—I mean, your fiancé, Aeson, he got a message—it was the only time he left the Games and you, only for this—he took us back himself, and that’s when we found out. . . .

How . . . ? I say. I find that I am incapable of sentences, only short, stupid words. How—did she . . . die?

Gracie makes a hard noise, then muffles it. "She was really sick—it was the advanced cancer, the Earth meds stopped working, and the Atlanteans didn’t get to her in time. She was already—so sick—she was—they didn’t even get the chance to take her up to the ship, I mean, they promised they were coming, over and over, but she passed away at home. I don’t understand what actually happened, I mean, why couldn’t they land in a stupid shuttle for five minutes and get her up there before she got so sick? Why? They missed her by one damn day!" Gracie’s voice rises, and she puts the back of her hand against her mouth, and starts trembling with sobs.

I watch my sister weep, and I don’t reach out to her. Instead I am frozen in my own, ice-cold, alien place. It’s as if I am looking at myself from above, floating outside my own numb, dead body.

That long? I say, my breath forced with every word as I enunciate in a strange, wooden staccato. "You found out ten days ago, and no one told me??"

Gwen, you had to remain focused on the Games, Aeson says softly. I’m so sorry, but we couldn’t tell you and risk you losing your concentration—

"How could you?" I turn to Aeson for the first time.

He blinks.

His expression is heart wrenching, and something inside me rips wide open. In that same moment a tide starts rising in the back of my throat, choking me, and liquid pools in my vision.

"How could you . . . keep this from me? It’s my Mom! Aeson, you saw me several times after you knew, and you said nothing! And you kept me isolated from my family? Is that why you wouldn’t let Gracie and Gordie come see me?"

But it’s Gracie who snarls suddenly. "No, don’t! Don’t you dare put this on him! I asked him to do it! I was the one—blame me! I knew I couldn’t bear to see you without breaking down, and you know Gordie can’t lie at all!"

Gordie makes a weird, sad noise and stares at me, shifting his shoulders, as if to confirm.

So I asked Aeson to make up something—anything—to excuse us not visiting you, Gracie continues. "It was awful. All those days of knowing about Mom, of talking to Dad and George, and not being able to talk to you, and—and—not knowing if you were gonna die too, in those damn Games!"

Sorry, Gee Two, we had to stay away, so sorry, Gordie adds painfully. Tough to pretend. It sucked. Then he clamps up again.

I—

I press my lips together hard, clench my mouth, trying to hold back the quivering, the drowning tide.

It is now an ocean.

It surges over my head and finally swallows me.

––––––––

The next few minutes are a mess. . . . I collapse and Aeson catches me in his strong arms and half-carries me as we walk through the stadium corridor to exit the building complex.

People I know walk on all sides of me. . . . I feel Gracie’s cold, wet hand clutching mine, and Gordie’s awkward fingers pressing my shoulder, while I shuffle along like an old woman on limp feet.

The astra daimon whisper discreetly among themselves. . . . Occasional individuals and groups of strangers hurry past us in this network of passages with fresh cracks in the walls and other visible signs of damage. Meanwhile the hallway lights flicker randomly or go out completely, indicating malfunctions.

All of this I notice with one small part of my consciousness, while the rest of me is as broken as the structure around me. My face is wet, and my nose is thick with weeping, and I’m barely aware of my own feet moving because of the general anemic weakness that has come over me like a life-leaching blanket.

At some point in the low illumination, my white Contender uniform suddenly sparks with an energy charge, like static electricity, and then it lights up brightly . . . Vocalist White. It’s now glowing belatedly, indicating my formal Champion status. Is this the result of Imperial orders? Somewhere the Games techs must have been instructed to run the final sequence of my Contender uniform program. . . .

Which makes it official: I won my Category in the Games of the Atlantis Grail.

Gordie makes a small sound as he points at my shining outfit, and the rest of my friends notice, but no one reacts or says anything.

They realize that at this moment I don’t give a damn.

Only a little more, Gwen . . . we’re almost there, Aeson keeps saying as he guides me forward. His hands support me, keeping me upright because I’m limp and barely functional.

Mom. . . .

We finally emerge outside and reach the Competitor parking area for the hover cars, where I vaguely recognize one of Aeson’s gleaming, metallic vehicles, this one a large four-seater, and next to it the usual vehicles of the guards. I am seated next to Gracie in the back, while Aeson and Gordie sit in the front, and Aeson drives.

Aeson takes off with a grim expression and a fleeting, intense glance at me. As we rise into the air, I see Dawn and Chiyoko getting into different hover cars nearby with Xelio and Erita, and there’s Laronda next to Gennio and Anu. . . .

Their figures shrink and recede, and it all blurs into white sun glare.

Gracie continues to clutch my hand and leans into me with her whole body. I can feel how badly she’s trembling, but remain silent and numb and let her hold me. . . . We gain altitude, while below the grand structures of the downtown multi-stadium complex gleam with gold and grey metal, the now-protruding and displaced Atlantis Grail monument prominent among them.

We join a common air traffic lane and continue moving over the City of Poseidon toward Phoinios Heights, where Aeson’s estate sits atop a hill—our present home.

Soon the familiar hills and greenery come into view, and we begin the descent.

Aeson lands the vehicle so it hovers a foot off the ground, and I step out onto the mauve brick surface of the private estate landing area, holding onto Gracie. Immediately Aeson comes around on my other side and gently takes my elbow. Together we walk up the long, shallow steps to the front door, where a line of estate servants stands waiting for us. Thebet, the old steward, bows deeply before us—before me—as we enter.

I take my steps like a decrepit old woman. I nod to the servants, then lower my head and keep it down so that I can see only the polished hallway floor and not the expressive eyes of all these people—kind, pitying, in some cases marveling and filled with awe. . . .

All of this is directed at me.

I hear Aeson give quick instructions to the serving staff, while my brother and sister stand next to me. Meanwhile, sounds of other landing vehicles and voices draw near, coming from outside, as more of our friends arrive.

I can’t deal with any of it.

A hard pulse pounds in my temples, while waves of heat and cold surge back and forth, coursing alternately through my body.

Aeson, I say loudly, on my last strength. "Please . . . I need to talk to my father and George . . . right now."

There’s a pause. A quick exchange of glances.

If you must, Gwen, he says softly. I will make the call. But—

But you’re in no condition to talk to them! Gracie interrupts. Not right now, not when you’re barely standing! You need to get in bed and sleep! They’re not going anywhere! If they see you like this, you’ll only frighten everyone!

I have to speak to them! I cry out in a hoarse, cracking voice, even though I know she’s right.

And yet. . . .

I glance from Gracie to Aeson to Gordie. My tone fades into softness. They won’t care. Dad and George. . . . They would want to speak to me exactly as I am—they understand about the Games, right? You told them about me being in the Games?

Gracie nods.

Yeah, they know everything. We told them, Gordie adds.

And they’re worried sick about you! Gracie sniffles and again rubs her face with the back of her hand.

I take a shuddering breath. Even more reason to speak to them right damn now. They need to hear directly from me that I’m okay.

And I need to hear from them . . . about Mom.

Aeson watches me with deep understanding, an unblinking gaze of his lapis lazuli blue eyes. He then reaches for me and squeezes my hand. Very well. . . . I will make the call for you. Come with me.

He heads for the media communications room, and I—and my siblings—follow him.

––––––––

The main office workroom, with all the specialized deep space comm equipment, is located on an upper floor of the estate, so we hurry through corridors and up a marble flight of stairs. Aeson holds my hand to help me take each step, but with a burst of adrenaline I’ve recovered enough of my strength that I follow him without stumbling, with Gracie and Gordie directly behind us.

Inside the room, I am settled on a chair while Aeson turns on the largest video screen and makes the necessary connection across infinite space to the ark-ship orbiting Earth. Since he’s not only the Imperial Crown Prince of Atlantida but the Commander of the international organization Star Pilot Corps, Aeson has the most sophisticated Atlantean comm tech here at his disposal.

It occurs to me, he’s calling somewhere on the other side of the universe . . . whatever that means. The universe has no sides. All of this—it is incomprehensible. . . . Focus, focus. . . . Feeble racing thoughts, mind going off on tangents—stop.

I watch the dark screen come alive, unbelievably after just a few seconds. On the other end is the face of an Atlantean crew member in a grey Fleet uniform, against a stark background of familiar wall panels inside generic ark-ship quarters. He is a typical Atlantean older teen, with long, gilded hair pulled back against a lean, bronze-skinned face with angular lines and pale hazel eyes that seem tired and sleepy. I’ve never seen him before.

The Atlantean crewman on comm duty comes to sharp attention and salutes Aeson. "Nefero niktos, Imperial Lord! Or is it nefero dea for you now? Apologies—we didn’t expect your call until later!"

Aeson barely nods, and his voice becomes cool and commanding. We are early. Get me Pilot Nefir Mekei or Pilot Quoni Enutat. But first, we must speak with Charles Lark and George Lark—is it night cycle for you now?

Yes, it’s just after midnight, Earth Universal Time Coordinated, on board AS-1999, the crewman confirms. The Larks are in their quarters, but I will wake them at once!

Do it gently. Tell them it’s good news. Gwen Lark is here. She is safe and unharmed and wants to see her father and brother.

The crewman salutes again. Then his face disappears, replaced by the Imperial Fleet network logo.

Aeson orients the screen so that it faces me directly and takes a deep breath and turns to me. He looks me in the eyes with encouragement.

I, in turn, stare at him with a numb, fixed, dumbfounded expression of unrelenting weariness mixed with grief and adrenaline, and my body is shaking, while my breathing has grown faint.

Breathe, Gwen, he whispers gently and leans toward me to place his warm hand over mine. Its pressure is reassuring, and I feel a surge of strength at his touch.

A few interminable minutes seem to pass while I alternate between watching the screen and glancing at Aeson, who nods at me and says soothing things, while I seem unable to form words in reply.

Aeson . . . I finally whisper back. Oh, Aeson. I don’t know if I can do this.

But before Aeson has time to respond, the screen comes alive again, and I see the familiar, beloved face of my Dad.

Chapter 2

Charles Lark, my father, is sitting in the place previously occupied by the Atlantean crewman, framed by the same shipboard view, which for some reason strikes me as bizarre and incongruous.

At once I feel a stab of psychological vertigo at the strange sight of my Dad on an ark-ship, even before my mind registers the real life details of him—such as his unkempt, wavy brown hair with more grey than I remember, the wrinkled beige shirt with a collar that’s folded wrong on one side, the exact same pair of rimless glasses, his sickly pallor, or his exhausted, grim expression—just before his face transforms into a beaming smile at the sight of me.

"Gwen! Oh, my sweet girl! My dear child!"

The familiar sound of my father’s voice, that on some level I never expected to hear again, pierces my heart.

"Dad! Daddy! I exclaim in a horrible voice that cracks again and sounds squeaky and very little girl" that would normally embarrass me, but not today. At the same time, I start to rise in my chair, leaning forward with all my strength, so that I am nearer the screen, smiling and crying at the same time.

It’s so good to see you, sweet girl, Dad says. His face draws closer to the screen also, so that I can really see his wrinkles, the unshaven greying whiskers on his cheeks, and the reddened eyes behind the spectacles. I realize now that my father is crying also, his eyes full of moisture. He also looks thinner and frailer than I remember. . . .

Thank God you are safe, oh, thank God, he says softly and shakes his head, as though the act of speaking has robbed him of strength.

And then, in the next moment, I see my older brother, George.

A hand comes down to rest on Dad’s shoulder, and then George leans in, so that he’s taking up half the screen. He cranes his neck to stare at me with a serious expression that softly blooms into a smile. George’s dark hair is longer than I remembered, or maybe it just sticks up oddly, and he’s got bed head—after all, I woke them up. He’s wearing an old black t-shirt that I recognize.

Hey, sis . . . George says in a steady, almost playful voice. Good to see you! Didn’t think that I ever would again, but great to be wrong. He makes a sound that’s a chuckle or a smirk or something else that’s typical charming George. And then, because Dad makes a choked sound of his own, George grows suddenly serious, like a shield slamming, and I see now that he is also thinner than usual, with harder lines and angles, and somehow older than I’d expected in just a year.

George! I exclaim. Another unexpected surge of emotion causes my breath to catch in my throat.

So many things, my girl. Dad begins to speak. So much has happened. . . . I hear you had to participate in some kind of terrible athletic Games—it is over now, right?

Oh yes, it’s over, I hurry to say. I survived and even won, Dad! Everything worked out okay. I will tell you all about it later, and about so many other things—

Such as you getting married? George interrupts and raises one corner of his mouth in a semblance of disapproval. Such a typical George facial tic. . . .

Oh, my . . . about that— Suddenly I feel a flush of embarrassment, an instant of panic, and cast a quick glance at Aeson, who is sitting next to me, but offscreen, invisible to Dad and George. Aeson’s expression in that instant is both endearingly solemn and just a tiny bit uncomfortable—I can tell he’s making an effort to maintain a calm, even relaxed appearance, but he’s not fooling me. . . .

Dad makes a hollow whistling noise as he exhales a held breath, then clears his throat awkwardly. "Yes, well—your Aeson—this young man of yours seems very nice. He really does. . . . A handsome, well-grounded fellow, apparently in charge of everything. . . . Excellent command of English. And then he exhales again. I’m a little stunned, I admit. . . . But I’m very proud of you—yes, of course. . . . Not sure how any of this happened, but we’ll come to that. At some point later you will tell me everything, how you met—although George did mention your fellow was a Qualification officer in charge of all of you, and now Gracie tells me he’s even grander . . . ah, it’s such a strange thing, my Gwenie-girl—that already you’re so grown up. . . . Getting married to an intelligent, accomplished young man from another world! Unbelievable to me—you’re my little girl, you know, still my sweet baby girl. . . ."

You’ve met him? You talked to Aeson? I whisper. Again, my mind goes spinning out of control with stupid amazement.

Dad nods. He was the first person we talked with when—

And then, just like that, he grows silent.

I know exactly why he stopped talking.

It hangs between us, this horrible, empty, hollow thing, this new hole in the fabric of the world.

Mom.

Dad watches me, and George watches me without saying anything. Two very long seconds pass. Since neither one of them seems capable of broaching the subject, I take a deep breath and say it.

When did Mom . . . die?

Another long second of silence, stretched into infinity across the universe.

Dad exhales and parts his lips, then makes an effort to compose his voice. I am so sorry. Your Mom passed away several days ago, about two weeks—ten days, I believe, counting in your Atlantean time. It was peaceful. She—she was very, very ill toward the end, Gwen. So very hard for her . . . all that waiting. We tried to hold on, and she did her best. She hung on even after the medicine stopped working, by sheer willpower. You know how she is—was. Tenacious and stubborn and infinitely strong. . . .

Dad’s voice fades and breaks. And then he gathers himself to say, Just like you. You got that strength from her, and joy, and all the rest of it, all the best parts. You and Gracie and your brothers too—

George’s grip on Dad’s shoulder tightens. I can see his fingers make the squeezing motion.

I’ve stopped breathing. I am frozen, using all my strength to hold back the pressure in my throat that’s choking me. . . .

In that moment, Gracie, who’s been hanging back, gets up from somewhere in back of me and comes up to the screen. Daddy! she says, and she is trembling, and starting to cry yet again.

Gracie, sweetheart! Dad says, seeing her. Oh, how I wish I could hold you, all of you right now! Right here— And he points to his chest.

I swallow hard. Then I reach out and place my hand, palm flat, against the screen. Dad sees me and does the same thing with his large hand.

We’re touching across the universe.

Moments later, Gracie joins us, with her hand flattened against the screen, and Gordie gets up and comes to stand also, on my other side, palm out. . . . While on the other end, Dad and George have their hands splayed against their own display surface, reaching out to us.

Finally Dad takes a shuddering breath and says to me, "You need to know, as far as burial—your Mom was cremated, a few days ago. It was her final wish. And I have her ashes here with us, on the ship. But—you can see her one more time, Gwen. Mom left you all a recorded message. Your sister and brother watched it, and now you can, too."

I part my lips. . . .

And that’s when the torrent breaks, and I am sobbing, ugly and hard, while Gracie puts her arms around me and pulls me against her chest and rocks me, and I let her, weak and limp. We both dissolve into each other, shaking, and Gordie watches helplessly, right next to us, while on the other side of the universe, through the screen, my Dad and George watch us also with silent grief.

A few horrible seconds later, I forcefully catch my breath and pull back from my sister. Sorry, I mumble in a thick voice. "I’ll watch Mom . . . a little later. Right now, I can’t."

I know, sweet, Dad says, his eyes glistening. Take your time. There’s plenty of time now. . . . No hurry. I just wanted you to know, to have something to look forward to.

Thanks, Dad. . . . Okay.

And then I look around and my gaze finds Aeson. He is still and silent, giving us our privacy. Aeson . . . I say and reach out with my hand to him. "Come, please."

Aeson hesitates only for a moment and then he steps into view, takes my hand, and looks seriously at my father and older brother. "Amre-ter Charles . . . and George. Good to see you."

Amre-ter. I recall this translates something like lord-of-my-love in Atlanteo and is the respectful address toward the father of one’s spouse.

Dad sees Aeson, and a soft smile comes over him. Oh . . . I’m very glad to see you again, Aeson. Thank you for taking care of my daughter—both of them, and my son too. I’m in your debt. And of course, this impossible, unexpected rescue.

When it’s his turn, George nods, matching Aeson’s serious expression. Aeson. Or—my apologies—should I say Command Pilot? Or My Imperial Lord?

So, George knows that Aeson is the Prince of the Imperial Kassiopei. . . . Of course, they both know by now.

Aeson is fine, my fiancé tells him, then again addresses my father. And nothing to be obligated for, Charles. I’m the one who now bears an eternal, joyful debt of gratitude to you for the very existence of your daughter Gwen. As for your own circumstances—I only wish we could have done more, and sooner. I blame myself for this inexcusable delay—

Aeson, no! I squeeze his hand and look at him with a raw face of emotion. "Don’t. Let’s not do this now, please. . . . No what ifs."

She is right, Dad says at once. What happened was—well, it was going to happen. No need to beat yourself up over sad things that are done. Your people here did what they could, it was a difficult business, getting us all up here.

But Aeson does not look convinced. He is silent, and I recognize the strange, tense line of his lips, the control slamming down to hold back force. My people—will be held accountable. But let’s not talk about it now.

Yes, let’s not, I repeat. Please.

And then I turn to my father, and I manage a little smile, and throw a softening glance at my beloved. So—this is Aeson, Dad, I say, biting my lip in a new bout of awkwardness. I want you to know that I love him very much.

As I glance at Aeson again, I notice that the moment he hears my words, his face warms with an instant blush. At once he lets go of the difficult topic of our conversation, and the stern line of his lips eases into a shadow smile.

"And I love your daughter—with all that I have and all that I am," he says in a gentle voice, looking at my father with a forthright, unblinking gaze. For a brief moment, there’s a vulnerable expression in his lapis-blue eyes, as if he’s unsure of my father’s reaction. But it’s only a flicker. . . .

Then all is well, as it should be, my father says immediately, and he is nodding and smiling also. And in case it’s unclear, I approve wholeheartedly. You have my blessing. I know that Margot—if she were here—would be very happy to see you together. She would’ve liked you, Aeson. . . .

Thanks, Dad . . . thank you. . . . I mumble as the lump in my throat begins to rise again.

Thank you for the kind words, Charles, Aeson says solemnly. "I am truly sorry I will not have the honor of meeting Amre-taq Margot."

Amre-taq. Lady-of-my-love in Atlanteo is an honorific which my Mom will never get to hear. My breath hitches, and my hands tremble. . . .

Meanwhile, Dad continues speaking. "Margot would really be proud, amazed even—seeing all that you’ve achieved and survived, and that you’ve turned into such outstanding young people. To be sure now, Gwen is still rather young, and marriage is such a grand commitment—indeed, seems that all of you are so very young—or maybe it’s just me getting old—but these are unusual, world-ending times. I would’ve preferred for you to finish school first, my dear, but—again, never mind me. Under the circumstances, study and knowledge can wait. The universe is genuinely uncanny, and you must do what you can to make the most of your time in it. Use every single priceless moment to be happy . . . because our meager human life is ridiculously short, and—and people you love leave much too soon—" Dad stops, taking another breath, parts his lips. He is powerless.

I can see how badly broken he is.

Oh God, Dad! What am I doing now? I’m selfishly forcing him to relive the pain of losing Mom! No!

Dad, I say as carefully as I can, "I think you should go back to bed now. I know it’s late for you and George, and we can talk again tomorrow. I’m honestly close to collapse myself. It’s been a very long day here, like you wouldn’t believe, so . . . sorry we woke you up. I came straight from the Games and just wanted you to know I’m okay, and to—to—"

"I know, sweet, and I am so glad you did, Dad says, recovering control. Now we can rest easy—knowing that you are indeed safe!"

Same here! I’m so relieved you are safe and on board! At last! Oh, God, at last!

Only . . . Mom is gone. She is not safe. She is . . . not.

I force myself to bury this thought, far down, deep down, for just this moment.

Instead, I put my fingers to my lips, kissing them, then press them against the screen. Go, get some sleep, Dad! I say. More soon! Love you! Good night, George!

Love you, Dad! Gracie says at once, and Gordie echoes her.

My father and George respond with their own affectionate gestures and then move out of view.

A moment later, in their place I see a familiar Atlantean. His gilded hair is cropped very short, and he has handsome, well-balanced features, a blunt chin with a dimple, prominent brows, and kohl-outlined eyes. His skin is somewhat dark, a rich hue reminiscent of red river clay.

His expression is impossible to read.

It is Nefir Mekei.

Chapter 3

Nefir Mekei looks unchanged from the last time I saw him about a year ago—the same steady, unblinking stare that at first glance reveals nothing. Except, maybe not quite.

I see that a new weight has settled in his eyes. A weight that I recognize as the subtle burden of guilt.

It is especially noticeable when he sees me.

Nefir acknowledges Aeson first. His courtly salute is impeccable. My Imperial Lord, he says in a neutral voice. And my Imperial Lady Gwen, he adds after the tiniest of pauses. I find it somewhat odd that, upon seeing me for the first time after so many months, his expression does not light up, and he doesn’t smile at me even a little.

Aeson watches him with an emotionless gaze, which I suddenly find alarming.

Nefir Mekei. What do you have to report?

There is another moment of pause. The question—it should be harmless, but there is an immediate air of menace hanging among all of us. It’s now undeniable. Maybe it is Aeson’s icy tone.

Is it—secure to speak in confidence? Nefir asks carefully, with a glance in my direction. Am I permitted to proceed with all the details?

Suddenly I’m barely breathing, as if some kind of deep secret is about to be revealed to me.

Speak as you would to me in private, Aeson replies.

Very well. . . . No significant changes to report, Nefir says evenly. The situation on the surface remains turbulent—globally—but with no deviations from the previous assessment. A new fire zone has formed in Europe, and there is an unfortunate zone expansion in central North America, combining the two infernos in Utah and Colorado into one super-inferno—the fourth one that’s currently burning on that continent. Meanwhile I find no anomalies in the chatter from the United Nations and various government entities. Same flat activity for global terror groups. Radiation levels in the north and west Pacific and north Atlantic remain almost identical since previously measured, despite the latest African detonation. Volcanic and seismic readings are stable.

Nefir pauses to glance down at his digital notepad on the desk, then resumes in a measured tone. "My complete four-day status report with these details and more will be available for transmission to the ACA Director in Poseidon by opening hour of work on Green Ghost Moon 1, your tomorrow. My—additional, classified status report for the Imperial Sovereign’s sole benefit still awaits . . . as per your instructions."

Aeson continues to observe Nefir without saying anything. Several painful seconds tick by, and I can see Nefir’s blank expression become even more fixed—if such a thing is possible.

At last Aeson speaks. You may now relay your classified Imperial report. . . . I give you permission to convey to my Father the significant detail of Margot Lark’s death, and the other significant details of the Lark family rescue.

Nefir inclines his head after the tiniest pause. "Thank you, Imperial Lord. I—am relieved to be able to finally carry out my duty—both my duties—to the Imperial Sovereign, and to you."

"So far you have failed in one of your duties—to me, as my astra daimon heart brother—so at least you can continue to carry out your remaining duty to the Imperial Kassiopei." Aeson’s expression is chilling and his voice becomes razor-sharp—not a power voice, but almost, because at once I feel pricklings along my skin, and an intangible weight settles on my spine, sinks inside my bones. . . .

Nefir must feel it too. He blinks, parts his lips, but waits before reacting. He inhales deeply and momentarily glances at me before returning his full attention to Aeson. I am truly sorry, I am, Kass. . . . But you understand my position. You knew it, and the nature of my official role, from the beginning. I have my orders directly from the Imperator, and I must adhere to them, superseding all others—even your own.

"The correct term of address is ‘Imperial Lord.’ You are not to address me as ‘Kass’—ever again."

For the first time Nefir flinches. "Understood. . . . My apologies . . . Imperial Lord."

And then he looks at me. And to you, Gwen—My Imperial Lady, I am bitterly sorry. I—I cannot begin to express how painful—

I catch my breath, listening to him, to his controlled and lifeless voice, and sudden horrible thoughts begin to race wildly. . . .

Aeson interrupts him. "Painful? No. You cannot, you may not speak of pain, not in my lady’s presence. What your intentional, perfectly calculated actions caused is a tragedy. A family tragedy. And since she is now my family, it is my family tragedy also."

I am sorry . . . so sorry.

I finally find the strength to speak. What? What did you do, Nefir? I say, but somehow, I already know the answer.

Nefir looks at me with his fixed eyes, holding his gaze upon me, somehow, unwavering. I . . . followed the Imperial orders.

What you did was lie to me and to the entire Lark family, both here on Atlantis and on Earth, Aeson says loudly, and his words cut like heavy machetes through the silence. "You stalled their rescue efforts, under sadistic orders from my Father, without telling me the truth. You made daily excuses for over a month, both to the Lark family stranded on the surface and to me, while all along Margot Lark’s health deteriorated until it was too late."

Behind me I can hear Gracie’s sharp intake of breath and Gordie making a strange sound.

Not sure if my Dad and George are still present in the same room as Nefir, if they too just heard. . . .

Oh, my God. . . .

I had to carry out what I was commanded to do, Nefir says softly. This time his eyes are lowered as he speaks. I had to proceed within the scope of my Imperial orders. My oath remains to the highest office. It cannot be any other way.

I know, Aeson says, and now there’s a tone of mockery in his voice. I’ve always known your primary loyalties, but not the pedantic extent of your calculated duplicity.

"And yet, I did not fully inform the Imperator, even now—not until this moment! I held back the information for your sake, in my deepest regard for you, Imperial Lord! You realize that technically I broke my oath by not informing the Imperator ten days ago!"

Technically you broke your oath many times over, Aeson says. "If only you had trusted me enough to share the truth of your impossible situation, I would have come up with a feasible workaround! Indeed, I would’ve taken full responsibility for keeping you from carrying out your Imperial orders, and Gwen’s mother might still be alive today!"

I find that my pulse is pounding once again, and my ears are ringing with a head rush. You—you kept my mother from being rescued? I whisper-croak, putting one palm against my mouth, then putting my other trembling hand over it. "You killed her!"

Gracie cusses, hard, at the same time as she leans forward to hold my shoulders and back, as I shake with wordless agony and fury. I didn’t know this! she exclaims, beginning to hyperventilate also.

On the other side of the screen, across the universe, Nefir Mekei keeps his gaze lowered, and he seems to have stopped breathing, so motionless is he. . . .

I take full responsibility, he says at last. And then he looks up at us.

For the first time it is apparent that Nefir’s eyes are glistening.

"Yes, you do. Aeson has stirred and is now also leaning forward, closer to the screen. His expression is deadly. I don’t want to see your face again until I command you to be present before me. Continue with your regular Fleet and Imperial duties and report to my Father as scheduled. Now, get me Quoni Enutat. You are dismissed!"

I— Nefir tries to speak, pauses, then finishes in a dead voice. As you wish . . . Imperial Lord.

And then he is gone.

––––––––

Next, we wait, with the video screen filled by the Imperial Fleet logo.

Aeson turns to me at once with a tragic expression and takes me by the shoulders. Gwen, he says in a completely different, gentle voice, I’m so sorry that you had to see this—all of you— He glances at Gordie and Gracie—But it’s better that you learn this harsh truth now, rather than later. And I promised myself, no more withholding of information from you. Not for any reason. It is why I forced this ugly confrontation. You had to know everything.

What did he do? What actually happened? I manage to speak, regaining control over my sobs.

Nefir Mekei is an agent of my Father and always has been; that’s not a secret. It was accepted by all of us before we even went on the Earth mission, since he was assigned as the primary Earth liaison on the Imperator’s behalf. Aeson takes a deep breath. "Nefir is an Imperial Kassiopei loyalist, firmly indoctrinated into the cult of traditional hierarchy, and his family has prided itself on serving my dynasty. Previously he’s always been able to balance his rigid loyalties to the Throne with his personal loyalties to the astra daimon. I had no reason to believe this time would be any different. . . . That he would act so contrary to my will, in direct defiance of my orders, without at least giving me the courtesy of informing me when he is being overridden by my Father. . . . I have to think that my Father specifically commanded him not to divulge anything to me. . . ."

Gordie cusses and says something unrepeatable about Nefir. Gracie echoes him.

I’m in such a state that I have no words.

What an evil jerk! Gracie spits out her words fiercely. I always knew he was too slick!

But I don’t even glance at her. Please continue . . . tell me what he did, all of it, I say, looking at my fiancé. "And Aeson, thank you for not holding back."

Aeson nods. His hands run down my arms, then his fingers begin gently smoothing over my wrists. "This is what I learned—along with so many other things, once I confronted him—after a fortunate mention from another fellow astra daimon Pilot as

signed to the same ship, Quoni Enutat, whom you’re about to meet. Quoni has been observing Nefir’s interactions with Earth and with those of us here . . . and he noted a subtle discrepancy in both the transmittal of information and the handling of commands. Quoni doesn’t have the same high level of clearance as Nefir, but he is highly observant and capable of deductive inference under the most subtle circumstances."

Okay . . . I whisper. My hands, despite being held in Aeson’s, continue to shake.

"At some point Quoni noticed that the communications sent to your family were not entirely accurate and didn’t reflect the state of things, based on the current planetary status. Nefir made an excuse about being unable to land a shuttle due to the specific location of a fire hazard near your part of Vermont that was not precisely true—not a complete falsehood, but just enough deviation from reality to give Nefir’s reasons for not coming down to the surface enough credence—which made Quoni wonder why. As time went on, Nefir presented other faulty details—heightened Earth government surveillance in your skies preventing a shuttle from passing without detection, social unrest and militia activity near your home, natural occurrences dangerous to flight, false weather conditions—even at one point an excuse about our own shuttle and personnel availability and technical malfunctions, which was clearly nonsense.

"Quoni began keeping track of all such details until he had enough of a pattern to suspect disloyalty or dark motives, especially after Nefir’s subtle modifications to minor shipboard routine orders each time he communicated with my Father. And that’s when Quoni contacted me privately and presented his evidence. I confronted Nefir about everything, at which point he could no longer distort details without lying to my face. Ah, the things I learned—not just about your family’s stalled rescue, but about so many other things related to the Earth mission. We’ll speak more about it later, but for now I want you to know that a crime was committed, I’m aware of it, and I will not let it go unpunished."

So—so my Mom could’ve been treated for her cancer, and instead—

My voice cracks and trails off again. Gracie and Gordie both utter something, but I don’t hear the words, so focused am I on trying to maintain my control.

Aeson’s expression is raw. Yes—maybe. . . . I’ll be honest, I cannot definitely state that even our advanced medical technology could have cured her completely at such a late stage of her disease, but it would’ve made a difference, yes. . . .

I press my hands against my mouth, hard.

Behind me I can hear Gracie’s messy sobs.

That’s when the display screen comes alive again, and we see another Atlantean.

––––––––

Pilot Quoni Enutat’s face is solemn and calm, without the awful rigid tension of Nefir Mekei, even though his breathing is slightly elevated, suggesting that he’s arrived in a hurry. His lean features are elegant, vaguely Earth-Asian in appearance, with kohl-rimmed dark eyes, a chiseled, aristocratic jawline, and golden-bronze skin. His short, very black hair is gilded only at the spiked tips, adding precision to his sharp looks.

"Nefero dea, Imperial Lord, Quoni says with unhesitant accuracy in a deep voice, after performing a crisp salute. I’m very sorry for the delay, but I was stuck below on H-deck dealing with a minor crisis in Hydroponics—all resolved now."

"Good to see you, daimon, Aeson says in a completely different, friendly tone. I want you to meet the Imperial Lady Gwen Lark, my Bride."

Quoni turns to look at me, and although he does not precisely smile, his expression softens at my distress. He immediately inclines his head and gives me a courtly salute. Very glad to meet you, My Imperial Lady Gwen. I only wish it was under happier circumstances.

Thank you . . . I say in a cracked voice. Somehow, I feel reassured that he can tell I’ve been weeping, and he knows why.

Aeson takes a deep breath. My Father will now be informed of everything, he says.

So . . . Nefir’s next report, Quoni says. You gave him permission?

Yes. A delay is no longer necessary. The Games are over; Gwen is out of danger and has been informed of the tragedy. The news cannot be used against her by my Father or anyone else. At least Nefir obeyed me in this one small way, bought us enough time so she could finish the Games without being compromised by shock and grief—I give him that much credit.

Quoni barely moves his head in a gesture of disdain. You give him too much credit. Too kind of you, Kass.

Aeson frowns. Don’t worry, I’m not done with him. Continue having him watched for now.

You can count on it. Let me know if you want me to do anything else.

Actually, there is something. Aeson glances at me then turns back to Quoni. "I have an urgent mission for you. There are four mid-capacity, high-velocity cruisers on board AS-1999. One will not be missed. First thing in the morning, you will take one velo-cruiser, and put Charles Lark and George Lark inside. Take also three of your trusted crew with you and enough supplies for six people for three months, including at least two stasis chambers for the Jump, to accommodate the Larks. And then I want you to leave Earth’s orbit and come home as fast as you can. My personal orders."

For the first time Quoni’s calm face shows animated surprise, and his brows rise. Wait, what? You mean, return to Atlantis—now?

Yes, now. Aeson smiles and again glances at me briefly. You’re officially off the Earth mission, and your new primary mission is delivering the Larks to Atlantis, so that my Bride can have her entire family with her as soon as possible.

I make a startled exclamation of wonder, feeling the first stab of joy coming to replace the unrelenting misery of the past hours.

Seriously? These are excellent orders! Quoni smiles, baring white teeth. What about my current duties? To whom should I reassign?

It doesn’t matter, Aeson says. Nefir can handle everything and anything he likes in this last ugly phase of the Earth mission. He’s been doing it all along, and a few more responsibilities piled on his head are the least I can do to make his life ‘easier.’

Acknowledged—proceeding to carry out the new mission orders. Will make the necessary arrangements immediately, Quoni says with a pleased smile still lurking on his face. "One clarification—when you say fast, do you mean to pull the Quantum Stream at maximum rated speed, aiming for three months’ arrival time?"

"No, I mean you exceed the maximum, Aeson says. Feel free to ignore the rated speed Fleet standards, and go at true possible velocity, with reasonable safety precautions. Show me what you can do, astra daimon, and I will overlook the illegal details!"

Quoni raises his brows again. Understood! I haven’t speed-pushed a velo-cruiser this size before, only the small ones. This is going to be fun.

See if you can arrive here within two months. It will not be in time for the Wedding, but at least not too long after.

Oh my God, thank you, Aeson! I say with emotion.

We’ll see Dad and George! Gracie exclaims.

When’s the Wedding again? Quoni asks.

Aeson thinks for a moment. Believe it or not, in just thirty-five days.

Quoni whistles. I’ll see what I can do, Kass. . . .

"I know you won’t fail me, daimon. Bring them home safely, and I will never forget your service."

Chapter 4

As soon as Quoni ends the call, Aeson turns off all the comm equipment and gives me his full attention.

Gwen, all right, you need to rest now . . . he says softly, nearing me and putting his hand on my shoulder to squeeze it. Let’s get you to your own quarters so you can get changed out of that damn uniform and—

Gordie and Gracie exchange quick looks with Aeson, then Gracie nods and gets up in a hurry. Yes, Gwenie, let’s go get you settled in!

I release a breath I didn’t even know I was holding and nod silently, too shell-shocked to protest or even care what’s happening to me now. But there’s a tiny hopeful smile on my lips as I face all of them. Dad and George are coming!

Will they be okay on that fast ship? I ask with a sudden new stab of worry. And what if Nefir tries to stop them?

Quoni is an excellent pilot, Aeson replies with a confident look and a smile of his own. Don’t worry. Nefir has no say in this. Even if he reports to my Father and receives a contrary command, Quoni can claim Star Pilot Corps jurisdiction which, under specific circumstances, takes precedence over the highest authority of the Imperial Fleet. And Captain Hirat Sumbui of AS-1999 will follow the proper command hierarchy.

So you, as the SPC Commander, can override the Captain, the IF Commander, and the Imperator? Gordie says, apparently aware of Aeson’s high position in the Star