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  “He is here, as you can see quite well,” the Imperator replies, glancing at Aeson and beckoning with one hand. “Talk to the Pharikon. Tell him what you know.”

  Aeson moves in closer and slightly inclines his head in a curt but polite acknowledgement of the other ruler. “Shiokuh nuuttos, Pharikon Heru,” he says in a composed voice. “You have the most recent report from the SPC, nothing new since.”

  “Nothing? What about the activation of the Ra Disk and your own Grail transmitting who-knows-what kind of rogue signal, for a whole day, Commander?” The Pharikon speaks to Aeson in a voice that now quakes with irritation. “Have you checked the skies since? Have you sent your scout ships into deep space today? I am told you’ve been busy with your new Bride—not enough to neglect your SPC duties, I trust?”

  The Imperator draws closer to the screen once again. “We’ve been rather busy with the Games, or did you forget, Heru? This is Games season. All of Atlantida is consumed. Yesterday it was supposed to be over, but because of the unfortunate incident my son’s Bride caused, the conclusion of the Games has been postponed, the betting halted. . . . Now the final ceremony must take place as soon as possible or they will riot—”

  “I don’t understand,” the Pharikon says. “What exactly has the Gebi Bride to do with the incident? How did she cause this disruption? What happened?”

  “My Bride was a Contender in the Games,” Aeson replies with a grim expression, without looking at his father.

  “What? But how strange!” Areviktet Heru’s narrow slits of eyes widen momentarily, despite their surrounding border of wrinkles. “Why would she be in your Games? Who allowed it?”

  “It was a Wedding Gift,” I say suddenly. “The chance to be a Contender in the Games was a generous Gift bestowed upon me by the Imperial Sovereign.”

  The moment I speak, the Imperator turns to glare at me—presumably because I dared to open my mouth. Aeson, on the other hand, allows himself a faint smile at the corners of his lips as he watches me.

  Emboldened by Aeson’s encouraging expression, I continue. “During the final tiebreaker event I used my Voice to lift the thing which I thought to be the Grail Monument, unintentionally activating the ancient ship. I didn’t know what it was, naturally, or I would never—”

  “You broke the Master Lock with your Voice?” The Pharikon addresses me in his carefully measured English, and now the intense gaze of his shrewd eyes is boring into mine. “You have a Logos voice? What are you? How is that possible? Only a Logos voice can break the Imperial Aural Block!”

  “I am Gwen Lark, a refugee from Earth,” I say. “I’m told that I have a Logos voice, yes. Not sure how or why, or what any of it means.”

  The Pharikon shakes his head in incredulity. “So—you survived Atlantida’s annual feast of blood, slaughter of the talents, the best and brightest.”

  “Yes. I won. And now I’m a Champion.”

  “Hmm. . . .” The old man pauses, considering me in silence. He then turns away and focuses on the Imperator. “A stupid risk, Kassiopei. What kind of ridiculous logic permitted a young, talented Gebi woman with a precious Logos voice to risk herself so needlessly, especially when she is your son’s chosen Bride?”

  “Ah, stop playing your favorite game of ignorance, Heru,” the Imperator replies. “As usual you already know—you always know more than you admit.”

  The Pharikon makes a sound that is either a snort or a chuckle, but his expression does not change its severity. “I’ve been hearing rumors naturally, about all of this—not the Logos voice, that part is new—but all the rest of it. As you can imagine, my sources are normally very well informed.”

  “Naturally.”

  “But in this case, I must admit, I’ve had some doubts as to their credibility—so I had to confirm with you directly. And now I am perplexed even more. Why would you arrange this dreadful situation? What possible motives?”

  “You’re still playing,” the Imperator says with sarcasm. “I only gave my son’s Bride what she had wanted for a long time. Her aspirations to be in our Games are public knowledge. You should ask your sources for a library of old media feeds detailing the biographical circumstances, culminating with the Gift presented at the Assembly in her honor, a splendid event—”

  “Such a generous Gift . . .” I interrupt, speaking in a hard voice, while continuing to look directly at the old Pharikon.

  Everyone glances at me. Aeson’s gaze upon me is particularly intense.

  “I see,” Areviktet Heru says after the slightest pause, no longer looking at me. “So, this is your way of punishing your son and Heir for his unusual choice of Bride. You are so transparent, Kassiopei, so transparent in your malice. How predictable you are, Archaeon Imperator. Short-tempered and short-sighted yet again, allowing your passions to rule you. . . . Ah. . . . This tendency of yours was your Father’s scourge. I remember so well how he tried to mold you, shape and temper your character, to little avail—”

  The Imperator leans in closer to the screen with a dark expression, and his words slither like serpents. “Go to bed, old man. And don’t presume to evaluate my actions in your daft head.”

  “I will do as I please, as always, Imperial snakeling. Don’t assume I am the only one who can see through your hot-headed grudge of a Gift. The Imperial Court of Atlantida might close their collective eyes, and your propaganda machine might make endless media feeds, but your people will see right through it—”

  “Enough!” Romhutat Kassiopei cuts him off. “If you have any other state business to discuss, or questions for the SPC Commander, proceed. Otherwise, we’re done.”

  In that moment, the same young voice sounds off-screen, whispering in Deshi.

  “What now?” the Pharikon says, turning to the young person in the room. He grabs and fumbles with the mech arm of the second monitor, returning to us the night view of the Ra Disk. And this time the old man makes an angry noise for which no explanation is necessary.

  The previously silent golden disk is humming.

  I recognize that deep sound—the same sound that has been issuing from the Grail.

  The Imperator curses furiously and immediately pulls up his own second monitor here on our end. He sings the initial command, then hand-keys additional ones, and the live feed of the Stadion arena returns.

  In the now familiar view, the camera device, still touching the Grail surface, again vibrates with the metallic buzz caused by the deep, profound humming coming from the Atlantis Grail.

  The ancient ark-ship is active once more, despite all our earlier efforts.

  “Oh, no,” I whisper, and my hand involuntarily rises to my mouth. I glance at Aeson, who looks at me, then stares at his father, who in turn glares at the screen close-up.

  “What? What is going on, Kassiopei?” Frowning at us from the other screen, the Pharikon of New Deshret speaks in a much steadier voice than he’s been using for the last few minutes (which seems to indicate he is not as frail or ill as he puts on).

  Aeson fixes on his father. “Why is it active again?”

  The Imperator curses once more, a stream of Atlanteo words, many of which I’m not familiar with. “What—what is it doing?” he exclaims finally, pounding his desk with one fist and holding the monitor with the other. “I reset the Master Lock. It should be dead!”

  “If you set it properly, why is it still active?” the Pharikon asks with a tone of accusation. “Are you sure you did the sequence correctly?”

  The Imperator roars in reply. “The Imperial Aural Block worked! I set it perfectly, and everything went quiet. This should not be happening!”

  “Do it again,” Areviktet Heru says.

  “Let Gwen do it,” Aeson says suddenly. “Let her do the whole keying sequence.”

  The Imperator glances up at me momentarily, then again ignores me, his son, and even the Pharikon on the other monitor. His single-minded focus is now on the screen with the Grail, as he grasps that monitor on both sides with his finge
rs and leans in closer, staring fiercely.

  And then the Imperator begins to sing. First, the simple C-E-G keying sequence, three times. And then he sings the intricate Imperial Aural Block.

  Our nervous tension fills the room. We listen while the Imperator’s darkly powerful voice cuts and carves the air into tonal shreds, like a blade of punctuated intent.

  And again, just as before, the ark-ship responds. First, the humming stops as the ship listens for input. Then the lurch of profound, low sound comes, followed by the gathering power-wave which transforms, rising into a supersonic shriek and disappearing with a boom.

  In its place there is once again silence.

  Romhutat Kassiopei looks up and glares at all of us with a dark, triumphant expression. Then he rests his gaze on Areviktet Heru. “Now you see how it’s done, Heru, and you can hear the actual result. Still don’t believe me? Well? Now check your own end again and tell me if it worked. The Ra Disk should be inactive.”

  The Pharikon grunts, and his wrinkled face moves away as we see him fumble with his own second monitor and get a fleeting glimpse of the hands of his young assistant. Then he returns with a reluctant nod. “Yes, Kassiopei, it is again shut off.”

  “Precisely,” the Imperator concludes with satisfaction.

  “But for how long?” the Pharikon says, his voice again regaining its rasp, which is apparently his normal public demeanor. “I don’t trust this command of yours to provide permanent results. Let us wait and see.”

  “Suit yourself,” the Imperator says, and a muscle twitches in his jaw.

  And so, we wait. The Imperator drums his fingers on the surface of his desk, while Aeson looks at me reassuringly, then—after about thirty extremely uncomfortable seconds of silence—makes polite small talk with the Pharikon.

  “How is the weather in Xois tonight, Pharikon Heru?” Aeson says casually. “Not too cold? I hear your techs have been having some trouble maintaining the coastal atmospheric pressure balance in the Gulf of Eos this season.”

  But Areviktet Heru is in no mood for pleasantries. “If you want to know about our barometric stats, Commander, look it up. Don’t make light of this very grave situation and don’t evade the subject at hand, young Kassiopei. I want this Ra Disk and your Grail situation resolved. It is all I care about right now. Is that clear?”

  “Very,” Aeson replies, still calm and composed. “We want this resolved as much as you do.”

  “Heh.” The Pharikon responds with a creaky grunt of annoyance and shakes his head.

  The Imperator merely glares at the ruler of New Deshret, continuing to tap his fingers fiercely on the desktop. Periodically he glances at his other monitor with the view of the Grail.

  Whenever he does that, the Pharikon in turn glances at his own other monitor with the view of the Ra Disk, as if to make a point.

  Moments tick by.

  And then the dreaded sound comes. Maybe I’m the first to hear it, because I feel a sensation of something deep rising, a barely perceptible disturbance along my skin, prickling the nerves—and I catch my breath.

  Now it’s undeniable. The profound hum issues from the live streaming feed of the Grail, while at the same time the Pharikon pulls the display of the Ra Disk closer, and we can hear the small gasp of the young assistant behind him. “It returns! This is obviously not working, Kassiopei!”

  The expression on the Imperator’s face is terrifying. For one long moment he does not answer.

  And then he very deliberately turns to the Pharikon, saying, “I will handle it, Heru. Will call you back.”

  And with a hard movement he disconnects the call.

  “Let Gwen do the Imperial Aural Block, Father,” Aeson says. “Teach her and teach me, for that matter.”

  “No.” The Imperator looks at his son like a dragon. “We are going to the Stadion, now.”

  Chapter 10

  What happens next is a flurry of activity. While Aeson and I wait, the Imperator calls his staff and orders cars readied for a sudden trip downtown. He barks orders in a cutting tone at his wrist comm, then motions for us to follow him out of his Red Office.

  Moments later we are surrounded by Imperial guards, and we rush after the Imperator through the hallways of the Imperial Quarters. In the central grand lobby at the elevators, Aeson’s own guards join our group, hanging back somewhat to give the Imperator’s personal guards precedence, and we continue moving into a doorway that leads in the opposite direction from the lobby and deeper again into the same level of the Palace.

  Many hallways, servants scattering out of the way, and confusing turns later, a corridor opens into another, smaller, marble-and-gold-trimmed lobby also equipped with elevators. We take the elevators there, but instead of descending we continue up to the Palace roof. I have not been to this specific portion of the roof—the Imperial Palace complex is sprawling and huge, not a single structure but a many-tiered grouping, with flat and angled roofs topping various buildings—and this particular roof area appears to serve as a landing hover-pad. I notice it’s located far away from the elegant open-air pavilion where I had my first eos bread and met my future in-laws on my first full day in Atlantis, because I can barely make out the colonnades of the pavilion in the distance, at least four rooftop tiers away, through the white haze of Hel’s light.

  Crisp wind washes over us, and bright morning sunlight strikes us with a fierce white glare. Aeson pauses momentarily to take my hand, pulling me toward him, then hands me a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Squinting, I put them on, feeling immediate relief, and continue moving, holding him by the hand, as we are loaded into hover cars.

  At least six gleaming metal vehicles await us, levitating two feet above the surface. The Imperator commands us to his own large private car with an opulent, dimly lit interior, and unexpectedly takes the seat in the very front next to his own staff driver, who handles the task of flying our vehicle. Meanwhile I end up next to Aeson in the second row of seats, and the guards pile in behind us in the third and fourth rows in the very back.

  All through this, the Imperator doesn’t say a word to his son or to me. He only addresses the driver with a curt command, “To the Stadion, quickly.” And then he stares out the indigo-tinted, translucent anti-glare window, ignoring all of us, his gaze straining forward, his fierce, handsome profile stilled in darkness.

  We lift off, and the Palace rooftops fall away in a gilded radiance of mauve, red, and black-trimmed marble, as we rise into the blindingly incandescent sky, flying toward Poseidon city center.

  All this time, Aeson’s large, comforting hand continues to cover mine.

  I find that I’m barely breathing, numb and frozen, while we fly over the now familiar city landmarks, with no one speaking. Soon I see the radiance of gold that is the Grail “monument,” rising up in the distance.

  Now that I know what it actually is, for the first time my mind perceives the blazing vision and properly interprets it, filling in the gestalt of the continuation of the Grail underneath the ground, so that I can almost visualize it, the giant ark-ship buried deep beneath the city.

  The Imperator directs his driver to land us right inside the empty Stadion arena, at the foot of the Grail. As soon as the vehicle doors open, I hear the deep, bone-jarring hum, feel its low vibration sweep over my body. We get out of the hover car in haste.

  Aeson and I carefully step onto the arena floor and exchange glances, while the Imperator practically leaps out ahead of us and issues commands in a draconian voice. The Imperial guards are told to make sure no one else is in the area, and to clear from the premises any grounds restoration staff or other employees.

  “No one is to be allowed here, do you understand?” the Imperator tells them. “Not even the building security. I want them all out. Inform them this is a mandatory safety inspection before we begin the reconstruction cleanup.”

  All but two of the guards immediately spread out across the vacant expanse and disappear inside the corridors of the nearb
y buildings.

  The two remaining guards step back discreetly to a polite distance that is well out of hearing range. I watch them conversing on their wrist comms with others who are elsewhere in the complex.

  “Come!” the Imperator tells us meanwhile and begins walking toward the Grail, stepping over the cracks in the ground and the uprooted building material lining the floor of the arena.

  We follow, stepping carefully over the crumbling sections underfoot, over what looks like concrete and rock and layers of twisted metal.

  Oh my God . . . I did this.

  My breath shudders as I test my footing before each step.

  The grandiose golden stem portion of the Grail rises into the sky above us. Curving upward, it expands into the immense round bowl section that casts a circular shadow. Instead of looking up at it, I stare at what’s on the ground in front of me—the barely convex horizontal “stand” portion which is the outer surface of the main hull, the buried bulk of the ark-ship.

  “Come, come!” Romhutat beckons angrily with his hand as he steps onto the golden, curving surface.

  Aeson walks after him, and I follow.

  My perception of the humming vibration increases exponentially the moment I make direct contact. It enters my body through my feet, and I feel my teeth rattle with the horrible buzzing. It occurs to me, I am standing on top of the ancient ship. At once I am overwhelmed by the strange wonder, the implications—not only does it affect all my physical senses, but it stirs the mind with a cascading depth of emotion.

  Ahead of me, the Imperator walks a few more steps along the golden curvature and stops at the base of the immense upright column—at least ten feet in diameter at the slimmest point—that constitutes the rising goblet stem. He puts both hands against the stem, fingers splayed and digging in with intensity like frustrated dragon claws. He lowers his head and closes his eyes, then begins to sing the keying sequence.