Legacy of the Lost

by Lindsey Fairleigh

As expected, a few seconds later, the floor shudders, and I’m thrust forward into the railing.

  It’s nothing new. The alarm, followed by the lurch, happens twice a day: once just before breakfast, then again right after dinner. No wonder my stomach is gurgling with hunger pains; I’ve missed both lunch and dinner, now.

  Ahead, the lines on the video screen disappear, giving way to a complex and endless array of single points of light.

  “Tell me, Persephone,” Demeter says, “Where are we?”

  I look at her, frowning. I’m not sure I understand the question, let alone have an adequate answer. I recall the word on the last door we passed through and venture a guess, “Command?”

  A slight smile touches Demeter’s thin lips, like my answer amuses her. “True enough,” she says. “But where is ‘Command’? Where is Sector C? Where are all of the sectors?” She raises her arm, sweeping it out to the side to encompass the cavernous room and beyond. “Where is all of this?”

  I feel a little more comfortable now that I know what she’s looking for. “Tartarus,” I tell her.

  She nods. “And what is ‘Tartarus’?”

  “I—” My eyebrows draw together, and I search her eyes. Now, I really don’t understand the question.

  Tartarus is the world. It is existence. It’s the things around us that can be touched and felt. It’s everything.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  Demeter sniffs and looks away, focusing on the screen. Clearly, my answer—or lack thereof—displeases her.

  I, too, look at the screen, though I’m really watching Demeter out of the corner of my eye. “I’m sorry,” I say softly. I can only hope that my ignorance doesn’t ruin my chances of working here—outside.

  “Why?” she says, letting out a lone, dry laugh. “Your ignorance is no fault of your own; it is ours.” She turns away from the railing and starts back across the room. “Come, Persephone,” she says, stopping beside the broad, circular basin. “Let me show you the truth.”

  I follow, my curiosity far outweighing my unease.

  Demeter touches the tip of her index finger to the amber stone in the pendant hanging around her neck, tracing the outer edge of the stone. Much to my surprise, the color drains from the stone, and it starts to glow with a brilliant white light. Not a second later, channels light up running the length of her suit, from fingertips to collar and down to the soles of her boots, glowing the same, brilliant white.

  Demeter waves her hands over the edge of the basin, and the tiny metal beads shift and swirl. Slowly, they rise up, forming a single, person-sized blob that hovers over the center of the basin.

  “The Tartarus is a ship,” Demeter says, “carrying our people across the universe.”

  As she speaks, beads drain away from the blob and scatter throughout the air surrounding the larger, shrinking shape. They form into clusters, some swirling spirals, others loose spheres, others amorphous clouds. As the blob gradually transforms, becoming more defined, the beads surrounding it begin to glow in muted variations of every color imaginable.

  The now fist-sized blob elongates and takes on a smooth, almost conical shape with small, sharp protrusions along the surface spread out at regular intervals. The cone is broken up by sections that spin in opposite directions around a common axis. There are fourteen sections, and in the back of my mind, I realize it’s no coincidence that there are also fourteen sectors. This blob—this ship—is the Tartarus.

  Demeter extends her right hand, slowly swiping it to the side. With her motion, the ship begins to move.

  “The Tartarus travels among the galaxies and stars,” she says, “carrying us to our new home, a planet we call ‘Atlantis.’” As she speaks, the ship draws closer to one of the little spiral clusters.

  The spiral grows in size, sucking in beads from the remaining clusters, but the Tartarus remains the same. The spiral cluster gives way to a series of orbs rotating around a massive, glowing mass of yellow light. The orbs continue to grow, one by one moving off to the periphery before disappearing, their beads being absorbed by another orb, until only one remains. It’s blue with patches of green and brown, and is marbled all over with white. It hovers over the center of the basin, dwarfing the Tartarus as the ship draws ever nearer.

  “Atlantis,” Demeter says, voice filled with reverie.

  The Tartarus makes a full rotation around the planet, shrinking as it moves closer to the surface. The planet grows, metal beads melting away as it becomes too big for the basin. Soon, there is only a slightly curved, lumpy surface arching over the basin. The Tartarus slowly descends, finally coming to rest on the surface of the planet.

  An opening forms on one end of the ship, and a ramp extends down to the surface of Atlantis. I watch, entranced, as miniature people march down the ramp and walk out onto the uneven surface beyond.

  I don’t fully comprehend what I’m looking at, and yet, I can’t look away. Puzzle pieces rearrange within my mind as my understanding of the world collapses and reforms into a new shape. Into a much grander shape. The Tartarus—a ship—is just one tiny part of it. Within Sector C, we dreamed of “outside”—but none of us had any idea that this is what’s out there.

  I want to see more. I want to see everything.

  When I look at Demeter, I have no doubt that the hunger I feel shines in my eyes.

  She grins. “Good.” She flings her hand over the basin, and the metal beads lose all color and shape, dropping back into the hole. “Come,” she says, turning and making her way around the basin.

  I follow, but pause when I see that the thing made up of those huge, golden rings has changed. It’s now a glowing sphere of flickering, golden light. It’s twice the height of any person, and just as wide.

  I gape.

  “Come,” Demeter repeats, heading straight for the sphere.

  I gulp, taking stumbling steps to catch up with her. I can feel waves of heat and static radiating off the sphere, growing more intense the closer I get.

  Demeter stops mere steps from it, and I come to stand at her side. So close, the energy radiating from the sphere is so intense it’s almost overwhelming.

  “Isn’t it glorious?” Demeter says, gray eyes reflecting the golden light.

  “What is it?” I ask. I can’t help myself. I’ve always had a curious nature, but Demeter has awakened something within me by showing me just how little I understand of our existence. My desire to learn has morphed into a ferocious beast starved for knowledge. For understanding. For experience.

  “A gephyra,” Demeter says. She glances at me sidelong and holds up a hand, palm up and completely flat. “When active, like it is now, it opens a gateway connecting two distant points,” she says, bringing the tips of her thumb and forefinger together, “bending the very fabric of reality.”

  I can’t even begin to comprehend what she’s telling me, but I nod and say, “Oh,” anyway.

  “Do you want to try it out?” She looks at me head-on, now.

  I nod robotically. I’m terrified, but there’s nothing I want more than to see what’s on the other side of the gateway created by the gephyra. “Where—” I clear my throat. “Where does it lead to?”

  Demeter’s eyes sparkle with secrets. “Why, to Atlantis, of course.”

  My heart skips a beat, or three. I swallow roughly, though my mouth is suddenly so dry that swallowing does little good.

  Demeter takes a step toward the gateway, and I follow, moving closer to the unknown. “Are you afraid?” she asks.

  I nod. I was afraid to leave Sector C, but now I’ll be leaving the Tartarus completely. I’ve never been more afraid in my entire life.

  “Do you want to turn back?” she asks.

  I look at Demeter, fear of something worse than the unknown widening my eyes and tightening my chest—fear of standing still. Fear of stagnation. Fear of never knowing more . . . of never seeing what’s out there.

  A tiny smile touches Demeter’s lips, and she extends he
r hand toward the mass of heat and light just out of arm's reach. “After you.”

  17

  I stared out the little, oval window, thinking about the dream. This was the second time I’d dreamed I was this other woman—Persephone, as she’d been called in the dream—and once again, the dream hadn’t felt so much like a fantasy, but like a memory.

  Like so much in my life these days, the premise seemed like something out of one of my video games, and I wondered if that was the source. I’d played so many games over the years that it wasn’t impossible to think I’d forgotten about one.

  The setting—a spaceship traveling across the universe—and the mythological context—a spin on the ancient Greek Persephone myth, with some Atlantis mystery thrown into the mix—all seemed like excellent video game source material. People would eat that premise up. I would eat that up. And maybe I had . . .

  I leaned into the forgotten-game theory. It was a lot more pleasant than some of the other options dancing around in my mind, like that I was reliving a past—alien—life or that I was experiencing a full-on mental break. The past few days had been a lot, and not just by my sheltered standards. By anyone’s standards.

  My mom had gone missing. I’d been attacked in my own home and forced to run for my life. I’d killed people. Oh, and the coup de grace had to be finding the video from my mom in which she claimed I wasn’t even human. It would’ve been a big couple of days even for someone as adventurous as my mom.

  Maybe these dreams of being Persephone were my mind’s way of dealing with all of the insanity. Persephone had an inner strength I couldn’t even dream of having. Or maybe that I could only ever dream of having. Maybe that was the point.

  A mental fracture. A new alter-ego. A better version of myself, capable of dealing with the things I couldn’t handle.

  At the sound of a soft snore coming from my left, I turned my face away from the window to glance at Raiden. He was asleep, finally. It was a good thing and brought the tiniest smile to my lips. I was pretty sure he hadn’t slept more than a few hours total since leaving Orcas, and we would both need him to be well-rested and have his wits about him when we reached Rome. I didn’t know a damn thing about international travel—or any kind of travel, for that matter—and I was especially clueless when it came to evading people. This was all him.

  The journal was back in its place in the seat pocket in front of me, as was a small, orange prescription bottle along with a bottle of water. I considered reaching for the pill bottle, thinking another Valium might be just what I needed to relax enough to snooze through the rest of the flight, but I didn’t feel anxious or stressed out. There was no hint of panic sneaking around the edges of my mind.

  I felt good. Calm. Confused by the dream, but not really disturbed. More curious than anything. It was as though I could feel Persephone’s strength of will reinforcing my own, like her resolve to step through the gateway created by the gephyra had settled into me, lending me a hearty dose of resolve, too.

  Like her, I was still afraid. There was no guessing what I would find in Rome. But I was determined to face that fear head-on, to shove it aside and keep on walking. Keep on searching. My mom was out there somewhere, waiting for me to find her. She might not have been aware that she was waiting for me, but she was waiting for me. And I wouldn’t let her down. Besides, she owed me some answers.

  Leaning forward, I reached for the pre-pay not-so-smart phone Raiden had bought me the other day while out arranging my forged travel documents. It could make calls, text, and had a camera, and it was loaded up with a few classic games, like Snake. I flipped the phone open to check the time on the small display screen. There were still six hours left of the flight.

  Snapping the phone shut, I tucked it back into the seatback pocket and pulled out my mom’s journal. Raiden had rewrapped the leather cord tightly around the cover, and as I unwound it, I couldn’t help but wonder what he’d thought of the things written within . . . of the things written about me.

  I pulled off my leather gloves and tucked them into the seatback pocket, then opened the journal’s worn leather cover and flipped through the thick pages, searching for the place where I’d left off.

  I look forward to the day when I can watch you step into your own. When I can see you blossom into the beautiful being trapped within your frightened mind. When you can shed your fear and finally, truly live.

  I turned the page. The next page was titled Kelsey Schmidt – Child Psychologist, followed by a date that landed roughly one week after my third—and last—day of kindergarten. On the page, my mom had summarized what happened during the session and recorded Dr. Schmidt’s assessment—inconclusive—as well as made some additional notes of her own.

  The fronts and backs of the next dozen or so pages were filled with more of the same, from consultations with far more specialists than I had actually visited. A bold line had been drawn under the final summary, under which my mom had written:

  Em is right – it’s time to change directions. We’ve been looking for help in all the wrong places. Humanity can’t help Cora, but maybe her own people can. The Atlanteans must have left behind more than what the Order has locked away. I just have to find it . . .

  A pencil sketch filled up the next page. It was a symbol—a thick, dark band nearly encircling a lighter but equally thick upside-down triangle, with only a minimal gap midway up the right side of the circle. In the center of the triangle, a floating eye stared out from the page, above which three ornate crowns had been drawn, one stacked atop the other, cutting through the top line of the triangle. It reminded me of the Eye of Providence-based Illuminati symbol, cherished by so many conspiracy theorists. It was like that symbol, but different. More.

  As I stared at the symbol, the meaning behind the triple crown surfaced from the depths of my memory: the pope. The triple crown was a standard element of the pope’s insignia, usually sitting atop a pair of crossed keys, one silver, one gold, wrapped together by a crimson cord. It was such an important symbol that it was on Vatican City’s flag.

  The shapes took on new meaning, and I realized that this wasn’t just a symbol; it was a monogram. The circle and triangle were really the letters C and V—for Custodes Veritatis.

  Intrigued, I turned the page. On the back, my mom had written out a bulleted history of the Custodes Veritatis. I skimmed over the list. The timeline traced the Order’s origins back to ancient Egypt, nearly two thousand years before the life of Jesus and well over two millennia before the foundation of the Catholic Church. According to my mom’s notes, the Order hadn’t been founded by the Catholic Church, but adopted into it sometime during the eleventh century, shortly before the First Crusade. Now, that was interesting.

  I shifted my attention to the next page, where my mom had written a list of GPS coordinates. Two neat columns of coordinates filled the page. Some were written in pencil, some in ink, both blue and black, as though the list had been added to over time.

  I turned the page. The list continued onto the back.

  The next page was titled ATLANTEAN ALPHABET and it was filled with two columns of symbols. There were thirty, total, and they reminded me of the ancient Greek alphabet, but with some more ancient, Eastern characteristics. There was a strange sense of familiarity about them, but their meaning remained a mystery to me. As it was to my mom, apparently; the page was littered with question marks.

  I turned the page to a two-page spread. The paper was covered in a tangle of lines, some thinner, some thicker, some zigzagging, some straight, often crisscrossing over one another. There was no discernable pattern, at least, not one that I could make out. It reminded me a bit of the maps in some of my video games—the kind that were revealed bit by bit as the avatar made their way through the virtual world. But if it was some kind of map, there were no labels, leaving me with no frame of reference. It might as well not have been there at all.

  After that, there were a few pages of sketches of various objects, including a
glassy sphere I recognized all too well—it was currently wrapped in a sweatshirt and stuffed into the bottom of my backpack—as well as the pendant tucked away under my T-shirt. There was also a disk that reminded me of a sand dollar, labeled EMBRYONIC STASIS POD, and a rod of some kind, sketched from several different angles to capture the intricate designs carved along its length.

  I turned the page, and froze. An androgynous human figure had been drawn on both pages, the front view on the left and the back on the right. It was headless, and lines ran down the length of the figure, along the arms, neck, and legs in a pattern I couldn’t possibly recognize.

  And yet, I did recognize it. In my dreams, Demeter had been wearing a tight-fitting suit marked with the same exact pattern running the length of it, the lines glowing with a brilliant, white light.

  I stared at the drawing, lips parted and eyes searching as my thoughts spun. I flipped back a page, taking a second look at the sketches of the rod. I recognized it, too—and though Demeter’s had been longer, the length of a staff rather than a ruler, the resemblance was too similar to dismiss.

  How was this possible? How had I dreamed of objects drawn in my mom’s journal before ever seeing the drawings? It went beyond the realm of coincidence, diving deep into the abyss of things I had been trying not to consider. Hell, I didn’t know how to consider what something like this might mean.

  “Cocktail?” a female flight attendant asked from the aisle.

  I jumped, instinctively clutching the journal to my chest. My heart hammered against my sternum, and I stared at the woman with wide, unblinking eyes. “What?”

  She flashed me an apologetic smile, clearly used to catching people off guard. “Would you like a cocktail?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “We also have wine, beer, soda, water, juice, coffee, tea, and hot cocoa.”

  The options were too much for my overloaded brain, and for several seconds, I simply stared at the flight attendant. She had the patience of a saint.