Atlas

by Nicholas Gagnier

  The intrusive voice pulls my attention from the Maester. A woman— whose very height could only be described as freakish— with red hair and a square jaw appears in the doorway. Elion's mirage fades as he stands at attention, arms by his sides. A robe that matches her hair trails behind her as she glides in through the open door.

  "High Priestess Seraphina," the woman says. "Spiritual leader of the Nephalim, Goddess of Unparalleled Beauty and Keyholder of the Light.

  "I understand you have recently taken the Oath. How stunning and brave, isn't it? In the Nephalim's darkest hour, the Council should appoint a woman to save us from ourselves? How romantic! But then again, there are some who might be displeased by such a sudden elevation to power, hmmm?"

  Glancing at my companion only merits a sullen nod. History between them is evident, but the Priestess pays little attention to Luca, so fixated on me I think she may be coming on as she leans in. Warm breath caresses her lower lip and protracted tongue, sliding over it as she whispers in my ear.

  "I have waited for this day for a long time, dear. The whispers have foretold it. The Light is never wrong, my child. Do you hear them?"

  Seraphina pulls away, and I am simultaneously spellbound and repulsed as she turns to Luca.

  "Does this not insult you, son of Tomas? The Council has hurt many in their rush to judgement. Why not you, hmm? Does it hurt to see such a soft, beautiful creature take up your father's mantle?"

  Luca, who is solemn at best, remains tight-lipped, unwilling to let her get the best of him.

  "With due respect, High Priestess, my father was a traitor to Atlas. He incited rebellion against the Council, and was rightly put down."

  "A bold assertion. Some might say he was framed by Gabriel and the Council. For his own son to take the side of plotters and schemers shows how adept they have become, hmmm?" Seraphina doesn’t wait for his muted answer, turning to me. "You and I will speak later. Best of luck with the scholar."

  The High Priestess departs, leaving Luca and I studying each other for meager consolations— and Elion, unsure exactly what he should do now.

  ***

  The angel and I agree that his presence could put the initial interrogation on edge. None of us want to prod the old Maester any more than necessary, and Luca opts to observe from the drab brick room.

  Quorroc watches me pass the liquid entryway the Magus creates, inspecting my dry clothes on emerging from its aquatic barrier.

  "Travel by portal takes some getting used to," the old man proclaims. Seated at a steel table, on a matching chair, the Maester does not seem uncomfortable, nor panicked. "Eventually it becomes second nature."

  From afar, the hunchback seemed miserable. His voice is quite pleasant, with a sing-song quality unbefitting of his body language. Wasting no time, I pull the chair across from him outward, taking a seat.

  "Do you know why you're here, Maester?"

  Quorroc chuckles.

  "I assume it is because you are Atlas's newest pawn. The Council has given you something to prove. Because let's face it— appointing a woman to the most prestigious post in all of Atlas is a desperation move."

  "Or," I say, "a sign that the way things have always been done, no longer work. So, why don't we cut the crap, and I'll tell you how it looks from where I'm standing?"

  "Please," Quorroc smiles, "do."

  The old man's attitude hearkens back to another suspect I once interrogated— who looked into my eyes and told me God had appointed him and his friends the vile messengers of morality.

  Quorroc has a lot less going for him.

  "Your ties to the Crimson League are well-known. Your fellow Maesters don't trust you. The Whisperers are running scared because they know the information in their possession is nothing less than incendiary. The High Priestess didn't waste a breath exonerating you, and a man who doesn't even qualify to be a Nephalim thinks you're involved, Maester? And I believe him. Know why? Because I've been in Atlas all of five minutes, and you have the same look other holy men that I've come across all wear. They dress up in it, like a pretty girl to be taken to the ball, and it is very hard to be mistaken for a noble cause."

  I let the tallied facts settle. Quorroc mulls over my assessment, but does not panic.

  "Very good. That is quite the theory, madam. Unfortunately, you may have gotten some of your more precarious wires crossed, so maybe I will tell you how it looks from where I sit, currently."

  "Please do," I mock.

  "The Nephalim," Quorroc says, "as an organization, have fallen on rough times. I don't know how versed you are in Atlas's history, but the man on the other side of that wall? The Nephalim's son? There is more to the story of the Burning Spire, if you would hear it."

  "Sorry," I retort, unwilling to hear the old man's blatant manipulation. "I'm sure Luca has a very good reason for whatever might have happened in his past. What's the expression? 'Sins of the father'..."

  I am blissfully ignorant of whatever procedures the Council has in place for protecting prisoners. America always saw her outlaws treated with minimal respect — that level is clearly below what the Maester expects. The old man stands with speed unbecoming of his age. The echo of his metal chair being pushed under his robe screeches its legs over the linoleum floor so loudly, it’s a wonder everybody inside the Obelisk doesn't hear it.

  "Now listen here! I will not be treated like some common criminal who belongs in Stone Mountain. For Aumothera's sake, what have I done to deserve this?"

  Unfortunately for Quorroc, his outburst doesn’t unnerve nor startle me.

  "Sit down, Maester.” Quorroc calms himself, settling back into his seat. "I can appreciate the gravity of what you're saying—where I'm from? Institutions are almost constitutionally flawed. Men who shouldn't be able to get away with heinous acts do, and all sorts of things are politicized to keep them in control. Color of your skin? Sexual orientation? Bad credit? Any of these things can end a career before it ever starts. So before you go throwing your misogynist, outlier comments my way, please know I have spent my entire life dealing with nothing less.

  "You’re not going to hurt me by stating my sex, sir. You will not change my mind by throwing around your perceived injustices, or sway me with semantics. If you want to provide information I can use to actually protect the Council, you can save yourself a lot of trouble. Maybe....the White Light?"

  Invoking this fills Quorroc's smoky eyes with terror. He shakes his head, trembling hands reaching across the table as he reconsiders this new information.

  "No....you wouldn't! It's supposed to be voluntary!"

  My gamble worked. The Maester is running scared now, and a boogeyman called the White Light is all it took.

  "We don't have to speak of that, anymore," I reply, "if you tell me what I want to know."

  And so, Quorroc does.

  ***

  Luca waits where I emerge from the cell. The portal becomes corporeal, rather than a faded window I can only deduce is there through faith. I pass through it, smiling at the boy Elion as he closes the doorway behind me, sealing Quorroc within.

  "Pretty impressive, Nephalim," he says. "Though, just for the record, Quorroc is not wrong. Nobody has ever been fed to the White Light as punishment."

  I smile at him and Elion. The boy smiles back, the angel remaining stone-faced.

  "There's a first time for everything."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I am not a monster.

  There hasn't been much time to process everything that’s happened since waking (twice)— first in a hospital room as a homeless man ate beans and was shot by masked assailants. Then, I woke up in a subway station; New York was purple and Death put on his monstrous show-and-tell. From there, I was transported to this land of disgruntled angels and a Grand Council of gods— one of whose members is snoring through the proceedings.

  Hell, I could go back further— to the Capitol, and Emily Rickard, and the legion of law-staining FBI agents kidnapping children to satisfy th
e high crime rate, justifying their jobs. I was one of them, until I found out, and suddenly I wasn't. A man with a voice-masking filter called me in my office, had me break a key suspect out of the Hoover Building and bring that man to his friends, where I would find out it was all a sham. They burned me alive in a warehouse; I laid eyes on a much simpler, gentle version of Tim's realm for the first time, nothing like that weird conjuration of New York City. He reincarnated me, I woke up in a morgue, and my life would never be the same.

  Stone Mountain is hardly stone, and even less of a mountain. It is a tower, and Bastille would be a better name. The Dark Quadrant’s main attraction— located in the northeast of Atlas, in a district as dark and pitiful as Devil's Corner in the west— is more iron and metal than stone. Black and white shadows swirl around the free-standing pillar. Windows carved into their sides are black holes into nothing. There are thousands, tiny rectangles with human cries escaping each in a long and wailing and terrible whine.

  There are no alleys here; only a wide plaza around the tower, manned by more Royal Guard. The Dark Quadrant's citizens aren't quite as down in the dirt as Demetrius' people, but starved for status nonetheless. Shantytowns and slums surround Stone Mountain, and its occupants give the prison a wide berth.

  "Why are there weird screams coming from it?" I ask Luca. He nods at certain Royal Guards along the way, letting my question linger. Both our eyes drift up to a dark cloud at the tower's peak. It swirls like a Fourth of July thunderstorm as the screams grow louder the closer we draw.

  "Stone Mountain, as you might have guessed from the name, is unbreachable. It is a soul prison. Even if a break were attempted from the outside, the prison would simply claim them on entry. Nothing that goes in, comes out," he explains.

  The looming doors creak outward, as if there is an invisible sensor. Nobody grunts to push the iron doors open, but they open regardless, revealing blackness, insanity and death between them.

  "And you want us to go in there?"

  Luca chuckles.

  "Fear not, child. Stone Mountain is only a threat to the enemies of Atlas. The Royal Guard holds the outside perimeter, but Arbiters—the prison's wardens— serve at the Council's pleasure. They will not harm us."

  "If you say so."

  Stepping past the final line of Royal Guards, my heart jumps, head sweats, hands bunch as I may be finally realizing my little darkness is nothing compared to actual darkness, so thick is the shroud as those giant doors close and we are sealed within it. Screams pouring out the thousand tiny windows are muted, and not even a passing breeze remains.

  Hollow tones of a low-powered relay results in bright glare poured from the room’s corners, crossing beams over a central hooded figure. Its arms are bone, scrubbed clean and whitened. The robes drape some sort of levitating effect— with no apparent feet, the figure appears to float, cones of light grafting over his shapeless body. He is everything I would have expected the man who calls himself Death to be— a Grim Reaper, embracing a scythe as the jailor floats in the room's center.

  "Greetings," the being says. "State your business."

  "Greetings, Arbiter. This is Ramona— the Council's newest Nephalim. Forgive us this intrusion."

  "A woman? As Nephalim?"

  Even the FBI was more progressive. Fewer people questioned the woman assigned to lead a national case in 1995. In comparison, everyone in Atlas seems to balk at my appointment.

  "I have to defer to the Council on that matter, Arbiter. In the meantime, we urgently need to speak with one of your prisoners. We are investigating rumors of a coup against the Council, and needless to say, would appreciate the Arbiters' discretion."

  The faceless being does not count emotive body language as his strong suit, remaining absolutely still as Luca explains. When he is finished, the Arbiter thinks a moment before replying.

  "Do you know how many prisoners are held here, angel? Two hundred million. And do you know why a single prisoner has never escaped these walls?

  "The Arbiters are soulbound to answer the Council's request. But do not question our discretion so carelessly. To do so may provoke us— your departure depends on our disposition toward you both."

  Luca nods.

  "Understood."

  "You will now be transferred to the Shadow Commons. For the sake of transparency, I ought to tell you that your every move will be watched. Every word will reach our ears. Do not sully this opportunity."

  Luca repeats that he understands.

  I say nothing.

  ***

  TRANSCRIPT

  NOVEMBER 21st, 1995

  The following is a classified transcript of the testimony of the Acting FBI Director, Howard Paynes, and the United States Intelligence Committee. Also present are Acting U.S. Attorney General Christopher Rosenburg, Director of National Intelligence Kenneth Dearson and Undersecretary of Defense George Roth. Sitting committee members include Nadine Lewis (D-RI), John Redding (D-OH), Xavier Lamb (D-NY), Matthew Ambrose (R-TX), Walter Syms (R-NC) and Nicholas Bluth III (D-WA)

  BLUTH: Mr. Deputy Director, you served at the time of Director John Hazel's death, is that correct?

  PAYNES: Yes, sir. I served as Director Hazel's deputy for almost six years of the nine John was in the job. Might I add what a loss the intelligence community has sustained, and take a moment for John, if I might.

  BLUTH: Motion accepted. Let this committee observe a moment of silence for John Hazel, who died serving his country against a domestic terror threat.

  AMBROSE: Mr. Deputy Director, could you inform this committee what occurred on the night of September 27th?

  PAYNES: Well, the reports have all been submitted—

  LAMB: We would like to hear it from your mouth, Mr. Deputy Director.

  PAYNES: (clears throat) Very well. I have to begin by saying this was an unauthorized operation, being carried out covertly by one of our long term operatives, Agent Stephen Hardwick.

  LAMB: And what is Agent Hardwick's status now?

  PAYNES: Deceased.

  AMBROSE: Mr. Deputy Director, I am having a very hard time understanding this. According to you, and reports the Bureau has submitted to this committee, Mr. Hardwick was responsible for operating a child trafficking ring, drawing resources from national security and municipal law enforcement to sell children as young as 8, all to maintain some image of productivity at the FBI?

  PAYNES: That seems to be the case, Mr. Senator.

  BLUTH: Unbelievable.

  REDDING: Mr. Deputy Director, you still haven't answered this committee's request. How did this come to your attention, and what exactly occurred to cause sixty million dollars' worth of damage to Washington D.C., the Bureau headquarters, a dead FBI director and multiple law enforcement casualties?

  PAYNES: You would not believe me if I told you, sir. As I said, it's all in the FBI's reports.

  BLUTH: Try us, Howard.

  ***

  The Shadow Commons— as christened by the Arbiter— reminds me of Tim's version of Central Park. The sky is black, rather than purple; silhouettes are hazy, rather than firm. Outlines of spruce and elm trees have seen color siphoned from between their outlines. The shapes are there, but blankets of static have stolen their liveliness.

  The transition from the Arbiter's chamber to the Shadow Commons is almost seamless; darkness rose up from the floor like pulling off a mask, revealing the Commons' facade beneath.

  "Don't worry," Luca assures me. "Just an illusion."

  But my eyes fall on the face brought before us, standing where the Arbiter was. Once again, the transition between one subject and another is seamless. The gruff face and tousled hair that replaces the cloaked Grim Reaper figure is instantly familiar, immediately repulsive and completely unwelcome. His hands are shackled, but not in iron— the same swirls of shadow dancing around Stone Mountain's exterior encase his wrists. He seems frozen in time, unaware of our presence. Silhouettes of trees and hedges sway in the haunted wind behind him, flapping like t
he heart against my ribs.

  "I don't understand," Luca says. "What does this man have to do with anything? This is who Quorroc said had information on the coup?"

  As much as I want to throw up, laying eyes on this monster, I cannot understand it either.

  ***

  TRANSCRIPT

  DECEMBER 3rd, 1995

  The following is a classified transcript of the testimony of the Acting Director of National Intelligence, Richard Gacy and the United States Intelligence Committee. Also present are Acting U.S. Attorney General Christopher Rosenburg. Sitting committee members include Nadine Lewis (D-RI), John Redding (D-OH), Xavier Lamb (D-NY), Matthew Ambrose (R-TX), Walter Syms (R-NC) and Nicholas Bluth III (D-WA)

  REDDING: Mr. Director, thank you for speaking with us today.

  GACY: Of course.

  REDDING: Can you explain for this committee, the events of the last two weeks?

  GACY: Yes, sir. On the evening of November 27th—approximately six days after testifying to this committee— Howard Paynes went into his office, pulled a .45 out of his drawer and put the gun in his mouth. His assistant, Madeleine Green, found him the following morning.

  LEWIS: Are we certain this was a suicide?

  GACY: (clears throat) Yes, sir. Paynes was a career man. Divorced, no children. Our assessment is the death of John Hazel and the outcomes of multiple internal investigations was not a result Howard was willing to live with.

  LEWIS: I would like to know more about the agent who exposed Stephen Hardwick. It is my understanding that she suffered some sort of attack in her home, which may or may not be related to the investigation. (shuffles papers). Ramona Knox?

  GACY: Yes. We are not quite sure what happened there. Knox appears to have lucked into some sort of paranormal loophole. That could also have something to do with her condition.

  LAMB: Where is Agent Knox now, Director?

  GACY: She is under 24/7 observation in a local hospital, sir. Her condition doesn't seem to have changed. I will continue to monitor her progress, so we might question her once she wakes.

  LEWIS: If she wakes, Director.