My stomach meets the floor, hands splayed in front of me. Hardwick assumes the same position as the aggressors advance to the front of the room. Their weapons are myriad — from handguns to semi-automatics— and I can’t help but wonder exactly how one goes about acquiring firearms in Atlas.
It doesn’t matter. The Council is under threat.
I have to save them.
***
“Everybody on the floor! Now!”
The Illumitory falls quiet at the intruders’ entrance. The indelible chatter and awe of the scarcely-used palace are replaced by scraping elbows along the floor, soft whimpering. Women in bejeweled gowns try to keep their garments from becoming dirtied. The male hostages, less focused on style in a critical moment, glare at our assailants. A sea of nervous glances are exchanged as a hundred bodies meet the ground in surrender.
Beside me, Stephen Hardwick clasps hands over the back of his skull, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the Council. My eyes follow his, but the intruders’ masked faces and semi-automatic weapons obstruct my view of the staircase. Seraphina, who stood between both waves of people during her confrontation, is whisked aside by Pol. The Nephalim unsheathes his sword, white feathered wings extending from openings in his red robes. The blade gleams; glare from the chandelier is cast off its edges as Pol acts as a human shield for his Priestess.
“I demand to know the meaning of this!”
I don’t see the Habinar from the floor— only hear his booming inflections over the silhouettes blocking my view of the Council. The attackers don’t respond. There are eight that I can see, all outfitted in the red jackets and black masks. Their weapons held low — once the majority of attendees have lowered to their stomachs with interlocked hands— lead me away from the assassination theory.
These people want something from the rulers of Atlas, and they intend to have it.
One of the taller aggressors commands another to grab a captive; the man is too slow, and the leader waves him off, preferring to do it himself. The woman he pulls up by the straps of her diamond gown screams, trying to escape him. Still holding his sword in front of Seraphina, Pol is met with multiple sights trained on him. The angel has obviously never seen guns in Atlas, but is probably well-travelled enough to know what they are.
“Don’t even think about it,” one of the intruders tells Pol. “Winged freak.”
How are they doing this?
The Council waits quietly as the woman is held at gunpoint. The barrel of a shotgun creeping along her soft pink cheek causes her to hyperventilate under the threat of death.
Guns aren’t native to Atlas, my brain reminds me. Since when have you seen them?
Before I can ponder it further, or study the masked assailants— for a sign of identity, affiliation or any other clues— the leader answers the Habinar, holding the weeping woman against his chest. His forearm just over her throat pins her to him, binding their ultimate fates.
“Greetings, Your Aminance.” The mispronunciation of eminence, coupled with a English accent and silhouette of a grin under the balaclava— which only means one thing.
They didn’t manifest from osmosis. Somebody let these assholes into the supreme realm, guns and all. They’re not dressed like its denizens and call hostages things like freaks and mutants, leading me to assume both a lack of education and unfamiliarity with Atlas on their part.
“And to what do we owe the pleasure of this interruption?”
The leader chuckles.
“Do you really not know, Your Aminance?”
Venicia steps to the bannister, joining the Habinar at its threshold. To their respective left and right, the twin staircases begin.
“Speak your intentions, or surrender peacefully. Dare I say, you will not enjoy the third option!”
Next to me, Hardwick glances above us— looking for an escape, a weapon, anything to defend ourselves.
The leader giggles, pressing the woman’s posterior into his crotch area. The girl is no older than I am, in a glittering blue dress with her hair in a bonnet, wincing at the violation.
“Oh, no intentions in particular,” he says in the woman’s ear to stifled cries. “Ain’t that right, sweetheart?”
The Habinar tenses his giant shoulders, gripping the ax he never leaves home without.
It may be all that saves us now.
“What do you want, then?” Muerkher asks, the most diplomatic among them.
“Aw,” the masked leader says. “Y’all have a party, and don’t invite the little guy, ‘uh? Typical of big, self-important freaks who run everything, i’nnit it? Naw— we're gonna help make your big ol’ smash a bit more interesting. Now, everyone on the ground floor to the center ‘o the room!”
The underlings shepherd a hundred people into a huddle on their knees, alternating sights on all sides of the room. A rough hand meets my shoulder, pushing me ahead. Their gruff accents are mixes of Russian, Southerners and New York Yanks. Hardwick sinks to his knees in front of me, shoved down by one of the masked underlings. The leader and another hostage-taker keep sights trained on the Council as Seraphina and Pol kneel in the room’s center next to us. The woman in the leader’s grip rejoins the main group, collapsing into sobs. Some of the other attendees huddle around her, trying to offer meager comfort.
“Now, we was sent to collect the Avatar’s central unit, or somethin’ like that — somethin’ I’m told you freaks ‘ave access to.”
“The Seed?” Muerkher asks. “Why?”
The leader shrugs — his body language suggests a look of perplexion behind the ski mask.
“Like I fucking know! My crew took a job, and we intend to collect!”
Theory confirmed. Somebody sent these wastes of life — someone with access to the Council — and now all of Atlas is under threat.
Seraphina must be working with Ziz’s agents.
No Ramona, my brain retorts. She looks just as terrified as anyone here.
There is no sign of the blond woman who smiled at me like she knew something was about to happen. Scanning the crowd, I wonder who she is. Did she let them in?
Somebody inside Atlas is working against it. But first, we need to deal with the hostage situation, or there won’t be an Atlas to save. A short glance past the collective of heads, shifting to the room itself, I look for weakness— anything I can use to gain the upper hand. Canvassing corners, floors and walls, I eventually land on the room’s center.
The chandelier glistens in streaks of gold light bouncing off its shattered pieces, the remains of which cake the floor around us. It would provide a momentary distraction, give us a chance at disarming them — but would mean a hundred people killed when it landed on them.
Hardwick sees the lightbulb go off, and asks what I’m thinking.
“I have an idea. Just wait.”
The captors circle in predetermined paths. They never stand still, constantly moving around each other, studying their hostages for signs of rebellion. The leader continues bartering with a Council denying they can access the Avatar’s central unit — it is long embedded inside the being.
“Bullshit,” the leader says.
A booming voice overtakes the Illumitory’s silent undercurrent, piercing every pause between their negotiations. It startles me from watching the underlings’ patrols for movement patterns.
“The Council is correct.” Like a loudspeaker, the Avatar’s feminine voice comes from nowhere and everywhere. The leader jumps back at her sudden intervention, looking everywhere around him.
“What the fuck was that?”
“To remove the Seed would short-circuit Atlas, but also kill the person who claims it. Since every action in the universe has an equal and opposite reaction, nothing could occur without a trade. The Seed, for the thief. Light for darkness.”
The man in charge visibly panics at first, calming as he remembers there are men to give their lives for him.
“Think you can impress me with your little technol’gy, do
nt’cha?”
As he is distracted, and the subordinates who hold our group at gunpoint have had their all-consuming focus pulled away, I lean into Hardwick’s ear.
“When I call out to you, move this group away, understand? Fast as you can, as many as you can.”
Hardwick frowns.
“What’s your game, Knox?”
The aggressors rebound from the Avatar’s interruption, and I can no longer communicate. Flashing a glare that tells him to do as he’s told, I return to watching the Council.
“Now,” the Habinar says, “if that is everything, I suggest your retreat back to whence you came, or face the wrath of the supreme realm.”
The man snickers.
“Supreme realm? What’s ‘o supreme about it? Seems like a shithole to me—”
One man passes my twelve. Another two are at my two and ten; two more at five and forty. The final one is still unnerved the most by the Avatar’s sudden announcement, drifting away from the group.
“I’m going,” I say. “Wait for my signal—”
The subordinate at my five notices my whispering to Hardwick, barking at me in a thick Russian accent to stand up and approach him. Keeping hands at head level as I approach him, I move slowly, letting my arms tremble, lip quiver — as expected, the satisfaction in his beady brown eyes tells me everything I can’t see about the rest of him.
“Something to say, сука?”
My Russian is rusty, or I might return an equally intelligent response. The leader’s paused speech informs me our confrontation has drawn some heads. All my attention is on the Russian underling who might be able to shoot me in the face; but his ignorance of Atlas is my advantage.
They have no idea that biological function is irrelevant here.
“Yes,” I feign as wincing. “I have to pee.”
The man exhibits a frown that pulls the balaclava’s brow downward. His eyes dart over my shoulder to the Brit. I don’t try to watch their exchange — to succeed, I have to be committed.
After a moment, the Russian refocuses.
“Fine. Where’s the bathroom?”
“Right here,” I say, cocking my arm back. The fist connects with his eye and he keels over, clutching the pulsing socket. Without hesitating, I grab the barrel of his shotgun, pointing it to the ceiling. The Russian’s finger tenses — the escaping cloud of smoke and shells ricochets, sending the hostages behind me into fits of screaming and crying. My knee thrusted at the man’s abdomen dislodges his hold on the weapon, and its newly freed butt finds the right side of his jaw.
“Stephen, now!”
Sights at eye level spin on my heels to face the Council. In my peripheral vision, Hardwick yells at the crowd to help him rush the men to their left. My audacity inspires Pol to climb to his feet, drawing the sword on his hip.
“Nephalim! On me!”
My trigger finger lapses. The captor at my two, readying to shoot me, never sees a Nephalim’s sword cut right through him. The leader inadvertently dodges the shotgun’s fury — its shells are buried in the staircase below the Council’s feet. The stampede led by Stephen Hardwick flattens both guards on my left. The two men scream before falling silent, presumably beaten to death by the braver souls like Hardwick.
Six are down, leaving only the two nearest the Council. I pull back the chamber, but don’t check for shells, and am shortly informed by an empty click when I try to fire. Ditching the shotgun, I roll backwards as an automatic stream of gunfire from the surviving underling bursts marble floor at my feet. Bullets eat at the circular fountain as I take cover behind its basin, and it rains down limestone shards around me. A bullet strikes one of the Nephalim — he falls to the floor as Pol takes one through his wing. His sword clatters to the ground, and the bullet stream momentarily ceases. The leader is armed with dual pistols, but the assault is lessened as his colleague reloads the magazine.
Landing from the roll puts me into a crouch, and within arm's length of a fallen subordinate’s weapon. Securing the handgun coincides with the AR-15 being reloaded, but my position puts me out of their sights.
A glance at the stairway assures me the Council evacuated to a higher floor when the gun battle started — communication between the surviving attackers assures it.
“Fuck! They escaped, Linus!”
“You idiot!” the leader yells between breaks in the gunfire. “No names, Benny!”
“Bit late now, ain’t it, cocksucker?”
Tired of wasting bullets on a stone fountain, Linus and Benny advance beneath the chandelier, weapons pointed outright. The doors behind me open, and the panicked crowd escapes into open Atlas.
The top of their heads appear over the stone fountain’s wall, and I point the .45 at the checkered ceiling.
Six bullets pass through the chandalier’s center, shattering tiny gold ornaments into more fragments than Fourth of July fireworks in the capital. One strikes the chandelier’s central support, severing chain links from the bracket that suspends it high above. The main fixture plummets alongside the busted torrent of jagged edges. It lands on the carcass of the fountain’s central figure. Rogue shards splatter around the basin, splintering into a million cubes that wash outward from the point of impact.
The last thing I see before my nose touches the floor, hands hugging my head in the fetal position is Benny and Linus shrieking at the wave of lacerating droplets coming to impale them.
No longer aware of the smattering shower consisting of ricocheted glass, I sit up in the wreckage. The fountain is gone, beyond the bowl that recycled water into its spout. The bracket creaks well above a sea of cubic knives coating the floor in every direction. My arms ache with the blood down my bicep — the only thing that prevented sharing Linus and Benny’s fates. Their bodies lay, spread-eagled and bleeding from a hundred new orifices on the fountain’s other side.
Trying to regain any semblance of balance, my feet are eventually able to sway more than fall among the dead. Wincing at the fire down my arms, I stumble forward, taking baby steps towards a barely-stifled rage.
Somebody let those fuckers into Atlas — and that is the only lead I need to follow.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Ramona,” Venicia says. “I don’t know what to say. We are once again in your debt.”
Back in their rightful thrones, the Council is solemn. Even Apollo is awake, looking fully concerned. It is the first time I have seen anything more than a dozing look in the old man’s eye, and I wish he felt secure enough to just go back to sleep.
Muerkher scoffs.
“It was her plan that put us at risk in the first place, Venicia!”
“Are you seriously questioning her loyalty, Muerkher? The woman has saved us not once, but twice now! First the Behemoth, now these...insurgents.” Venicia seems satisfied with the word replacing a worse one for them.
“Yes, but we would have never held the ball without her recommendation.”
I stare at the ground. Hardwick didn’t accompany me, leaving me as their sole audience. Barrett is also shaken, and opted to take a moment for himself. I have no desire to insert myself into the argument.
Muerkher is not wrong.
The Habinar, who has quietly mulled this newest development as his peers argued, finally breaks his silence.
“For once, I am on the Nephalim’s side. If we had not held the ball, we would have been ignorant to this. Somebody in our court is feeding the source of our problems information. I anticipate these two attacks are connected, and there is an agent of Ziz among our confidantes.”
“Who?” Muerker grunts. “We don’t have time to chase conspiracy theories, ax-head. Seraphina is clearly in cahoots with our adversary—”
Venicia shakes her head of living creatures.
“I disagree. Three of her own were injured in the attack. If I know anything about the Priestess, she would not knowingly put her men in danger.”
“And still, I think she knows more than she is letting on.”
<
br /> Venicia homes in on me.
“What do you think, Ramona?”
“Yes,” the Habinar says. “This is your plan, Nephalim. Advise us on the next steps.”
The newfound respect from the Viking is temporary — the threat to them is profound and merciless in its pursuit, and there is no time for warm and fuzzy.
“I may have mischaracterized the High Priestess, but that doesn’t mean she’s completely innocent. Her behavior made her a high-profile target, and I stand by my initial assessment. However, I agree that somebody within your inner circle may be providing information regarding your defense strategy — this being based on insider knowledge of both Siskett’s gathering and access to the ball. But there’s something else.”
“What is it?” Venicia asks.
“At the ball, just before the attack, I saw a woman. I had never seen her before, but she was there five minutes before the attackers arrived, and I didn’t see her again after that.”
“And you think this woman is somehow connected to the conspiracy.”
I nod.
“It’s possible. There seem to be a lot of hands in this cookie jar, if you’ll forgive the expression. Luca said Ziz’s followers stem from many different factions — but they’re working interchangeably, almost seamlessly to hinder us.”
“So what are the next steps?” Muerkher asks.
“We need to find the coordinating agent who is holding all these forces together. Luckily, we know their goal — to steal the Avatar’s central processing unit—”
“Which would be the end of Atlas,” Venicia concludes for me. “This goes deeper than I ever could have imagined. Tomas’ rebellion was one thing, but this is sophistication unlike anything we’ve seen. There are Behemoths and outlanders, Maesters and gangs wrapped up in it.
“I don’t know where it begins, but I tell you: it ends now. Find these people, Ramona. Find them, and keep the Avatar safe.”
“I have every intention of doing so,” I tell them, bringing a smile to the serpent woman’s troubled expression.
The Habinar interrupts.
“There is another matter, and one the Nephalim should be aware of.”
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