Atlas

by Nicholas Gagnier

  "You really think we're going to find our man here?" I ask Luca as he scans passing faces for the one he knows.

  "The Crimson League is running scared," he explains, "but their involvement points to one man who may be able to help us."

  "Seems too nice a place for such lowlives to conspire."

  "Much like your own world, there are benefactors and beneficiaries. The true conspirators operate in shadow. The Crimson League could never pull this off by themselves. It is proven that one of the senior Maesters has ties to the criminal underworld in Atlas."

  "And the Council just lets him run around, doing whatever he wants?"

  "They have never found a smoking gun that he is actively helping them, or Quorroc would have long been thrown in the dungeons. Wherever the Crimson League operates, he is never known to be far. If we can bring him in, it will avoid a confrontation with Demetrius, but help us understand the League's current plans."

  Luca slows, and my eyes follow until they see what he does. An elder dressed like Barrett and Siskett sits with a group of youngsters. Many of the children can't be older than ten, gathered at his feet as he sits perched on a bench under one of the crab-apple trees.

  "You ready?" the angel asks.

  "It's your show, boss."

  Luca says nothing, gripping his sword's hilt and walking ahead to join the elder entertaining children with the wildest lore he can muster for them. He speaks with his hands, something that does not stop with Luca's approach. Quorroc immediately notices the angel and stands to argue, waving those frail hands about in protest.

  After a few moments of hoarse rebuke, Quorroc agrees to accompany him. Both men pass me without a word; the angel keeps a hand wrapped around the Maester's arm, who looks ready to squirm out of Luca's grasp. I feign a smile at confused children watching their favorite storyteller carted off. None return it.

  Whatever challenge the Council saw in pairing me up with Luca feels short. Tired of the kids burning holes through my forehead with Bambi eyes, I follow Luca and Maester Quorroc toward the Spire. The elder limps; the angel pulls him along.

  With such capable soldiers, it is hard to establish why the Council actually needs a failed FBI agent.

  Sooner or later, their reasons must become clear.

  CHAPTER SIX

  When I was young, Maya kept a host of male companions. Many were short-lived, not good for more than a lively night and some diminishing returns later on. A few became violent when Maya's antadonic outlook didn't cater to their ideas of control and mistreatment of women. Some were able to hide it better than others, and it took my aunt longer to establish the seance would not work out. All of them became angry as they realized the jig was up. They all mistreated her to some degree— those fellows were just better at hiding narcissism than their brasher peers were at withholding violence.

  And still, there was the odd one who almost stuck around— who was nearly good enough to envision taking a shot at a real family. Of course, we would never be a real family. I was still adopted, and any attempt at trying to pass for something genuine would be forever hindered by imposter-hood.

  But to an eight-year-old— an orphan being raised by her chain smoking, somber relative at that— any family was a good family. Any man who might come along, and be the diligent, doting figure I wanted my own father to be was welcome. There were almost-those and those I really wanted to fill that void, but something always ended it.

  It wasn't until adulthood that I learned such a thing could never exist. My own relationships— Ben Crawlstead from high school, Kevin Breckinmeyer in college and Ryan Royce as a fledgling agent at the Bureau— only reinforced my inability to love and be loved by men.

  So many years past that stupid, irresponsible, childish dream, Luca and Barrett escort me before the four celestial beings to decide my fate. Muerkher and the Habinar remain seated. Apollo is still firmly asleep, snoring in his chair. The fifth is empty, and Venicia is in full control of these proceedings. The snakes of her head are still, as if warned not to make a scene. Her pale skin benefits from the Fire Man’s natural light as the room darkens.

  "Luca," she says as we enter the middle rotunda. "What have you learned?"

  The angel of Atlas grimaces— and at this moment, Luca, son of Tomas, should be nothing less than a Nephalim. He plays the part, despite family history that prevents him taking up the mantle.

  "The Whisperer was protected by the Crimson League, Your Eminence."

  "The Crimson League," Venicia repeats. "Quorroc, then?"

  Luca nods.

  "I have brought the Maester in for questioning. As you can imagine, he is none too pleased— yelled the whole time about being framed."

  "Let him work it out of his system," Barrett advises. "Quorroc will talk if he wants to go home tonight."

  The Habinar speaks from his chair. His ire is unmistakably earmarked for Venicia, but he does not remove his beady eyes from me.

  "I warned you about this."

  "Yes, Habinar," Venicia says. "I cannot argue that. Quorroc has played too many games. We must find out what he knows."

  "We stand ready to hand Quorroc over to the Arbiters at Stone Mountain if he is unwilling to cooperate. I don't think it will come to that," Luca promises, "but I have no intention of letting him have his freedom without something in return."

  "Quorroc is a crafty old lizard," Muerkher remarks. "He will say whatever must be said to point you away from him. The information will be correct, no doubt, but only accomplish so much."

  "That is also true," Venicia says. "And what of the woman, Luca? Does she exhibit the qualities for what I'm considering?"

  Luca glances at me. I squint, trying to figure out their endgame, buried somewhere within cryptic conversation.

  "Yes, my liege," Luca replies, turning back to the snake-haired woman. "I believe she does."

  Muerkher shakes his head.

  "I still say this is preposterous."

  "Your concern has been duly noted," the Habinar interrupts from the end. "Venicia is right. The Nephalim have been sidelined too long, to our collective detriment. We cannot undo Tomas' actions, same as we can no longer change Gabriel's. The Nephalim need a new face, so that they may regain their honor."

  "Yes, my liege," Luca repeats. "I fully agree."

  I can't help but feel like an imposter. He should be the one rebranding the Nephalim, not me. I am the smallest of mortals, who happened to expose the greatest hoax in FBI history by a fluke— friendship with a celestial being who manipulated me from the beginning.

  "Very well," Muerkher concedes. Venicia instructs the Fire Man to wake the dozing elder to his right. Muerkher snaps his pointed red fingers— Apollo begins to feel his seat warm, waking in senile anger.

  "One more time, Flame Head!" the old man shouts before reverting to a dozed slump. Muerkher reaches over, shaking him. Apollo rouses, looking around, asking what he missed.

  "Step forward, Ramona."

  With a reassuring nod from Luca, I inch forward as asked. The glow provided by Muerkher's complexion is absorbed in a circular path of light around my feet, drenching my shoes and legs in a cone that soaks me in glare from head to toe. Inside that cone of light, thousands of stars— if not millions— line its seams and center, casting nebulous streaks into dazzling combinations of green and yellow, pink and blue. Inside its swirling center, bright rings of light loop around certain combinations until the middle outer edges resemble photos of the Milky Way galaxy.

  "The Nephalim," Venicia says, "are a noble group of warriors whose members' actions have led their integrity astray. For that reason, they have been sidelined from their sworn duty to protect this Council from the multitude of threats it faces. But today is a new day, the start of a new era, and that begins with you.

  "To be Nephalim is to dedicate your life to the security and safety of Atlas. Moreso, it is to be a tool of this Council, whenever asked, in whatever measure we see fit to defend this realm. It is not a political p
ost, nor a glorious one."

  Muerkher rises from his chair, joining Venicia’s side. The light cast by his flesh is no match for the illusion stemming beneath my shoes.

  "To be Nephalim," the Fire Man continues, "is to exist for Creation's greater good. It is to uphold the commandments of Atlas, and see justice done against its transgressors."

  Following a moment of silence, Muerkher clears his throat, calling on the sleepy elder. The flowing white beard and bow-legged walk are somewhat comical as he joins his peers.

  "To be Nephalim," Apollo rasps, holding up a bony, impotent finger, "is to...is to..."

  "Defend against shadow," Venicia reminds him.

  "Defend against shadow! Defend against shadow! To be Nephalim, yes. You must defend the shadows."

  "Against the shadows," the Fire Man corrects.

  Before Apollo can amend himself, the Habinar steps between Venicia and Muerkher, puffing out his enormous chest. His custom double-headed ax drags behind him.

  "To be Nephalim is to stand with the greatest protectors of the cosmic realms. Evil has a way of infiltrating each, from Atlas itself to the remains of Aumothera. It is your duty to stand against this darkness; to be the last man or woman standing against it. And when its tendrils overtake the world, you will be our last line of defense."

  "These are the expectations," Venicia says.

  "To defend the realms—" Muerkher continues.

  "And stake your soul on its survival."

  "To set an example for our allies—"

  "And put a second thought in the heads of those who would endanger all of Creation."

  "Do you understand, Ramona?" Venicia asks.

  I don't completely, but it is hard to argue with twenty-foot beings charging you with defending all of existence. With a supportive glance from Luca, I nod.

  "I do."

  "Then it will be done. By the power of this Grand Council, you are hereby appointed a Nephalim."

  "Enforcer of realms," Muerkher says.

  "Guardian of the light," Venicia adds.

  "Eternal protector of all Creation," the Habinar finishes.

  With his final words, the path of light closes around me, burning my skin as it seeps inward, absorbed within darkness I have always welcomed.

  "Congratulations," Venicia says. "No mortal has ever crossed the line between living and Nephalim. But that is a sign of the trust this Council has placed in you. You must restore the Nephalim to their former glory, so they might protect Atlas once more."

  "Your first assignment," the Habinar says, "is to accompany Luca to question Maester Quorroc. No doubt he can shed light on this conspiracy."

  I will save my doubts for the angel at my side. The funnel of light has completely disappeared, leaving the room solely lit by the Fire Man's glow.

  "I will not let you down," I promise.

  ***

  The Nephalim are housed between the main gate of Atlas and the Seat, in their own district called the Barracks. Makes sense. Barrett says he must return to the Cathedral to brief the other Maesters on my appointment as Luca and I make out for the Barracks.

  The sky has taken an overcast tone over the God's Road, but I try not to let the gray detract from Atlas' beauty. The large golden gates where I emerged from my conversation with the Avatar still seem huge, but are not our destination.

  "He likes you," Luca says as we stroll alongside each other. I am more comfortable with the angel— his presence is a calming one, and he is not hard on the eyes, either.

  "Who?"

  "Barrett."

  "He does, does he?"

  "The old man is among the longest-serving Maesters. He has spoken for years of going off to seek the White Light, but something kept him, I think."

  "Something?" I ask. "Like what?"

  "Hard to say," Luca replies. "Barrett has seen many terrible times during his tenure. Maybe, he was waiting for something to restore his confidence in Atlas."

  "The Maester is not confident in Atlas?"

  The angel smirks, but does not reply. We pass through the God's Road, almost knocking shoulders with denizens strolling up and down its lengths. Just after the arch leading to Devil's Corner is a smaller stone gate, manned by two Royal Guards.

  "These are the Barracks," he says. "It once held political prisoners before the Council built the prison in the Dark Quadrant. Interrogations still occur in this sector, but Stone Mountain ensures they cannot escape afterward."

  Luca explains many of the structures in Atlas were composed in the Second Age— there's the Stone Mountain prison and the angel statues on either side of the Seat. The Arena is one of the original structures untouched by Ziz's original invasion of Atlas, but it was damaged during the Nephalim uprising.

  Inside the Barracks, red and white temples built along the sides remind me of feudalist Chinese architecture. A pair of Royal Guards is stationed outside each. A stone-laid courtyard divides the six temples on either side by tens of feet. At its top lies an enclosed staircase leading up to a central administration building reminds me of the FBI headquarters in Washington. It betrays the surrounding Far East aesthetic for a six-story brick structure. The Nephalim headquarters is defended by twin platoons— perfect rows of upward-pointing spears wait on either side.

  "Lots of security here," I remark.

  "The Nephalim have not been in a good way for some time. One reason for the security is keeping them within their bounds, while someone else might tell you they are mistrustful now. There is no black and white answer."

  "And I'm supposed to fix this?"

  The angel chuckles.

  "One day at a time."

  ***

  According to Luca, Maester Quorroc is held on the second floor of the central building— but first, we must deal with the formalities. The main administration is called the Obelisk. Many questions reserved for my companion are answered in its lobby’s hand drawn tapestry.

  Flawless depictions of the Nephalim's history painted on the Obelisk’s walls show its angelic warriors in golden armor; depicted fighting a multi-eyed demon that resembles an octopus in one slide, a giant serpent in another. In a further tapestry, they battle what looks to be a rotting alligator. But the one at the top— much like the Burning Spire and Ziz— has all my attention.

  The creature is massive, with a snarling grin of razor sharp stacilites meeting the stalagmites below them. Yellow eyes pour darkness from its soul, out of the painting, over the room. The snout between its tiny, terrible eyes and the even more terrible teeth is long and accentuated by seething nostrils. A long barbed tail obstructs massive haunches as the creature confronts the much smaller Nephalim of yore.

  A dragon.

  "A Behemoth," Luca explains. "Defenders of Atlas before the Council turned to less volatile creatures like men. But even men have a beast or two inside them."

  "What happened to them? The Behemoths?"

  Before Luca can answer, a similarly-dressed angel approaches from the main hall's western quadrant. The man joining us has cropped dark hair in contrast to Luca's, but they are otherwise similarly built.

  "Luca," the newcomer says. "Who have we here?"

  "Pol, this is Ramona. The Council has designated her the newest Nephalim."

  "Bollocks," Pol says. "A woman can't be a Nephalim! This is...blasphemy!"

  "Afraid not. The Nephalim have been viewed in a negative light since my father's rebellion. You and I both know they cannot forever be defined by the actions of a rogue few."

  "And appointing women as Nephalim is how the Council seeks to solve this?"

  "When you put it like that, Pol, it seems you want the Nephalim to remain outcasts."

  Pol relents. I don't amount his attitude to misogyny, so much as a wariness of outsiders. I could have been a red-headed lumberjack and he would have taken issue.

  "Very well. I suppose she will need to speak with the High Priestess. Seraphina will want to orient her in the Nephalim's procedures and expectations, no dou
bt."

  "That is all well and fine, Pol," Luca says, "but right now, we are on an urgent task for the Council, and must make haste. We are here to speak with the prisoner brought in earlier. Maester Quorroc. You know he is here?"

  "Yes. The Guard brought him in an hour ago. I was here, wondering what purpose the Council saw in keeping one of its scholars locked up."

  "Merely for questioning, Pol. May we pass?"

  The dark-haired angel mockingly bows, holding out his open hand.

  "After you, my liege. Just make sure to see Seraphina on your way out."

  ***

  Maester Quorroc is a small man. Not in the physical sense— at nearly six feet, the robed elder’s sleeves hang over his hands. Bad posture diminishes a considerable chunk of his height. Thin arms lend doubt to whether he has the upper body strength to pull an empty kiddie wagon, let alone fight another human being. His beard is white and scraggly, and something in his smoke-colored eyes suggests a petty, defeated soul lives inside them.

  The portal used as a one-way mirror to a doorless room on the wall’s other side is like nothing I have ever seen. A young fellow with long, braided hair stationed in the room's far corner uses his strange brand of sorcery, conjuring a rippling blue mirror against the opposite brick wall. In its transparent imagery, Quorroc waits with eyes closed.

  "Can he see us?" I ask.

  Luca shakes his head.

  "Negative. Elion here is capable of powerful illusions, allowing glimpses and passage over short distances. But he is not powerful enough to transmit in both directions. Some of the more experienced Magi may be able to, but Elion is young, yet."

  Add Magi and their weird powers to the list of questions for later. I return to Quorroc, whose slight smile teases knowledge of something.

  The man is all too willing to bide his time.

  "So how do you want to play this?"

  "Why not show him what you're capable of? After all, you are one of us now, hmmm?"