Compete Read online

  It seems well orchestrated, yet it occurs to me, it’s a wonder they don’t collide with each other. But I suppose there must be some serious air traffic controlling involved in all this. My head reels. . . .

  After a while, none of it matters or makes any sense; all of it is chaos. . . . We mill around, watch the shuttles, watch the crowds, watch each other. We wait, follow directions from bland and expressionless Atlantean officers who scan us, check our token ID data against their hand-held devices. Then we are told to line up and wait some more, are scanned again. . . . All directions are repeated in English, Mandarin Chinese, Hindi, French, Spanish, German, Arabic, Russian. . . .

  It occurs to me, where are my friends? Where’s Laronda, Dawn, Hasmik, Blayne, and the others? Are they also emerging out of one or more of the great transport shuttles along this same huge shuttle bay, equally dazed and lost, overwhelmed with tragedy and exhaustion? Or are they onboard some other great starship? For that matter, did they even make it?

  All throughout, I remember sickly chills riding up and down my limbs, along my clammy dirty skin that is still prickling at the feel of the soggy fabric of my uniform, my hands feeling cold as ice after the subterranean ordeal of the Finals. I see Gracie’s equally dirty tear-smudged cheeks smeared with eyeliner, her terrified eyes looking at me constantly—looking for support and strength that in that moment I don’t have to give—and Gordie standing awkwardly next to us, filthy and tousled.

  Logan Sangre is also nearby, his usually gorgeous dark hair and face a mud-stained mess. For the first time he looks uncertain himself, no longer a confident hotshot high school senior, but very young, a teenage boy lost. And then as though reading my thoughts, Logan gathers himself and closes up emotionally, then casts grim looks around us, while we all scan the crowds for familiar faces and find none.

  Get a grip, Gwen Lark, I tell myself silently, over and over. They need you, you can’t afford to fall apart now.

  Just . . . Get. A. Grip.

  At some point we finally leave the shuttle bay and are taken through mind-blowingly endless hallways opening into decks and then into more convoluted passages with pale walls etched with ancient looking linear designs of hair-thin gold, beautiful and austere. The ship appears to be immense, so I lose track of any direction very quickly. We are herded in groups of about twenty at a time, regardless of our color Quadrant designations, into long narrow chambers filled with nothing but rows of narrow bunk beds along two walls, four levels high, all the way up to the ceiling, and simply told to take a bed and go to sleep.

  “These are not your permanent bed assignments,” an Atlantean of indeterminate youthful age with the typical long metallic-gold hair tells us. “This is simply for tonight and the next few days until you are sorted and assigned to your Quadrants and decks, and in some cases, other ships. So, don’t worry and don’t get too comfortable. Your personal belongings will be located and distributed starting tomorrow. You will also be informed how to have your uniforms cleaned.”

  “What about getting ourselves cleaned? And what about bathrooms?” several Candidates say.

  The Atlantean nods and points to the back of the long chamber. “Lavatories with toilets and sinks are at the end of the room, self-explanatory. Showers are somewhat more complicated, but there are pictorial instructions. They resemble your own Earth-style cabin enclosures, but use recycled high-pressure water mist. . . .”

  At the same time, another Atlantean crewman walks the rows of our bunks distributing what looks like food energy protein bars and drinking bottles. “These are high-calorie meal rations to give you strength. Eat them now, and then tomorrow for breakfast. Fill these bottles with water from the lavatory sinks—it is sterile and perfectly clean for drinking purposes as well as any other—and keep them with you always—”

  “Wait! What is this?” a girl says plaintively. “Aren’t we getting real food at some point?”

  The Atlantean looks at her sympathetically, but also with a no-nonsense expression. “Yes, you are. And yes, I realize you just went through a tremendous ordeal and require solid sustenance. But for now, this is what you eat and drink. Tomorrow, you will learn more about your ship, and you will learn where we eat real food, what the rules of conduct are, and how we live and perform our duties.”

  The meal bars are passed out, and the Atlanteans leave two huge containers with more, near the doors, for tomorrow’s breakfast.

  Great. . . .

  I receive my meal bar absentmindedly, chew it while we all stand in a messy line of exhausted teens all pushing and shoving and trying to get water, use the facilities in the back, wash up the best we can.

  “How does this work? Where’s the toilet paper?” are some of the complaints heard immediately, mostly from the Americans.

  “Haven’t you heard of a bidet?” a British guy says. “You use the water sprayer thing to wash your bum. Same idea here. Makes sense—in space you recycle your resources.”

  Finally we get out of there. I collapse into the first available ground-level bunk, right on top of a thin blanket and single pillow. I vaguely remember Gracie taking the bunk directly overhead, and Gordie hunched over in a fetal position in the next one over, on the same first level as mine.

  Logan pauses and stands before me momentarily as I lie there. Already I am lost in a silent stupor, but somehow I can tell he’s there, hovering over me. . . . Unexpectedly he leans down and brushes his hand gently over my cheek, moving my hair out of my face with a single soothing touch. “Good night, Gwen . . .” he whispers. “We made it.”

  I turn my head slightly to watch as he then climbs up to take the next bunk above Gracie on the third level.

  Because the ceiling overhead has no direct illumination, I still have no clear sense how big the cabin chamber itself is, or how many other teens there are in this room with us, even after I get up again to use the alien lavatory in the back with all its oddball water sprayers, moving past endless rows of bunks. The lights, strange soft Atlantean illumination, fade into sleeping darkness at some point. They must be set on a day-night timer cycle. . . .

  As I fall asleep, I hear, from everywhere around me, soft complex sounds of grief and relieved gratitude—muffled sobs, whispers that sound like prayers in languages I don’t recognize, and weeping.

  Everywhere, teenagers are crying in the dark.

  In the morning of the day right after Qualification—or what must be day according to the flux of the lights—I wake up still mentally numb, and with all my muscles aching, into a bright morning-level “daylight” which fills our sleeping cabin.

  What time is it? Earth time? Ship time?

  Like an arrow a thought pierces me: I am in space, on a great starship. . . .

  And then the wonder of it recedes, superseded by grim reality.

  George! George is not here. And neither are Mom and Dad. . . .

  Most of what follows on that first full day onboard is again filled with a daze of unreliable memories—strange sights and sounds, peculiar food, hours of horrible dull waiting and loud noise of young people talking all around us. Beyond using the lavatory or walking up and down the long room past the bunks filled with strangers, there is nothing to do, not even a chance to go through our belongings that are apparently still elsewhere. And none of us even has a clean change of clothing, so no one I know bothers with a shower.

  “This is h-e-l-l, hell,” Gracie whispers, periodically tugging at my uniform shirt in neurotic boredom. She huddles against me on my lower bunk, as we sit together. Not sure why she is bothering to whisper in this noisy chamber in which the Atlanteans apparently abandoned us. We’re basically refugees in an alien shelter.

  “Hang in there, Gee Four,” I whisper back with what little enthusiasm I can muster for her sake. And I brush my fingers lightly through her grimy hair—at which she surprisingly does not protest in her usual way. “I’m sure they’ll come to get us soon and take us someplace better.” And then I make meaningful eye contact with L
ogan who sits next to us.

  He gets it that I am just saying whatever blah stuff to keep Gracie calm. He in turn frequently watches the two United Hindustani guys on the bunk to the right, who give us possibly hostile or maybe just sad looks while they sit and twiddle their thumbs or toss dice on top of a blanket.

  Meanwhile a young Spanish kid, directly across from us, mutters some annoying pop song lyrics over and over, as he drums his fingers against his legs, until another girl tells him, “Basta, por favor, cállate,” which I know is the equivalent of “Enough already, please, shut up.”

  My brother Gordie frequently gets up and stomps his feet in place, watching us in silence, then takes a bite of the meal bar that he holds in one hand. I have no idea how Gordie can keep eating even now, after the two bars he’s had first thing this morning. They are not bad at all—taste a bit grainy and sweet like carob and honey, and definitely satisfy hunger. However, one is more than enough for me—but not for Gee Three, apparently.

  Hours go by as we sit on our bunks, chewing meal bars, talking quietly or loudly, waiting some more, many of us growing restless and bored, and noise levels rising.

  “What the hell is going on?” people say over and over. “We Qualified, so what next? When do we get our stuff? Where do we go from here? Are we even moving anywhere in these ships?”

  Then around noon, or what we are told is ship-board noon-time, we are taken in groups of about thirty to several larger assembly chambers that are classroom-sized, and have large smart wall display screens. We stand and look and listen, as the video displays come alive.

  The familiar face of Atlantean Fleet Commander Manakteon Resoi appears before us. He is wearing the usual grey uniform, and we all know him well at this point from so many months of global TV newscasts and interviews back on Earth.

  “Good afternoon, young people of Earth,” he says, speaking English with just a hint of that lilting accent that we’ve come to associate with Atlantean pronunciation. English has long been established as the Atlantis-Earth primary and default communication language via agreement with the United Nations. However we notice that now he is also being dubbed into other languages—the walls have small panels along the perimeter that serve as low-volume “speakers” that carry his speech in Mandarin Chinese, Hindi, French, Spanish, German, Arabic and Russian.

  “Welcome aboard our starships headed for Atlantis. You are the best of the best, since you have passed all the stages of Qualification and proved yourselves to be capable of integrating into our society—my profound congratulations to you. I realize you have many questions and they will be answered. First, you need to know this. The Fleet is at present stationed in orbit around Earth, while we are still preparing for our long journey. I realize you have said your painful goodbyes to your families. My sympathies are with you and with everyone who must remain. But now you must embrace the fact that you have been granted the privilege of carrying on the future of Earth, and the entire human race. You leave behind the past, and embark on a journey into tomorrow—”

  “Wow, is this mate still talking that pretty bullshit again?” a dark-haired teen mutters with an Aussie accent. “Why don’t he just cut the crap and tell us what is really happening with us?”

  “S-s-s-sh.” A girl nudges him.

  The Atlantean continues speaking. “In the coming days you will learn much about your role here, and you will develop your potential. But first, you must make a very important personal decision—a choice that will determine your new place in our society. You must choose what and who you will become.”

  The Fleet Commander pauses. The steady gaze of his dark, kohl-rimmed eyes holds us immobilized, as he seems to look at us and through us, from the display screen. “You have two options. You can either join the Atlantean Fleet as Cadets, pledging your lives and loyalty to Atlantis, or you may remain Civilians and join the general population of Atlantis when we arrive there, twelve of your Earth months from now. . . .”

  “Twelve months? Screw that!” some kid behind us mutters and begins to cuss. Gracie and I turn around involuntarily to stare.

  “Or what, dummkopf? Are you going to get off this boat early? Then go back and stay on Earth. Millions of people will be happy to take your place here,” an older German boy tells him with a frown.

  “What does this mean for you?” Commander Manakteon Resoi continues. “It means, you have to decide now how you will spend the rest of your lives. The military Fleet offers many more privileges and advantages, including higher rank, higher education, and higher pay even after retirement, but it also demands so much more from you, up to and including your life. It is not for everyone. In fact, it is not for the great majority of you. Meanwhile, if you choose a Civilian life—which most of you will—you will have access to education and various trades, and to solid basics. More details will be provided, to assist you with making your final selection. You have five days including today to make this life decision, after which, there will be no going back. You will be assigned to your permanent place on our ships for the rest of this journey, according to your Quadrant and final rank designation, and you will begin your duties and your in-depth education.”

  Commander Manakteon Resoi grows silent. He allows the information to sink in.

  In the new silence, the chamber around me fills with rising mutterings and waves of voices.

  “Wow,” someone says in American English. “This is wild. What if we can’t decide what we want to be?”

  “Pas du tout, I do not think that is one of our two choices,” a French girl replies.

  Gracie looks up at me with worried eyes. I turn around, and Gordie is also watching me. “What—what are we gonna do?”

  “Okay, look,” I say, blinking in stress. “We don’t have to decide just yet. We have several days to think about it. Civilian sounds nice and safe. We’ll be okay, right? We—both of you and—” I stop because I almost say “George”—and then I clam up.

  In that moment, the Atlantean Commander speaks again.

  “The journey to Atlantis itself will take approximately one Earth year—enough time to learn skills and integrate, so that when we arrive on Atlantis, you will feel at home, and you will know exactly what needs to be done. We start this journey and leave Earth’s orbit tomorrow, at exactly 8:00 AM, Earth Universal Time Coordinated, accelerating gradually. In about a week we will be outside your solar system. And then we will continue accelerating for six months, reaching incredible speeds within a special physical flux-state called a Quantum Stream, at which point we will Jump, crossing an immense light years distance in a blink, and emerge far in the Constellation of Pegasus. There we will decelerate for another six months, then emerge out of the Quantum Stream and arrive in our new solar system on Atlantis.”

  Commander Manakteon Resoi pauses. “And now, you will begin considering your choice, and you will begin your life with us. There are two thousand ark-ships in the Fleet, including four Imperial Command Ships. Each one of you is currently onboard one such great ark-ship, under the command of an Atlantean captain and crew. Today, you will learn who your captains are, and you will receive further instructions directly from them at the end of my transmission to you. With that, I leave you, and once again, I welcome you to your new life. As of now, you are all Atlanteans.”

  The display grows dark, replaced by a great square rainbow logo of Atlantis. We all continue staring, and in moments the large screen is refreshed and another face looks back at us. This one is a youthful woman, seeming ageless or merely an older teen, with shoulder-length golden hair and a serious expression.

  “Greetings to all of you,” she says in a loud no-nonsense voice. “I am Captain Bequa Larei, and you are onboard Ark-Ship 1109. After you make your choice of Fleet Cadet or Civilian, five days from now, it is likely most of you will remain here and be assigned to this same ship as your permanent living quarters for the rest of our trip. However, a number of you will be reassigned. For now, I want you to get to know the Atlant
ean Officers in charge of your Barracks and your Residential Section Deck. You will also familiarize yourself with the ship layout. A directory map can be called up at any display screen anywhere on the ship. Get to know this useful schematic because each of the ark-ships is identical, and you will need to know it regardless of what ship you end up being assigned to—”

  Captain Larei talks for about ten minutes, telling us important stuff about the ship, the various decks and their functions, the living quarters, the meal halls, the medical sections, the exercise and recreation decks, the classrooms and training centers, the hydroponics and greenhouses and resonance chamber hubs and various ship systems, on and on, blah, blah, blah. . . . My mind glazes over, I admit, which is very much unlike me, who usually soaks up learning and new facts like a sponge. But all I can think of is my brother George, as he was yesterday, riding his hoverboard, as he flies away, receding in the distance, and turns into a tiny speck against the sunset. . . .

  I will hear plenty more about this ship in the days ahead, but I will likely never see George again or have as clear a memory of his face as I do now.

  And so, I tune out mentally and submerge in precious flickering memories. . . . Eventually the Captain’s talk is over, and we are led back, and this time taken to a huge shuttle bay similar to the one in which we arrived last night. Since I haven’t studied the ship schematic yet, I don’t have any idea if it’s the same one or not, or if there’s even more than one, but it doesn’t matter.

  Here we are once again scanned by crew officials, and our token ID data is matched to our luggage. So we spend about three more stupendously dull hours waiting in this shuttle bay as robot vehicles ferry our stuff from newly docked freight shuttles. Everything is bundled in pallets, which then get unpacked before our eyes, sorted out, and distributed.