Atlas

by Nicholas Gagnier

  “What is that, Habinar?”

  The Viking sighs — not the least peaceful mood I’ve ever seen him in, but far from untroubled.

  “The infectorum mundi — the World-Killer. Seraphina’s claims that we are protecting him have provoked...unuseful chatter among the rabble. At a time like this, such a perception is dangerous. We will have to try him soon, in a very public manner.”

  The news shouldn’t have been unexpected — I have to stifle sadness nonetheless. The Habinar is not wrong. The idea that the Council is protecting the person responsible for Earth’s demise only places their own lives at further risk.

  “I understand. I am sure Tim will accept whatever fate you deem appropriate.”

  “Very well,” the Habinar says, with a new vulnerability to our interactions I can appreciate. “You are dismissed, Nephalim.”

  “Miss Knox,” Venecia says. “Speak with me in private, if you would.”

  ***

  The serpent woman leads me to a set of stairs outside the chamber I wouldn’t have ever known existed. Positioned behind a sliding panel in the Spire’s painted walls, the dark stone passage winds upward. Its walls are unmaintained, in contrast to the rest of Atlas. Spiders dart between cracks into the grooved blocks, crossing paths as they scurry out of the way.

  The goddess leads — though it is dark and I can scarcely see, she doesn’t seem as tall here, nor a projection. The Council must be able to seamlessly transition between hologram form and their true manifestations, placing them much closer to humans in size and vulnerability.

  As we come to the top, and the Light I sorely missed in the stairwell soaks me in its full power, panoramic windows look out over all of Atlas. The circular room offers a three-hundred-sixty degree view of the supreme realm. From the massive gates where I met the Avatar, to the Observatory overlooked by interstellar panoramas to the north; everything between is visible. God City’s colorful rooftops stand out like an acid-infused architect built a miniature Santa’s village. The snaking apartments of Devil’s Corners are matched in dreariness by the dark clouds over the district, and the Gardens offer a view of the swirling purple blossoms and giant hedge maze’s center, containing a bench and yet another stone fountain.

  “Wow,” I gasp, simultaneously drawn to every sight, both light and dark. “It’s gorgeous.”

  Venicia smiles, but it is broken as the Cathedral in the northwest. “I remember when I used to feel that way. Time has a way of rubbing beauty off the most timeless surface. You can look at something that was built to be forever youthful. Perfect. And it is.

  “But over time, you start to see flaws in the perfection — little strategic folds to cover all the things its creators didn’t want us to see. It is an illusion, like anything you stare at for too long, trying to make sense of. Flawlessness warps and erodes, like anything else in the storms of time.”

  The goddess is troubled by all the things she has seen, and rightfully so — the snakes atop her head are contemplative, rather than obnoxious; mourning, rather than adding to the world’s violence.

  I say nothing, affording her a rare moment alone, saying aloud to herself things that are meant just as much for me.

  “We have tried to lay the blame for our mistakes at the feet of others for too long. For all her pettiness and ranting, Seraphina is not entirely wrong. We refused to take any responsibility for the Nephalim uprising, or using Behemoths in the first place. We always moved forward, letting others fall on the sword; ignored elements on the fringes until they constituted a crisis.”

  A question comes to me — to this point, I have never been alone with any of the Council members. They have always faced me together, and my questions were met with conflicting responses.

  “Seraphina said Gabriel was responsible for the uprisings. Not Tomas. Luca seemed to adhere to the more common narrative — that his father led the Crimson League against you.”

  “What are you asking, Ramona?”

  “I’m asking if there’s any truth to it,” I reply. “Right now, the Priestess is on a very ambiguous line. She could be innocent just as easily as she might be guilty. If it’s the latter, she’s definitely not working alone. But I need the truth, Your Eminence. If she’s not involved, I’m wasting a lot of time here.”

  Venicia sighs.

  “Maybe we put too much faith in Gabriel. I know we did. But he loved Tomas like a brother — to make the kind of accusations he did warranted immediate intervention. We panicked, and took the least righteous course. Sent agents to round up Tomas’ wife and Luca, who was only a boy. It was the Habinar’s call, but I was just as guilty for supporting it.”

  “And that’s why Tomas stormed the Spire,” I finish. A sour taste rinses my mouth, and I recognize it as anger. “To save his family.”

  Venicia nods.

  “Did Luca know that?”

  The serpent woman shakes her head, and suddenly, I don’t want to hear anymore about Atlas’ past. All I want to do is to fulfill my duty. Venicia’s guilt is her cross to bear, not mine.

  “So,” I say, “what are you asking me to do?”

  The goddess bestows a look unlike any I’ve seen from her. It is fear — not necessarily toward the storms at her doorstep, but judgment for her part in nurturing its size.

  “Determine Seraphina’s role in this, once and for all. I don’t care how you do it, or what my compatriots think. If she’s truly not involved, we can bring the Nephalim back into the fold.”

  “And if she’s guilty?”

  “Then things are much worse than we ever imagined. This stays between you and I, Ramona — am I clear?

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  “Good,” she says. “Do you have any idea how you are going to approach it?”

  One second, she doesn’t care how I do it; the next, she wants to know. If the serpent woman is giving me carte blanche, then my circle has shrunken to me, myself and I.

  “I’ll figure it out. Do we still have the weapons from the attack on the Observatory?”

  Venicia frowns.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to infiltrate the Obelisk, and make the High Priestess spill the goods. Back Seraphina into her own corner, she’ll have nowhere to run.”

  “And you plan to do this alone?”

  “No. I’ll have help. I’ll bring Hardwick.”

  The goddess ponders my proposal. There is no more relief in one option than failing to do anything, which is incidentally another, and one I have grown tired of.

  “Be careful, Ramona. The Nephalim will not hesitate to cut you down if they see you as a threat to the High Priestess —”

  “—who are also in disarray. Several were wounded during the attack on the Illumitory. Pol is out of commission. I think the two of us can outsmart those still standing.”

  “Very well,” Venicia replies. She is no less world-weary for my feigned confidence, but accepts the proposal — to put the Nephalim’s rogue elements in their place, once and for all. “See Barrett for access to the remaining weapons. He will need to be brought into the fold.”

  “Okay.” I trust Barrett more than most, and don’t anticipate his inclusion is a problem. “Thank you, Your Eminence.”

  “Just...be careful, Nephalim. Seraphina is a powerful enemy, and already distrusts you. There may be no coming back from this.”

  I smirk, taking one final look through the panoramic windows, admiring Atlas before I learn to recognize its darkness.

  “If the High Priestess is guilty, that will be true. For what it’s worth, I don’t believe she is — just a bitter old crone who’s stewed in her resentments too long. Arrogant? Definitely. But plotting the demise of Atlas? I’m not as certain as I was.”

  At this point, I could basically say that about everything.

  ***

  After retrieving Hardwick from some generously donated quarters at the Barracks, I double back to the remains of the Cathedral. It is the first time I have looked at the
wreckage since the dragon destroyed it. Rubble is scattered in conflicting directions. The stone columns poke out of the debris which no god had time to order cleared away. The dust is settled, waiting to be kicked up by any ghosts that traverse the ruins, grabbing sentiment by the leg.

  Barrett waits for us by the wreckage. The old scholar is troubled as any god over the destruction and assault on his Order, the Council he serves and Atlas in general. His eyes are glued to the remains of everything he built; a man at the end of his tenure, debating greater questions with the semi-permanent sunset over him.

  “Maester?”

  He barely turns, acknowledging our arrival with a grunt — a shell of the cheerful man I met on my first day here.

  “Did Venicia brief you?” Again, the response is muted, filled in by Barrett’s clicking tongue and slow-drifting gaze.

  “All of this violence,” he says. “We were given everything — the pinnacle of Creation. Privilege of shaping the universe, and safety from darkness. Yet, all we do is squander it.”

  Much as I would like to stand here and appease Barrett’s self-pity, if those Nephalim recover, this operation will become much harder.

  “Venicia said you knew where the remaining weapons were kept from the Illumitory attack. I need them, Maester.”

  “Why?” Barrett asks. “If I give them to you, how much more violence do we risk? How far does it go, Nephalim?”

  “Until it stops,” I reply. “Until this city is safe and the Council can sleep with both eyes shut. I gave my word to protect them, and everything I have done is in service to that, Maester. I don’t want violence anymore than you do.”

  Finally breaking fixation with the ruins of his Cathedral, Barrett faces me with a wince.

  “Very well. I will do as asked. But I do not endorse it, understand?”

  Neither do I, Maester.

  Neither do I.

  ***

  The remains of Linus’ crew are held in a cellar below the Coliseum district. It is the first I have ever laid eyes on the Arena up close— a massive circular stadium where angel heroes once put on displays of might for peasants of Atlas — and much to the Council’s delight. Barrett explains on the way that few venture here anymore. It has the stink of the old ways, counter to the gods’ progressive new image following the Nephalim uprising.

  The cellar is attached to a small gatehouse near the physical arena. It is not much more than a trapdoor in the ground, but Barrett didn’t want to risk any of Linus’ benefactors retrieving their worldly possessions. The air is filled with dust, the cavernous room soiled by mortal corpses strewn over its uneven floor. The collection of spent weapons is the same as the pile of functional ones. Hardwick and I approach the small mountain that once represented the largest threat on Washington’s streets. Now there are dragons and angels and nothing will ever be normal again.

  My partner secures a handgun, inspecting the chamber to ensure it’s loaded, then does the same with an assault rifle. My hands canvass the assortment of deadly contents, settling on two pistols and a shotgun with a leather strap, fastening it around my shoulder.

  Behind us, Barrett speaks.

  “I sincerely hope you will exercise restraint, Nephalim. Arrogance and foolhardiness has been the cause of enough trouble.”

  “Believe me, Maester— I agree wholeheartedly. With any luck, we’re closing in. And believe it or not, I am trying to exonerate her. She’s just too thick-headed to take a reasonable out when she sees one.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Barrett says. “Good luck, Ramona.”

  I am not a monster.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Barracks are more tense than it was leaving them after collecting Hardwick to meet Barrett. It likely has to do more with the fact we're about to make a scene. The Royal Guard has withdrawn from the district. Groundskeepers and lesser angels without the distinctive Nephalim robes (some don’t even have wings), glare at my holstered pistols and the rifle in Hardwick’s grip. Ignoring the temple-like buildings down the Obelisk’s flanks, we march through the corridor between their opposing arrangements. The central building is my only fascination now, our pace brisk approaching its walled stairway.

  Two higher-ranking angels barricade the doors, keeping their spear bottoms glued to the ground. Like those in the courtyard, they study the combustible weapons not native to Atlas as we approach.

  “Gentleman,” I say. “We have a standing appointment with the High Priestess.”

  “I don’t think so,” the Nephalim on my left says. “The Obelisk is closed to outsiders.”

  “I don’t understand,” Hardwick says. “Aren’t you one of theirs?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “You would think so.”

  The second guard speaks.

  “The High Priestess does not recognize this woman as Nephalim. She is an interloper, and will never be accepted by the order. Please retreat beyond the Barracks, or we will be forced to call reinforcements.”

  Unbelievable. He addresses Hardwick the entire time, acting like I’m not present. My fingers tense around the shotgun strap, and Barrett’s request for civility becomes less likely.

  “If Seraphina wants to exonerate herself, she’ll speak with me—”

  The first guard interrupts.

  “The only audience the High Priestess owes is to the Council itself. Make all the threats you please, woman. She is done with the likes of you.”

  Whatever dream of smashing the angel with my shotgun’s blunt end is superseded by Hardwick swinging his own into the Nephalim’s face. The man collapses at my feet, clutching his bleeding jaw, but tries to get back up. I kick out, bringing the top of my foot into the bridge of his nose. The angel’s nasal cavity shatters, and he falls still in a heap.

  Putting the other angel in a chokehold, Hardwick pulls the angel’s sword from its sheath with his spare arm, holding the rifle over the guard’s throat. He casts the blade down the stairs; it clatters every few steps before settling at the bottom.

  “I got him, Knox. Let’s move.”

  I enter the cleared doorway; Hardwick pushes his hostage through the frame behind me. The guard grunts, manhandled under the threat of death. All the Nephalim’s demons are on full display with the painted walls as I raise the shotgun barrel. We advance into the hallway where several members have drawn swords after hearing the commotion at the doorway.

  “Stop right there!”

  “Not another step!”

  “They’ve got a hostage! At ease, men!”

  Pol pushes past the frontline, who don’t quite ease as ordered, continuing to hold their swords outward. Pol disregards his bandaged wing and arm in a sling to intervene, met with cynicism by his brethren and us.

  Hardwick and I keep our weapons raised — Hardwick to his captive, mine to anyone who walks in front.

  “Are you alright, Nephalim?” Pol asks the man in my partner’s grip. At his disgruntled nod, the angel raises an open palm, standing between his brothers and my shotgun. “We can resolve this peacefully, Miss Knox.”

  “Is that right? You're going to take me to Seraphina?”

  Pol grimaces.

  “The High Priestess is unavailable. She sustained shaken nerves at the ball, and has been holed up in her chambers since.”

  “Well, let’s go knock on her door, then. I can be fairly persuasive when I want to be, Pol, and I’m all out of small talk with the woman.”

  Our negotiator ponders this a second. His dark hair is ruffled, and he looks tired of his order’s political games.

  “Release the boy, and I’ll take you to the Priestess,” Pol says. He wheels, using his good arm to signal his compatriots. Within a second, their swords are lowered.

  “Nope,” Hardwick says. “Kid’s the only thing that keeps you from cutting us down. I’ll let go when you come through for Knox.”

  I look back at my partner, and tell him to release the hostage. This earns a scowl from Hardwick.

  “The he
ll, Ramona.”

  “Let him go, Stephen. Fair is fair.”

  Hardwick mutters something, but obeys. The young angel rubs his neck, stumbling to the other Nephalim. Pol is good to his word, and beckons me to follow him.

  “Your partner stays here,” he commands, and I tell Hardwick I’ll meet him later.

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah. I got it from here.”

  “Fine,” he says. “But keep your guard up.”

  Hardwick’s eyes canvass the paintings above the platoon of Nephalim. He keeps the rifle raised, backing toward the door as I am led away by Pol. The strap of my shotgun finds a shoulder, and bit by bit, I lower my guard, rather than raise it.

  Time to make Seraphina spill the goods.

  ***

  The High Priestess’ chambers occupy an entire level at the top of the Obelisk. A special elevator in the back bay of the building is required to take us there, but there is no metal box like in the real world. The glowing red platform with no handrails shudders as it moves — Pol is calm at its rocking ascent, while I sway back and forth like an idiot to maintain balance.

  Seraphina’s lobby is a nondescript room with thick metal doors, engraved with the dragon-themed seal of the Nephalim — a serpent with a Behemoth’s face atop it. Two sentries on either side of the double doors immediately notice our intrusion, informing Pol that the Priestess is not taking visitors.

  “I understand,” the senior Nephalim says. “Unfortunately, we have a slight emergency—”

  While Pol might have no problem weaving the tale of his predicament to everyone he encounters, I don’t have time. Emulating Hardwick, the butt of my shotgun smashes one angel in the jaw as my foot is thrust into the other’s shin, sending him to kneel. The one suffering a broken mandible meets my wheeling foot as the weapon crashes into the second.

  Pol glances down at his wards in horror.

  “I could have diffused that, you know.”

  “Sorry,” I reply, arriving at the crack in the doors. “Seraphina!”

  There is no answer on the other side, nor a discernible device to knock with. They don't budge meeting my shoulder and offer nothing pressing my ear against them. Pol watches intently as I bang my fist on the metal and continue calling the Priestess’ name.