CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Today is Semi-Finals Day.
The early morning alarm claxons cut through my crazy stress dream of running through tall grass from some unnamed pursuers in great robot vehicles equipped with searchlights while giant evil alien ships close in from above, filling the night skies overhead with more terrible blinding lights. . . .
I blink, moaning from not enough sleep, while a familiar, sickening, queasy feeling comes to grip my gut. At the same time I realize it’s the overhead dormitory bright lights that have come on and mingled with my nonsense dream.
I have no idea how I’ve managed to fall asleep last night. Like most of us, I’ve gone to bed early, promptly by ten PM, back on training schedule hours, in a dormitory of suddenly quiet, serious girls. Before bed, some were meditating, others praying quietly. Only a handful continued to giggle and chat, up to the very last moment of lights out.
In that sudden darkness I vaguely remember lying awake for hours, tossing and turning, my mind burning in anticipation. Somehow I must’ve dozed off eventually. . . .
And now, it’s here.
The big horrible day.
I take a deep breath and sit up.
Laronda makes agonized noises in her own bed on one side of me, Hasmik on the other, and everyone is stirring.
“Good luck!” we mutter to each other.
A minute later, we hear the voice of Dorm Leader Gina Curtis, who blows her whistle and barks her commands at us. “Okay, Yellow Dorm Eight, it’s Semi-Finals Day, rise and shine! Rise and shine! Quick bathroom time, then uniforms and armbands! Downstairs in twenty minutes to get your numbers scanned! Go! Go! Go!”
As she is haranguing us, I quickly grab my neatly folded uniform that’s been lying next to my bed, ready from the night before, plus my shoes, socks, underwear—and I rush to the bathroom. It’s a zoo, everyone elbowing each other, girls fighting for showers and toilet stalls. Claudia Grito manages to kick me in the shin as I move past her, but I avoid the worst of it by moving out of the way quickly. . . .
I make it downstairs, one of the first from my floor. The unfamiliar grey uniform fits too loosely on me. It’s a general large size that sort of hangs in an unflattering way over my torso and I end up tying it around my slim waist with the provided belt. At least the pants are the right height so I don’t have to fold them around the ankles like some of the shorter girls.
The cafeteria line is moving extra-fast, and there are additional guards strolling all around the dorm. Meanwhile our three Dorm Leaders stand in the Common Area, watching us anxiously. “Quickly now!” they say. “Come up here, get your tokens scanned with your Standing Score Number, then go line up! Line starts at the doors of the AC Building!”
And suddenly we understand exactly what they mean, about getting our numbers scanned. . . . As Candidates come up to the Dorm Leaders and their tokens are scanned by the hand-helds, a large black number against a square white background appears on the front and back of each person’s grey uniform. It looks like a number that marathon runners and other athletes get assigned in sports, except these numbers are not stuck on but “insta-printed” somehow on the fabric surface of our uniforms, which I am guessing is photo-sensitive or otherwise sensitive to image display.
Wow, I think, so, it’s a smart uniform.
I get scanned, and immediately watch how my own uniform fabric fades in the front into a white square and displays a great big #4,796. I know, without needing to look, that the exact same number has appeared on my back. Ugh, how lame and embarrassing. . . .
Then I exit the dorm into the cold morning air outside and the pale bluish sky. Other Candidates are walking on all sides of me with grim silent determination—it’s an ocean of numbers on backs and chests. I have no idea where Laronda or any of my friends are, and it doesn’t really seem to matter at this point—in this thing, we are each of us all alone.
Soon I see tokens burning yellow, green, blue, and red, from other dorms, as we mingle, approaching the Arena Commons super structure. The doors are shut, because it is still before eight AM. However a huge line begins to snake around the building perimeter. We crowd in closer, watching each other’s numbers, and I observe the familiar handful of top scoring candidates already in line directly at the doors.
Erin Tsai stands proud and deceptively relaxed, hands folded, as she watches the rest of us line up behind her. A huge #1 blazes on her uniform. Her dark head with its short spiked hair shines bluish-black, and smart jewelry sparkles around her neck and in her earlobes.
What a feeling that must be, to be in spot number one!
Next to her in spot two, her brother Roy switches from one foot to the other, as he lingers also, looking tough and bored at the same time.
Then there’s the very tall skinny African American teen and parkour god who’s third in line, Kadeem Cantrell. Behind him in the fourth spot is Craig Beller from Gracie’s dorm, sandy blond and compact, a powerfully built martial artist, so that his grey uniform looks good on him, like a dojo sparring uniform should. Fifth in line is a girl I’ve never seen before, but who, I recall, is Desiree Bell, supposedly very quick, very strong. She’s got dark brown skin and super-dark hair and an otherwise nondescript appearance, if you don’t count her confident wide-footed stance—which changes everything about her, revealing her to be a barely leashed force of nature.
From my own dorm there’s smart and dark-haired Ken Fisher at #6, followed by stocky and tattooed Jaime Robles at #7, huge and muscular Samuel Duarte at #8, perky redhead Isabella Saltwater at #9, and finally very dark, tall, and intellectually brilliant Mamraj Shahad at #10.
The rest of us start lining up, based on our own far less exciting numbers. We jostle and move around, backing up past those of the Candidates who have already found their spot in line.
Knowing how far back I will end up being, I basically walk backward and outward past the line, seeing how as it’s growing it will soon form concentric circles around the building and eventually fill the block. At some point I see Dawn get in line, and whoa! Girl’s got a # 98 on her chest! I had no idea Dawn scored so well!
My jaw falls open in surprise. I wave at her and smile as I hurry past her, and Dawn waves back, looking somewhat sheepish and embarrassed. No wonder she didn’t want to tell anyone her score.
“Way to go, Dawn!” I mouth at her in passing, and she rolls her eyes and says, “Shut up!” But she smiles back at me.
The line keeps growing as more of us get into our places, and now it’s snaking backward around the AC Building, going all the way around and back again, and forming another row.
Soon after, I see Logan get in line in spot #143. I pass him and he turns his head to watch me, and calls out my name. “Gwen! Remember, stay focused!” Our fingers brush past each other, and his warm hazel eyes follow me. I smile at him nervously, then move away.
As the numbers get higher, I start seeing more and more people I know. I watch Claudia get in line and toss me a sneer.
However I am more interested in seeing Blayne in his wheelchair get in line at #1,692, his toned arms moving rapidly to turn the wheels. He is remarkably fast and yet my gut sinks in worry on his behalf, since there is no hoverboard here to help him. How is he going to manage with whatever it is we have to do? The Candidates around him are staring, giving him curious, disdainful, pitiful, even stunned looks—a whole range of reactions, the works. I know he’s used to it.
But Blayne sees me and gives me a light crooked smile that for him is almost a grin. He nods at me and I mutter something semi-stupid, like “Hey, good luck there.”
“Hey, Lark,” he says suddenly, as I am several steps away. “When all else fails, remember you can sing.”
I know it’s a play on my name, and yeah, I’ve heard it a million times before from teasing kids and bullies, all my life. But somehow this time it really works. It’s the perfect expression of encouragement.
“Thank you!” I mouth the words and wave at him with a “thumbs up.”
By this point, over a thousand Candidates are now in line. There’s Gordie at #1,941, looking relaxed and sleepy in his place in line. “Gordie!” I exclaim, move in quickly and squeeze his shoulder. The boy comes awake practically, and then grins at me. “Hey!”
“Be strong, and never give up! Love yah, Gee Three!”
“You too, okay, hugs, whatever, yeah . . . see you! We Qualify, yeah!” he mumbles, but I know his gaze is following me as I move away. I am suddenly crazy glad I have this unexpected, last-second chance to see my younger bro, and possibly the rest of the Gees, as we all line up.
One by one I see others—Tremaine, then my brother George who holds me, pats my shoulder and tells me to Qualify or else. Then, there’s Laronda who gives me a quick hug, then Raj, Mateo, and a bunch of other people from my dorm.
Then there’s Gracie getting in line. Her number is close to mine, so I know my own spot is not too far ahead. I squeeze Gracie’s fingers and she clutches my hand desperately, and her eyes—oh, her eyes are suddenly again those of a very lost little girl.
“You’re a winner, Gracie! Remember that, you just keep going, sweetie! Love you tons and tons!” I speak quickly into her ear, and we separate.
At last, somewhere in the fourth concentric row of Candidates standing in line, I find the person whose Standing Score is the number right before mine, a younger teen boy with freckles and a green token.
I take my place in line right after him.
Moments later, the person who comes next after me, a blond teen girl my own age with a blue token, gets in line behind me.
And the line still just keeps growing and growing. . . .
* * *
At eight AM exactly, the doors of the AC Building are opened and we are allowed to enter.
I am still far away from the entrance, in the outer middle concentric circles of the spiraling line, but the noise inside the building hits us, as the microphones and voices of the announcers echo and reverb through the stadium. The media film crews are in there, I recall, and oh yeah, they are beginning the broadcast. . . . Loud, up-beat theme music plays on giant super-speakers from all directions, so that the AC Building rumbles and shakes from the low bass notes of the drum track, interspersed with the announcer voices.
I even recognize some of them, the TV celebrity anchors who now speak urgently and with excitement to introduce the start of the Qualification Semi-Finals programming for the day.
Candidates are moving quickly—even though it seems they are allowing us inside in batches of six people at a time.
As we file along, exchanging nervous looks, some of us move in place with athletic exercise warm-ups, others stand stiff, frozen with an immobilizing fear of what awaits us—as all of this is happening, we can hear the announcer voices describing the events.
“Good morning to our viewers across the country and around the world, and welcome to the international Atlantis Qualification Semi-Finals! To all our eastern time zone and other audiences just tuning in, please note this presentation has a live internet simulcast and is being live streamed on ENNThisMorning dot com and on all our local affiliates . . .”
The wind moves tendrils of my hair that’s been pulled back tight in a functional ponytail. I glance up at the morning sky, blue and clear, and think about how it looks like it’s going to be a bright and sunny day ahead. . . .
This might be the day I die.
No, stop thinking like that . . . pull it together, Gwen Lark. . . .
“ . . . The first hour portion of the program is simple sorting,” says the deep and soothing voice of Bill Anderson, the Eastern National Network prime time anchor, echoing loudly from the outdoor speakers, so it is heard outside the super-structure building and beyond. “The Candidates run a single lap around the track, in bursts of six teens at a time, separated by only ten seconds per set, to complete for objects and tools that will be assigned to them for the tasks ahead. . . .”
As he speaks, I can just imagine his clean-cut, bland features, the graying hair smoothed back, the neatly trimmed beard, tailored suit and subdued tie. It is unlikely he’s here in person, in our own RQC today, but rather back at the network studio—but I suppose I’ll find out soon enough once I actually make it inside and see.
Most likely, only his hologram is being projected inside the Arena Commons Building stadium onto the media podium panel which is holo-installed here and at every other of the thousands of RQCs nationwide and globally. This virtual panel allows local and global anchors to take up prominent spots and feature only the networks of their choice that are relevant to their country or region. Other international major network anchors in other places are also holo-projected the same way. Furthermore, viewers can select what feeds to follow with whose commentary, and which language dubs.
“So explain to me, Bill, how exactly does this work, then? With only ten seconds of advantage given each group of six, plus Candidates with better scores on the inner lanes, the Standing Scores don’t seem to play all that great a role, do they?” This time it’s the voice of Cathy Estrada, the sassy raven-haired Latina ENN co-anchor who rolls her r’s and wears bright colored tops to match her trademark fire-engine red lipstick.
“Well, Cathy, as you know, the Atlanteans don’t really tell us much of anything ahead, to build suspense, one might suppose, but we are told to expect many surprises. After the top two hundred, might as well forget the Standing Scores, they tell us! Each lap around the track determines what kind of prizes—if you want to call it that—our teen competitors receive. For example, we know that the top ten scoring Candidates at each Regional Qualification Center will be given hoverboards automatically, but they will still have to run the lap to determine what other weapons and power-ups they get in addition. As for the rest of them, who knows? The higher your Standing Score, the worse are your odds. We can only watch and hope and pray on their behalf! After all, it’s our children out there!—Oh, look! There go the first six Candidates around the track!”
This is hell. I am in idiot hell, I think, as I slowly approach the doors, while hearing the running commentary only, and having no idea what’s really happening visually.
“Let’s switch quickly to one of our featured ten Regional Qualification Centers and watch the early action at New York RQC-One. Looks like Jimmy Wong is in the lead, with his #4 blazing in front, but ooh, this is going tot be a tight one, as Angela Manwell #7 is coming up from behind—”
Shuffling forward slowly in the line, I zone out. Twenty minutes later, they’ve only barely processed two thousand Candidates. I know that’s crazy many people actually, but it feels both insanely slow-mo and urgent-fast.
Well, I think, at least Dawn, Logan, Blayne, and Gordie have gone through. And Claudia Grito. . . . And I’m closer to going inside the building. Maybe another twenty minutes?
Only—how did Blayne manage the running part? The worry on his behalf comes to me yet again, with a pang. For that matter, why aren’t the announcers saying anything about a boy in a wheelchair? Wouldn’t it be something to comment on?
“So, as they run around the track,” Bill Anderson’s hologram says, “we see that they are getting scanned automatically at the finish line by a row of sensors. Here’s an interesting note for our viewers—all those ID tokens—notice how they are lit up in one of four colors—are based on something the Atlanteans call the Four Quadrants—”
“But wait, what awaits our Candidates at the finish line, Bill? I am still confused—” Cathy Estrada’s projection voice sounds whiny and nasal.
“A choice, Cathy! A tough choice!”
“What choice, Bill?”
“We are told we cannot say it on the air, in order not to influence the Candidates who are possibly listening to us speak, and so, viewers at home, watch the bottom of your display screens for the marquee with the answer! Yes, folks, this is the tough choice that the Candidates have to make at the finish line! Now, how about that, ain’t that something? That should give you an idea of what awaits our Candidates in the next few hours—”
I can’t tell how many more minutes have passed, but I am finally at the doors, am about to enter the AC stadium. Guards rush us inside, counting us off in batches of six, saying, “Go, go, go!”
I pick up the pace, matching the others before me, and we are greeted by a blast of noise, canned music, and lights. Officials stand at all wall perimeters and we are told to advance directly to the racing track.
We move at a run. With my peripheral vision I see a projection screen that shows what’s a happening on the track in real time, and in huge several-story-tall format. There is a podium bathed in light with a semi-circle holographic virtual panel of media personalities, projected at three times life-size. Bill Anderson’s holo-head is huge, I think stupidly, it’s the size of my whole torso. The anchors are rotated every few minutes, so that the holo-panel lineup changes constantly.
I realize the media nonsense is just a part of the atmosphere of hype, and it’s apparently there to add to the sports-event flavor.
But it’s absolutely, soul-sickeningly ridiculous.
Meanwhile, on the track, Candidates are running . . . and running. We approach the starting line, and I see how a signal shot goes off every ten seconds, just enough time for people to line up in the six lanes, and then take off.
There are no pauses, no waiting for each group to complete their lap—that would take too long, all day, probably, for over six thousand Candidates. Instead, it’s a constant moving stream. I see that a large display smart panel awaits at the finish line, where Candidates pause momentarily, and then press some kind of lever to make a choice. Then they rush onward and disappear into the outer building, going lord knows where. . . .
“Line up! Get ready to run! Go!”
Suddenly I am in the middle of my batch of six teens, in the fourth lane from the middle, at the starting line. I place my feet in the proper places and crouch down.
This is it. . . .
The starting gun signal goes off.
I take off and run.
The previous batch of runners is still pounding the track, only about twenty feet in front of me.
I suck at running, even now, after four weeks of hard training and yes, some improvement. Very quickly, in a matter of just five paces, the boy to my left and the girl to my right both overtake me, and I am running behind them—not the last person in my batch, but definitely toward the back.
My breath starts coming hard, and my temples pound.
Ten seconds pass . . . so I hear the pop of the starting signal gun, and another batch of six runners has entered the track and is now coming up behind me.
I pump my legs and arms, moving hard.
Focus, focus! Breathe!
Another ten seconds, another stating shot. I am halfway around the track, and I can no longer tell where I am in relation to my own batch of six Candidates, since all the runners are mingling, some falling back, other overtaking the earlier group. . . .
Another ten seconds . . . another starting signal shot.
My breath is ragged, and I see the finish line coming up about thirty more feet.
Ten more seconds, another gun-pop.
I reach the finish line.
My ID token gets auto-scanned. I know this because it flickers and flares a brighter yellow as I run past the sensors.
The person just before me—I have no idea who—pauses before the smart wall panel, takes a breath, reads whatever’s on it, then slams one of the five large protruding button-levers. Then the Candidate takes off running again, forward, away from the track.
My turn.
The panel is before me, and the row of five levers.
It flashes yellow, then a readout appears in black letters. . . . Just two lines.
The first line says:
“Candidate Gwenevere Lark, choose your City.”
And below it, the second line reads:
“New York, Chicago, Dallas, Denver, Los Angeles.”
My mind goes into overdrive. Holy crap, what is this? What am I choosing?
What does any of this mean?
If I am going to be assigned to a city for whatever next task of today’s ordeal, I have only a second to decide.
Right. This. Second. . . .
And so I try to think like the Atlanteans, try to imagine what it could be. But all I can think of is, okay, I was born in California and I know L.A. I know nothing or close to nothing about the other cities. Okay, when I was six, my family has been to Dallas once on a quasi-vacation for Dad’s boring university conference, for two days. That’s about it.
I take a deep breath and slam the lever for Los Angeles.
The smart panel display changes and I see a new readout of three lines:
“Candidate, you have been assigned:
“Weapon: 1. Hoverboard: 0.
“Proceed upstairs to the roof of the building for further instructions.”
I start moving. Now I get it—I see where the Candidates who had gone before me are heading. They are going for the stairs and elevators to reach the upper levels of the structure.
They are all going for the roof.
Whatever’s there, that’s my destination too.
* * *