Atlas

by Nicholas Gagnier

  "His followers are the more dangerous threat," Luca offers. "They are of many factions. For a long time, the Council was preoccupied with the common population—terrorist cells, religious fanatics and cults in service to Ziz. But since the Third Age began, the Nephalim uprising that led to the Spire's fall is a heavy consideration."

  "And that's not even considering the latest events," Barrett interjects. "The Nephalim have been badly compromised. There are too many factors operating against them to trust them with protecting the Council any longer."

  "What have they done that's so terrible? I mean, these are supposed to be your best men, aren't they?"

  Even asking it, I am flooded with memories of the FBI's "best men" as they sided with Stephen Hardwick, gunning down their non-complicit colleagues when the truth came out.

  "The Nephalim were largely responsible for the Spire's burning," Luca begins, but is interrupted by Barrett.

  "One Nephalim, Luca. It does not change the fact, however. Despite being forged from perfection, they are still partly human, and can never be perfect."

  "Indeed," Luca concedes. "Many of them have fallen to depraved ambitions or insanity. Tomas led the uprising to free Ziz. Gabriel stopped him, at great cost to himself—"

  "But even Gabriel has now disappeared," Barrett adds. "Worse, he may be partially responsible for the current situation on Earth. Then there was Jonah, who was entrusted with the remains of Aumothera— which you may know as the Shroud."

  That’s one mystery solved, at least.

  "The point is, I have no doubt the remaining Nephalim are men of integrity," Luca adds, "but they are too deep. They have been subject to politics too long. Sides have been taken, one way or another. There is no way to assure loyalty to their corrupted brother doesn’t remain."

  "That is correct. Which brings us to your trial, Ramona."

  "Yes. You and I will venture to Devil's Corner to deal with a Whisperer who may have information."

  "Alright," I say at last. "What is a Devil's Corner, and what the hell is a Whisperer?"

  "Devil's Corner is a district of Atlas," Luca frowns. “It is home to many nefarious cults and criminals."

  "So you allow cults and criminals in Atlas?"

  "Like we said...competing interests. They weren't always criminals, but have proven notoriously difficult to rid ourselves of."

  "Alright. And the Whisperers?"

  "Information dealers for the Council," Barrett offers, "but not always working at the Council's behest. They are underhanded, extremely self-serving. If they feel threatened, Ramona, they will lash out."

  "And why would they feel threatened?"

  "Because," Luca says, gripping his hilt tighter in discomfort, "this is no underhanded backroom deal, but a conspiracy of an unprecedented magnitude, and we must uncover it before we have real problems."

  "What Luca means, Ramona," Barrett says, "is these Whisperers fear for their souls. This is much worse than Stone Mountain threatens them with. Whatever has them scared, they will not cooperate lightly. You must find this Whisperer, and make him tell you what he knows. We will station Royal Guard nearby, but they are operating on a need-to-know basis. They know virtually nothing about this operation."

  "It's a risk," Luca says, "but we can't be certain they are to be trusted. Do you understand, Ms. Knox?"

  I do. But looking beyond the Observatory, into a wasteland of twilight and questions beyond my ken, I can only nod.

  "Very good. Maesters, we will rendezvous with you later. Miss Knox and I have a Whisperer to hunt down."

  ***

  Just as the angel described, Devil's Corner is a hodgepodge of sketchy figures, hooded faces and dark alleys. It sits west of the Spire, and has two entrances, just as its sister neighborhood God City does on the Spire's eastern starboard. We enter by heading west out of the Observatory District. The adjacent Cathedral District shares none of the warped nebular vista, despite bordering the same northern end of Atlas. Just like the sky over the Spire, an illusionary blue gives impressions of a flawless day.

  "And that is the Cathedral," Luca explains. The church-like structure is smaller than its cousin Observatory. Its facade is better maintained— though it may have something to do with not sitting at the foot of infinite space, being shrunken by it. Several youngsters help a Maester in the late stages of life to his feet, limping into the Cathedral. Another robed elder sits on a tree stump, teaching another group of youths from a leatherbound book.

  "Home of the Maesters' order. The Cathedral used to house the Avatar of Light. After the invasion by Ziz in the First Age, the Council had the Avatar moved."

  "To those weird boxes at the gate?"

  Luca chuckles.

  "No. We would not place the Avatar in a place it could be so easily compromised."

  "Siskett told me it was an artificial intelligence."

  "The Avatar is so much more than that. The Maesters underplay its significance— without her, the world would be covered in eternal night. In creating her, the Council placed all its eggs in a single basket, so to speak."

  Luca explains the Light's essence used to be divided into three, and was held by certain members of the Council. This led them to become targets; thus, the Avatar was created to both house and personify the Light.

  "Make no mistake," Luca warns. "Were the wrong people to control the Avatar, all of Creation would fall at risk."

  "Like Ziz?" I ask. We pass down a cobblestone road shouldered by gardens of lilacs, petunias and tulips swaying in the artificial breeze. I don't mean to keep mentioning him— ever since I saw the paintings of the Burning Spire, he has fascinated me. Luca shakes his head. We pass through a stone gate with two Royal Guards on either side. Their spears' blunt end are held to the road, pointing lethal tips skyward.

  "Of course. Many newcomers to Atlas are interested in the Dark Lord. We have not seen his face in thousands of years, and yet, his presence is everywhere. Many worship him in private— others...less privately."

  "And does the Council do anything about this?"

  "Of course," Luca says. "We remain vigilant. Kicking doors down is somewhat of a last resort. The Atlas values order; inciting people over rumors is counter-productive. Here we are. Devil's Corner."

  Stone gates through the Cathedral district's southern arch see the transparency of outer Atlas regress into snaking buildings and the alley-like streets on either side of us. A dark cloud overhead paints the district's slick streets in a coat of glare. Numerous figures pass each other with few words, moving about their business, eyes to the ground. There are almost no Royal Guard— the quadrant is left to fend for itself, as if it once proved too troublesome.

  "Keep your guard up," Luca cautions, hand on the hilt of his oversized sword. "This is not a welcoming place, Miss Knox."

  "Please. Enough of the Miss Knox business, okay? Call me Ramona. Tell me about the Whisperer."

  "Fellow named Gossamer. Unsure of a surname. Maybe it is his surname. In any case, he is a snake."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Once a soul comes to Atlas, they have two choices— remain in Atlas for good, or eventually pass onto the White Light, seeking eternal peace. Most choose to go eventually, unless you are the Council or a Maester. Time has a way of shrivelling the most persistent souls who endlessly stay here."

  "And Gossamer is one of them?"

  "Yes," Luca replies. "He has remained here for hundreds of years, when the strongest and most foolhardy usually last a few decades. It has made him wicked, even among Whisperers, who are known for underhandedness."

  We pass a mother in ragged clothing, breastfeeding her suckling infant, cross-legged against a soiled brick wall. Her eyes are sunken, and her bottom lip peels at my curiosity as she lifts her head, revealing a row of blackened teeth. Others like her are similarly rundown, reminiscent of crack addicts. Veins protrude from gaunt arms where healthy limbs should conceal them.

  "Why do these people look so rough?" I ask t
he angel. Luca seems to glide beside me as we turn down the right side of a forked road, where more snaking streets await.

  "This area has been overrun by worshippers of Ziz. Those who choose to remain here are at the mercy of his draining essences to sustain a minimal strength. Rather than accept his fate and sleep, the demon is fitful, aspirations stoked by his followers.

  "I see the look on your face, Ramona. The one asking why we don't just crush them out of existence. But that is a slippery slope, isn't it? Once the witch hunts begin, it's hard to say how far they go."

  "So instead, you quarantine his followers."

  "In a manner of speaking. Those who should not be here are welcome to leave, but I fear other factors keep them. Associations with cults, family, et cetera. It's really all we can do until there is firm evidence to round them up."

  "Okay. So what does this asshole look like?"

  The obscenity clearly puzzles Luca, but he says nothing of it.

  "Whisperers wear black robes and masks. Many are like Gossamer, and have chosen to remain in Atlas beyond reasonable expiration, so they cover their faces. Gossamer is known as Fox, due to his mask."

  "So he's wearing a fox mask?"

  "You could say that. Come on." I scale my pace to match his as Luca leads us to an intersection of thin buildings with stained windows and we pass through its shadow-laden alleyway to reach the next one. More sunken people stand on adjacent street corners, not particularly helpful or productive to their cause. Families huddle together and old men pull wagons full of crosses and literature. One yells as he pulls the bucket on wheels, praying for the return of Ziz like Devil's Corner itself is on fire.

  Luca peers around his cover— one of the S-shaped apartment (condo? crack house?) buildings offers the corner with a perfect view of his target. Peeking over the man’s giant shoulder only affords a glimpse of my own.

  Down the road stands a man in a black robe, and I understand Luca’s hesitancy regarding the mask. It looks like a child carved it, more closely resembling a badly-beaten bulldog. Leather slippers poke out the robe's bottom, and he rarely sways, preferring to practice standing perfectly still.

  "There," Luca says. "That’s Gossamer. For the sake of simplicity, I should remain here. He will see me coming a hundred yards away, and panic. Rightly so, as I have arrested him on several occasions."

  Guess these people have never heard of wearing a disguise. Resolved to avoid eternal damnation, I keep my mouth shut.

  "Alright," I reply. "What's the play?"

  Playing law enforcement for a realm of existence I couldn't fathom days ago should feel strange, but is just a given. With his chiseled jaw, loose blond hair and light gray eyes, the angel strikes me as handsome.

  "You must get Gossamer's attention. Tell him you're a courier on behalf of the Red Brotherhood. He will ask you to prove it, so tell him 'the red wind blows in the west'. It is their code phrase, used to communicate with the Whisperers."

  "How do you know that?"

  Luca grimaces.

  "Because I used to be one of them. Now go."

  "Wait!" I say. "What do I say after that?"

  The angel is already gone. Muttering, I shake my head and break from the wall, crossing cobbled road to where the cloaked figure waits on a raised sidewalk. Men with the devil wagons drag their eternal sense of duty on, and I have to navigate them to reach the Whisperer. He is even stranger-looking up close, with purple markings— tattoos, like Mehndi art— long settled over his naked hands.

  "Whisperer?" He is slow to face me, as if I’ve crossed some moral line approaching him. "I have a message from the Red Brotherhood."

  The reply is raspy, like he hasn't taken a drink of water in weeks. Gossamer tells me to prove it. Looking into the crude fox mask, I tell the man that the “red wind blows in the west".

  "That," the Whisperer says, "has not been the Red Brotherhood's communique in a few months. Who sent you? Really? Tell me, or you will deal with the Crimson League!"

  Shit. Luca gave me faulty intel, and he’s tipped off. There's no time for another reaction— I cock my fist, slugging Gossamer in the mask. The thin plastic crumples inward. The Whisperer screams with the sound of his popping nose, clutching his face cover— it falls away, revealing a pruned face. Beady black jewels serve as eyes above albino skin dripping fresh blood from the Whisperer’s nose. There is almost no hair atop the head cowering behind his snaky arms.

  I kick out; the force of my foot snaps his brittle kneecap, bringing Gossamer down a notch in humility. Thrusting my elbow into his exposed jaw sends him to the ground for good measure.

  "Now," I say, as he writhes at my feet, "I might be new here sir, but I have learned one thing for certain. And that is, certain men think they have all the answers. Information is a medal to them. They wear their possession of it on their sleeve, but don't tell you what it means. They hoard it, but only to use it as a status symbol.

  "From what I understand, Gossamer, you and your brethren are such men. You deal in whispers and silly little secrets, then turn around and weaponize them if it suits you. So let's make one fucking thing clear right now."

  Gossamer's cries have attracted the attention of several people. Many are ordinary citizens of Devil's Corner, namely the old men pulling wagons past the Whisperer’s corner. But others— wearing red cowls and the opaque sneers behind them, who weren’t visible a moment ago— slowly draw around us.

  "I know you have information on a threat to the Council, Whisperer. You can help me, or make the next step uncomfortable."

  "You are the one who will be uncomfortable! Wretched wench! Who do you think you are? The Crimson League will eat you alive!”

  One of the cloaked figures reaches the corner where Gossamer cowers under me. A hand grabs my cocked arm, yanking my attention off the Whisperer.

  "Is there a problem here, woman?"

  The eyes of Gossamer's friend are unlike any I've ever seen. A deep red film infects natural hazel, giving the irises a menacing glow. The skin around them is rough and sunken with the texture of scales. His fingernails dig into my suspended wrist, slightly piercing the flesh of my arm.

  "Not at all. Care to let go?"

  "You are threatening a Whisperer," the cloaked figure informs me. "That is not taken lightly in many places, least of all here. State your business, or face summary execution."

  "Summary execution? I thought I was already dead."

  The cloaked figure smirks. Gossamer fidgets at my feet, gloating at my new predicament.

  "You must be new here. Death is still a very real prospect in Atlas, but it is more than death. It is purging every trace of you from existence. Your relatives won't remember you. The world would never know you were here."

  "Joke's on you," I quip. "I haven't made that many impressions on people."

  Before the cloaked figure can scowl at my lame humor, a gruff voice commands him to release me. With his gleaming sword drawn, Luca offers an offensive stance. His white-knight complex stands out in the drab and dreary disposition of Devil's Corner— many in the surrounding area are familiar with the angel, and scurry away before they can be implicated.

  "Ah," the cloaked man says. "I should have known."

  "Let her go, Demetrius."

  The man whose sharp fingernails dig into my wrist guffaws, releasing his grip. Pulling back my hand, several marks are embedded in its skin.

  "Have you come to rescue your pet, Luca? Maybe you should train a gerbil better before you send it after the snake."

  "Your friend is a snake, alright," the angel retorts. "He is only lucky to call vermin like you his friends."

  Demetrius giggles. The retracted lips reveal a mouthful of broken, jagged teeth.

  "Your insults have no value here! The Crimson League will not stand for this harassment from the Atlas, let alone an agent who couldn't cut it as a Nephalim. Isn't that right, Luca, son of Tomas? Hmm?"

  The taunt is clearly meant to rile up the angel, but Luca remain
s calm.

  "I do not wish to fight you, Demetrius. Despite whatever delusions you and your friends may have, I have better things to do. So make a choice, but make it fast."

  The cloaked figure jeers at me, but ultimately concedes. His reinforcements are dispelled by receding shadows, bringing the other red hoods into focus.

  "Very well, Luca, son of Tomas. Your father may have been a traitor, but he didn't raise a fool. Just...keep an eye on your pet? Wouldn't want the Whisperers to think Atlas has come for their secrets."

  "Wouldn't dream of it," Luca says, motioning me to walk with him. We return the way we came, moving quickly to establish distance from Demetrius.

  "So that's it?" I ask. "You're just going to let him win?"

  Luca chuckles.

  "On the contrary, Ramona. Demetrius gave us everything we need."

  "He did? Because all I got from that was that he wiped the floor with you."

  "It is more nuanced than that. Demetrius is a small fish in a large sea. It also includes the Whisperers, but the fact the Crimson League is white-faced over our intervention can only mean one thing."

  "Which is?"

  Luca shakes his head, sheathing his sword as we return toward the Cathedral. "It means we would be wasting our time on the Crimson League. There is a better source of information if they are involved. Come. There is no time to waste."

  ***

  Luca's mission leads up and over the Seat of Atlas. We retrace our steps past the Cathedral and Arena Districts. The Arena is quiet in the distance— each district seems to have a unique shade of sky overhead, and the Coliseum District’s swirling purples remind me of the Shroud where I awoke to Tim's pleas. The thought is soon wiped away; another arch brings us down into God City— Devil's Corner's polar opposite, and simultaneous fraternal twin.

  The sky is a pleasant blue here. Concrete gardens sprout remarkable varieties of blue, purple and yellow flora stretching outward beneath thick trunks lining the cobblestone road. Purple-leaf plum leaves and crabapple trees create the illusion of a lively grove under which the district’s nobles pass. Dressed in gorgeous white and silver robes, their hair is brushed and clean, beards groomed and much better versed in social etiquette than the low-brow stares and scowls in the western district.