Atlas

by Nicholas Gagnier

  "Wouldn't know," he exhales. "I just got here."

  "Guessing you didn't observe much on the way in, huh?"

  Hardwick shakes his head.

  "I didn't see any of it. One second I was with your friend, the next..." He winces, knowing I won't pity him. "Nevermind. What's the game with this place?"

  Of course Stephen Hardwick— master strategist, American traitor— would see a game in it. The persona I first met — who cared about people, and didn't believe in torturing suspects— does not exist.

  It was all a facade.

  "There's no game, Stephen."

  "Relax," he says. "It's a joke, Knox."

  "Yeah, well— you killed the whole camaraderie thing when you tried to murder me. Let's start walking. I'll fill you in on the way to the Spire."

  Our journey takes us through the Dark Quadrant and up to the Observatory, cutting down behind the Seat of Atlas. I tell him about my final confrontation with his crew in Washington, my merging with Tim and subsequent coma; I talk about Wilson and the hospital and waking in the Shroud. And by the time we approach the Spire’s entrance on the southern end, I have briefed him on the Avatar and Seraphina as well.

  "Quite the story, Knox. You've been busy."

  Despite the part of me that should be repulsed by a man who stole children out from under families and sold them— on some level, I've missed him.

  That is disgusting in itself.

  "Never dull with me."

  "I'll say," Hardwick quips as we enter through the Seat's enormous doors. "So what are we doing here, Knox? What's my role in this?"

  Before I can reply, his eyes fall on the sky-kissing dome and paintings depicting Ziz. The same wonder that engrossed me takes hold of him— and that's before the Obelisk's dragons. Far as forces to reckon with, they haven't come up yet.

  Think I'll leave that last part a surprise. Allowing him a moment to stand in awe of the Spire, neither do I have any desire to let his question linger.

  "Whatever the fuck I say it is," I snipe, walking past him toward the Council's chambers. "We shouldn't keep them waiting. Let's go."

  "Is that a demon?" he asks, still gawking at it.

  "Now, Stephen."

  ***

  Like paintings in the Spire dome, Hardwick shares the same plethora of emotion I did entering the dark chamber. There is no Barrett or Luca to lead me — now, I shepherd someone else before my cosmic masters, bound by Oath to do their bidding.

  My former partner's eyes glaze over the beings, dormant in shadow. As my feet reach the center rotunda, they wake one by one— except Apollo, of course, who continues to doze away, rumbling from his sinuses. Hardwick glances to the empty chair, like I did. He absorbs the sight of a thirty-foot Viking, a woman with a headful of snakes and a man whose skin is literally made of magma. I did all that, too.

  But now I am confident in front of them, the last Nephalim they can trust.

  "Ramona," Venicia smiles as she rises from her stone chair. "It is good to see you up and about."

  "Thank you," I say. "The feeling is mutual."

  "This Council owes you our lives. Luca too, may he rest with the Light. His loss was a terrible one for Atlas, and will no doubt embolden its enemies going forward."

  The Habinar cuts to the chase.

  "Are you ready to get back to work, Nephalim?" he asks, sitting forward. The massive ax handle rests against his chair, pointed against the backrest behind him.

  "Yes. I have already taken custody of my prisoner, and with your permission, would like to propose my theory, Your Eminences."

  Muerkher gestures to me.

  "Please."

  I pace as I talk, putting all the facts before them. Hardwick looks lost, but less than he would have been if I hadn’t briefed him. The Habinar, Venicia and Muerkher absorb every assertive statement, twitching at the emphasized bits I practiced on Barrett. They weigh morality against comfort; and when I finish, it is a moment before any of them speak.

  "What you propose, Nephalim," the Habinar booms, "is nothing short of instigating civil war within Atlas."

  "The ax-head is right," Muerkher says. "Making such a public and denigrating statement would turn what remains of the Nephalim against us. They have their allies—"

  "The cost to Atlas would be catastrophic, Ramona," Venicia finishes. "Do you have evidence of this claim?"

  "Not yet. But I can get it."

  "How?" Muerkher asks.

  "We hold a public event. But it has to be big— bigger than Siskett's party. We don't invite the Nephalim. Seraphina will undoubtedly balk if they're not there in some ceremonial capacity, and see it as a further affront to the Nephalim—"

  "In which case," the snake-haired woman says, "she will resort to extreme measures."

  The Habinar shakes his head.

  "I don't like it, Venicia. We barely contained the Behemoth at the Cathedral— and it was destroyed. What happens when it's a plaza full of people?"

  "I'm sorry," I interrupt. "I didn't mean to insinuate we invite a dragon into open Atlas. We hold some sort of get-together. Something that would grab Seraphina's attention, and feed into her paranoia—"

  "The Atlas ball," Muerkher says. This draws Venicia's gaze to the Fire Man with a look of wonder on her face. Then it clicks, and she shares his line of thinking.

  "That could work. The ball was held annually through the Second Age. There hasn't been one since Tomas' uprising."

  The Habinar does not agree.

  "It was bad enough we had to put down a tradition because of the Nephalim. Now you want to sully one by inviting Seraphina to attack it?"

  "Only to give us the proof we need," Muerkher says. "If a Behemoth attacks this time, we will be ready for it. And we will know exactly where the blame can be laid."

  Venicia returns to a smile.

  "Can you agree to that, Habinar?"

  It is a long time before the Viking responds.

  ***

  "Do they always fight like that?”

  Though Hardwick is bewildered by the scene he witnessed, I leave the Council chambers somewhat disappointed, having hoped to save the revelation about dragons for another day. Maybe I’d allow one to come within a hair of eating him— but the plan takes precedence, and it is a moot point now.

  "Well," he says, "you were right."

  "About what?" I ask. The front doors open— I'm relieved to leave this way, sparing myself a glance of the ruined Cathedral where Luca died— and fresh air finds my airway. I halt at the threshold, just collecting its sweetness in my chest.

  "Never a dull moment with you." Hardwick says. "So what now?"

  A week into being a citizen of the supreme realm, I am still lurching one scenario to another, trying to find the perfect breath. It doesn't exist, of course— expectation has a way of doing that to beautiful things.

  I'm not sure why I confide in him, even after everything we've been through together. At the same time, I find myself somewhat short on friends lately.

  "I don't even know who I am anymore," I muse aloud. "I lived my entire life, trying to atone for my stupid parents. To... do the right thing. Trying to be someone they might have been proud of, if they would have stopped for a second to care; stopped doing enough drugs to register they had a child who needed them.

  "I turned myself into this cold-hearted bitch, but...on the inside, I really did fucking care. Too much."

  Hardwick nods, every condolence soaked in shame over his actions.

  "You were the best of us, Knox."

  Squeezing my arm, he leaves me to grapple with fragments of who I was, and who I'm supposed to be.

  In between lies the person I am, and I resent her for everything.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Atlas ball is held in God City, in a building called the Illumitory. I struggled to repeat the name as it was first said— looking at the massive palace now, it’s a wonder I didn’t spot it earlier. So focused on the quaint houses and humorous, twisting r
oads, the castle looming over the district didn’t grab my attention. It does now.

  Like the Seat, the Illumitory’s primal draw is its massive dome arch, defining the castle turrets and surrounding towers. Royal Guard stroll its ramparts, looking out for any threat, rather than Nephalim to perform their rightful security role.

  Just as we planned.

  The glistening black one-piece Barrett somehow conjured from nothing is uncomfortable on my shoulders. The further discomfort of ladies in prettier dresses than mine have me resort to taunting Hardwick about a similarly acquired tuxedo.

  “Gotta be honest,” I say, boxed in by Atlas’ rich and famous as we enter the palace. “Always wondered how you would look in a suit.”

  “Put a cork in it, Knox.”

  “Relax,” I grin. “Looks good on you.”

  The Illumitory’s main room is massive. Its dome matches the Spire’s audacity, but with no painted tales imbued along its innards. Galleries emerge as balconies on the second and third floors. Small parties gather on them, overlooking the main rotunda and centerpiece interior fountain. A gold chandelier hangs over the water-spewing stonework. Its kneeling angel pours streams from tunneled eye sockets onto a small plate. It overflows into a basin that drains at the angel’s feet. A massive sword like Luca’s (dammit Ramona) is carved in the stone figure’s side.

  Twin staircases at the top of the room lead to a conjoined flight that subsequently travels up to the second floor. The walls are marked by carved columns with angels etched on one side and demons chiselled into their symmetrical opposites. Each of the balconies is equipped with railings that have the same painstaken carvings.

  “Quite the party,” Hardwick remarks.

  “I’ll say.”

  My eyes drift to the stairs. The Council stands on the second platform, accompanied by several Royal Guards — also strategically placed on the main floor, which contains hundreds of people— and Maester Barrett. Deeming them safe for now, I refocus on the multitudes of bodies in the rotunda. Taking note of some familiar faces— being an open event, I would be surprised not to see representatives of the Crimson League. Demetrius and his robed cronies loiter in a far corner, while a group of Magi occupy one of the above balconies, Elion among them.

  It is here we will draw Seraphina out, proving she was responsible for Luca’s death. If she unleashes another Behemoth, we will be ready. Hardwick taps me on the shoulder, whispering that he’s going to scope out the room. I let him leave.

  All I can do is wait for a sign, and it’s showtime.

  ***

  Seraphina arrives right as expected. Several nameless Nephalim, and Pol — the angel who greeted us at the Obelisk before we met with Quorroc— tail her into the building.

  Hardwick notices her immediately, tapping me on the shoulder. Turning my head, I see what he sees— the tall woman glides through the door with her entourage. A gold dress replaces her red one, and her hair is wound like Carrie Fisher in Star Wars— buns around the ears — but I doubt she would get the reference.

  “That the one?” Hardwick asks.

  “Yep.”

  We were not alone in noticing her, either. The crowd disperses into two groups on the far sides, forming a clear path to the central staircase where the Council waits on a banister landing. The music— an awkward fusion of what sounds like jazz mixed with ska— stops at the sound of the High Priestess’ clicking heels, sucking all warmth from the room as she glides to its top. Venicia is stone-faced at the intrusion; Muerkher scowls, and the Habinar is emotionless as Seraphina closes the distance between them.

  “So here it is!” she calls, inching closer to the Council. She passes Hardwick and I standing in the front row on the left, and we are unworthy of the stolen glance. “The coup is complete!”

  Seraphina advances up the room — smiling at those she knows, scowling at others — until arriving beneath the staircase. The Nephalim with her don ceremonial armor and swords — wings folded at their back, hands steady to draw in the High Priestess’ defence.

  The Council members say nothing, so Seraphina continues.

  “When Tomas went against you, I was among the first to warn you. When the Crimson League floated whispers of further rebellion, who confirmed it? The threat to your own lives came at further cost to those who protect you!”

  The Habinar speaks — in person, he is much closer to Luca’s size — and for the first time, cold objectivity has spiralled into genuine annoyance.

  “And how do you explain the dragons, High Priestess?”

  Seraphina chuckles.

  “And why would I know of the dragons, Your Eminence?”

  “You are the sole individual who has an issue with us, Seraphina,” Venicia says. “Of it, you have chosen to make a public stand against this Council, and innocence is yours to prove.”

  This angers the High Priestess — sinks her lip into a scowl and furrows her brow.

  “How dare you? Do you give any consideration to these accusations, hmm? Have you thought of the consequences of your words? I wouldn’t expect you have — such are the impulses of ungrateful gods.”

  “Mind your tone, Priestess!”

  Beside his leader, Pol appears torn. Seraphina will go to extremes to protect her reputation, but destroy what remains of the Nephalim’s to do so. Her long dress drags behind her, never dirtied by the floor it’s pulled across.

  “You are so quick to cast your allies out, Your Eminences. Had you not, I would have told you all — I have nothing to do with the Behemoth that destroyed the Cathedral. I might have shared what I know as well!”

  “And what do you know, Priestess?” Muerkher inquires. “I would urge you to play your card and prove your allegiance to this realm.”

  “How dare you?” Seraphina repeats. “Since the First Age, I have served you. Since the Second, we have lived and died for you. There were traitors, much like you have experienced your own turncoats. The infectorum mundi, perhaps?”

  At the mention of Tim, I cringe.

  “That is not a matter that concerns you,” the Habinar says. “This Council will deal with the World-Killer in a timely and efficient manner—”

  “Behind closed doors!” Seraphina says. “Meanwhile, you cast Tomas out! You fed embers to the kindling that set his rebellion aflame! On Gabriel’s word alone! Cast out his son, limited the Nephalim’s influence and put all of Atlas at stake!”

  “That is enough, Priestess!”

  “And to make matters worse, you elevate the World-Killer’s accomplice to one of us! She, who endangered the realms to begin with! Where is she— your precious pet?

  “No matter,” Seraphina concludes. “You will soon understand that at the end of it all, this Council has sealed its own fate. You have emboldened the Crimson League, allowed dragons back into Atlas and cast aside your most important line of defence — what happens next will be on you.”

  The Priestess turns, pulling her entourage the way she came. Her eyes find me this time, leaving a smile in her wake that chills my spine. And when my own eyes fall off her luscious red hair and swanky walk, returning to the Council, they catch sight of someone else.

  A blond woman across the room is fixated on me. I have never seen her before. Her dress is black, contrasting pale white skin and pink lips lifted in a smile. The look on her face isn’t one of curiosity, but knowledge. Trying to dispel the strange deja vu washing over me, I glance back to the Council — the Habinar grumbles to himself, while Venicia and Muerkher speak quietly.

  “Well, that was close,” Hardwick mutters. “Almost expected a swordfight.”

  Venicia’s flushed cheeks make the snakes appear pale. Sensing the goddess’s anger, the serpents don’t risk it by agitating each other. The room returns to a quiet babble as the crowd recovers from the confrontation. The space cleared for Seraphina is filled in with people, all gossiping about what they just saw.

  And then something clicks.

  A woman came to see me.


  Hardwick, at the Shadow Commons.

  Blond. Tall. Pretty. Reminded me of my ex-wife a bit. Not the first one. The second. Tits like a boar. I don’t know her name.

  My brain jumps into overdrive, straightening my posture where I’m frozen in place. Eyes flirt left to right, right to left, scanning my recollection of that conversation.

  “You alright?”

  What did this woman want?

  To know about Knox.

  I completely glossed over that description. Other than Venicia, the Priestess was the only high-profile woman I knew of when the dragon attacked Siskett’s gathering, and poor demeanor made her a prime suspect.

  Blond. Tall. Pretty. Reminded me of my ex-wife a bit. Not the first one. The second. Tits like a boar.

  I was wrong.

  “Knox?” Hardwick asks.

  Pulled from my daze, my focus shoots back to where I saw the blond woman smiling at me.

  When was this?

  “Ramona! Talk to me, dammit.”

  Couple months ago. Not sure, really. Time is messed up in this place.

  The woman is gone.

  “We have to get to the Council,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Now, Stephen. If what I just figured out holds any water, we may have been wrong. Come on.”

  I don’t wait for his questions, and begin to cut through bodies, gunning for the staircase. Pushing people aside, eyes fixated on the gods I’m sworn to protect with my soul, my mind is everywhere else.

  “Knox, slow down!”

  There may not be much time —

  The thought is interrupted by the sounds of gunfire. It breaks up nervous conversations, sending screaming people to the ground. Bullets and shotgun shells hit the chandelier, exploding its tiny gold ornaments, sending glass raining down over the marble floor.

  Bodies drop — either dead or out of self-preservation— around us as armed men with masks filter through the palace doors. Without projections to hide behind, the Council has no means of escape from this band of marauders. They are not Nephalim or Crimson League; no dragon tails the balaclava-clad militia in red trench coats.

  “Everyone on the fucking ground! Now!”