Atlas

by Nicholas Gagnier

  The terrible yowling of fire-speaking beasts beyond reinforced doors, cooking the population of Atlas alive, is worse than anything Tim and I could have brought upon the world. Even Hardwick waits sullenly beside me, hunched over my knees as we wait for the massacre to conclude.

  Breath returns to me, but sanity is long gone.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  By the point in the trial Hardwick and I burst through the doors — pursued by mammoth organic flamethrowers, no less — the proceedings had already reached their crescendo. As Tim would tell me later, it was the only latest event of his trial to unnerve him.

  I haven’t seen Tim much since coming to Atlas — the man who calls himself Death has remained scarce; perhaps sensing he had caused me enough trouble, he wasn’t present during the outlanders’ attack on the ball.

  From what Tim tells me of the day afterward, it is a wonder any of us survived at all.

  ***

  Tim’s recounting of his trial begins the night before being shepherded into the Observatory, and standing in front of twenty-five hundred people to make the case for his soul.

  Until then, he had stayed in a little cottage in God’s City — I may have passed it several times without knowing. Most of the time, he simply stared out a window, trying not to think. And there was enough to think about, if he was of the mind. There was his old life — his wife who died in childbirth; his teaching career, his home and his future. He tried not to think about the grief that consumed him after the nameless spouse died and he was alone; about how one little trip to a backwater Washington town put him on the path to becoming Death.

  Most of all, Tim tried to ignore the choice that ended the world— so that when the Nephalim showed up to escort him from God’s City to the Observatory, the man who calls himself Death was at peace.

  All of Atlas seemed aware he would be pulled through those doors. Hundreds of people waited outside the small apartment the Council had kept him in lieu of Stone Mountain. Some chanted and cried and wanted to touch his hands; others screamed traitor and World-Killer. Tim ignored them all.

  “May Light have mercy on you!” one woman cried from behind him. A hand touched Tim’s shoulder. The man who calls himself Death closed his eyes, trying to drown out the torrent of yelling and waving hands in his direction.

  “Traitor!”

  “Go in peace, infectorum mundi. Peaced be.”

  As Tim was pulled through the parade of spectators — out of God City, around the Seat and into Atlas’ northernmost quadrant — the crowd not only followed through the low arches and stone gates; like a snowball rolling down a mountain, it grew. More people of divergent opinion joined the mob, washing down the cobblestone like a wave. Ragged souls on street corners joined the nobles who began this journey with him, sweeping into the Observatory district.

  Tim and the Nephalim moved up the stone pathway lined with Royal Guard. The field of stars overhead contrasted their winged helmets. The mob of curiosity funnelled into the lawn where they would shortly die in a dragon attack, following the party right up and through the doors. Tim didn’t look behind him, but could feel the heat of their gathering on his back.

  Inside the Observatory awaited the influencers who would determine the World-Killer’s fate. The Council — even Apollo was awake and somewhat alert — waited behind the large bench from where their judgement would pass down. They were present, rather than in hologram form. The seven surviving Maesters sat left of the bench, acting as a partial jury. On its right waited High Priestess Seraphina, her right-hand Pol, and several nameless angels in her service. The tall woman sneered, but there was a light-heartedness to it, as if she had waited for this moment all her life.

  A pedestal erected on the floor before the Council consisted of a short set of steps leading to a gated platform. The Nephalim holding his arm guided him into it, closing its door behind him. The crowd who had followed them did not chatter or whisper; their respect for these proceedings was absolute.

  “Tim Hawkins,” the Habinar said. “Otherwise known as the demigod Death — colloquially called the World-Killer, the infectorum mundi, the destroyer of worlds. You stand before this Council on grave charges, son. For the sake of the court, I will list them here—

  “Failure to heed the natural order. Interference in the world of the living. Time-space manipulation. Destruction of Atlas property. Communicating with a mortal. Subverting the death of a mortal. Reincarnating a mortal. Dereliction of duty. Assault on an agent of Atlas. Resisting arrest. Divulging sensitive information, breach of trust, breach of ethics. And finally, bringing apocalypse on the world of the living.”

  The Habinar’s booming inflections dropped off. Venicia spoke — the snakes atop her head were restless, uncomfortable with this state of affairs, and sought to mangle each other.

  “How do you answer these charges, World-Killer?”

  Tim — who had contemplated his answer endlessly— had promised himself to go through with this moment, and not be afraid.

  He could not backtrack now.

  “Guilty on all charges,” Death said, to multiple gasps around the room. Muerkher hung his head and Venicia sullenly nodded. To their right, Seraphina beamed.

  “And have you prepared a statement in your defence?” Muerkher asked. His glowing skin lit the podium on which the man who calls himself Death would either be exonerated or — more likely — punished.

  Tim nodded.

  “I have.”

  “Then you have the floor.”

  The World-Killer closed his eyes, trying to forget about all the people watching him.

  When he opened them, he was ready.

  “I did not ever ask to be Death,” Tim replied. “From what I understand of the role, it was first given to a Nephalim, named Jonah.

  “Aumothera — also known as the Shroud, for those not familiar with it — is the former world belonging to Ziz. After the Dark Lord was subdued, Aumothera became an alternate realm; the ultimate eugenics experiment, so that only worthy and redeemable souls could come to Atlas while the rest floundered in this dark world.

  “Believe me — I understand the reasoning. This is a sacred place, Your Eminences, free of all the nuances that life in the Shroud entails. Was I wrong to take pity on myself, and allow the curiosity over what happened to my sister beckon me to an answer?

  “Yes,” Tim continued, “but at the same time, it may have been inevitable from the day I took this job, and nothing less than absolute power passed to me. What I eventually did with that power was wrong — but also human error, and what comes of placing flawed people in this role.”

  At this point, the room fell silent. He had few allies here, but Tim knew every person standing behind him and outside could relate to his amplified voice.

  “I point you to my predecessors, if I may. Jonah was an angel who entered Aumothera first — we know him as a being named Reaper now, and I don’t think recounting how he became that way is a matter for this trial.

  “Then there was Hale, my immediate predecessor — a man who willingly, knowingly endangered the world; who interfered with mortals on numerous occasions. Who wanted to remove the barrier between life and death, and pour Aumothera’s horrors into the living realm.

  “I helped stop that,” Tim said. “Were it not for a handful of us who confronted him, Earth would be ashes anyway! As for the plague...that was one of your own who released it, in order to frame the Breach as a worse occurrence than it was.

  “I don’t say any of this to detract from my actions or mitigate what happened because of it. But I believe that an unfair proportion of blame has been cast on them. I don’t say it hoping for leniency, but acknowledgement — there were a lot of individual forces at work here.”

  There were no gasps or audible surprise as Tim concluded his defence. Every soul in that room studied the Council’s emotive reactions at play. Venicia, the most empathetic of them, would have been the most torn; the Habinar, whose cold proclamations often
got under my skin, the least. Muerkher fell somewhere between, and was the first to speak.

  “I can appreciate what the infectorum mundi has put forth. And while this Council has always sought fairness in its dealings—“

  Tim scoffed.

  “Something to add, World-Killer?” the Habinar asked.

  Tim tells me he regrets this particular outburst, especially in light of what happened next. At this point— after months in custody of Atlas, years of fugitive status before that, and his fear of punishment awaiting him— the man who called himself Death shed his trademark calm. It fell to the floor like a mask, revealing the disfigured morale beneath.

  “Oh, I know all about unfairness, Your Eminences. But while we’re on the subject, let’s discuss fairness, shall we?”

  The Council said nothing.

  “Fairness was allowing Jonah to be infected by Aumothera, operate it with minimal oversight— leading to his rebirth as Reaper. As this being, Jonah built the Timestream, subjecting souls in his purview to its horrors. Nobody stopped it — where was fairness then?

  “Fairness,” Tim continued, “was allowing these souls to freely roam the living world. Because of that, one of those souls would eventually impersonate my late wife, leading me into Aumothera, where I became Death. Tell me, Your Eminences— where was fairness then?

  “And where was fairness when that same soul manipulated me to a point this responsibility was put on me? This woman had never done the job, and couldn’t even explain what I was signing up for! All she told me was that fairness, for all its romanticization, was simply a red herring— the most perfect of distractions for those below to aspire to!”

  “So,” finished the World-Killer, “speak of Order— speak of Light. Make my eternal judgement based on obedience and perfection, Your Eminences. Quote your visions and your expectations and my human failure to observe them. But do not ever speak to me, or in front of me, about fairness. Everything I have done was predicated on it— a utopian ideal this Council has never supported.”

  “That is quite the accusatory statement,” Venicia said after a moment, first to address Tim’s wrath. “You are not wrong, World-Killer— the first cardinal rule among gods is often the first broken. We are guilty of thinking ourselves perfect, when that has rarely been the case.

  “This Council has a hefty responsibility to ensure the continuity of all living things. In subverting the natural order, Mr. Hawkins, you have placed all of us at risk.”

  Muerkher interrupted, but carried on Venicia’s train of thought.

  “You speak of fairness, World-Killer, but frame it in such terms that we could easily sit here debating its philosophical merits for days. I will not argue there are many moving parts to the degree of your guilt, Mr. Hawkins — where your responsibility ends, and everything else begins, is our decision alone.”

  Tim nodded.

  “I understand, Your Eminence.”

  ***

  To this point, the trial had been a polite yet sordid affair. All of Atlas knew about it — from Maesters to the vermin running the cobbled streets of Devil’s Corner. Whatever differentiated the classes and castes of the supreme realm was absent; no quarrelling between the distinctive members of the Crimson League and their sworn enemies in the Red Brotherhood took place. There were no altercations between the slinking Whisperers and Seraphina’s people, vying for a prize to bring before the Council for small favors.

  Everything was simultaneously tense and serene.

  That would all change as a pair of overgrown reptiles climbed the stone arches dividing the Observatory District from the rest of Atlas, spewing blankets of heat down on the unprivileged spectators gathered outside. As Hardwick and I entered the crowd from the rear, pushing to the front, the Behemoths’ shrieks tore down the lawn, through the open doors.

  A moment later, people began to scream and flee.

  ***

  “What in tarnation?”

  The Habinar is first to react to the bloodcurdling pitches from outside. Even with the doors wide open, walls obscure the sight of monsters atop district walls. More people filter out— only to be met by a blast that missed Hardwick and I.

  “We’re under attack!” Muerkher cries. “Guards, close the doors!”

  Tim tries to exit the bannistered prisoner’s box. The gate is waist level, and he could easily jump it, were it not for the transparent barrier that pushes him back. The Council stands from chairs parked behind the marble bench. The Habinar’s hand wrapping around the handle of his ax is matched by Venicia’s snakes frozen in terror, sensing their larger winged cousins’ wrath.

  Hardwick and I finish beating against the sea of evacuating spectators, and I collapse my knees where I was almost trampled in a stampede. The doors meet with such force that the entire building shudders on its foundations. The crowd’s screams outside are outmatched in size and fury by creatures raining fire and brimstone down on them.

  Time is only measured by my hollow breaths at the dragons’ continued shrieking, while all other sounds die out.

  “Oh good. Everyone is here.”

  The collective attention of every soul in the Observatory is pulled towards its eastern end. A set of stairs surrounded by intricate columns lead up into a second-floor alcove. A silhouette descends the steps, something dragging behind them— a dress. Its white entrails follow their owner as she comes into the shuttered Observatory’s dim light. The Guard lift their spears while the Nephalim hold their swords’ hilts, ready to defend their Priestess at a minimum. The Maesters nervously rise courtside. Each of the Council members displays a unique expression— annoyance from the Habinar, curiosity from the Fire Man; Venicia exhibits anger, with a faint aura of alarm from Apollo.

  Trapped in his force field, Tim’s jaw drops at a face that is obviously familiar to him. The blond woman who I thought was Seraphina, coordinating Ziz’s return—

  “Hannah?”

  The blond woman ignores Tim, advancing toward the Council. Gone is the simple attire and loose collection of hair, now tightly wound in a beehive. Clasped hands at her waist, she is completely at peace with the Hell she rained down beyond the doors.

  “We need to talk, Your Eminences,” the woman says. Tim’s eyes are wide with disbelief as Hardwick helps me to my feet.

  The Habinar’s hand grips his ax tighter as Venicia raises her chin, inspecting every inch of the woman allegedly responsible for all this chaos.

  “What about?” the goddess asks.

  The strange woman who conjured an apparition of my childhood home smiles.

  “Why,” she says, “the future of Atlas, of course.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I was once a monster— whether because I was the weaker sex, entrusted to make strong decisions between men who were flimsy in the knees; or because I made hard choices, showing up a roomful of the old boys’ club, I was seen and treated like a second class citizen. There are undoubtedly those who would tell me this is just the world’s way— made for men, controlled by them, designed to keep everyone else in the dark. Maya would have. She did, whether with words or cigarette smoke between her lips, poisoning all the good men couldn’t see— or didn’t want.

  I was a monster from the time my parents died. In turning that gun onto Tiffany Stewart, then himself, Daniel Knox sentenced me to life outside the village of beloved little girls and their adoring daddies, but also sent me a man named Death who saw the little girl for what she was.

  Watching Hannah— this woman Tim knows of, yet whose relationship with her is unclear— I am beginning to realize I was wrong. The only sounds are ambient, like the slight creaking of the Habinar’s ax dragged toward him, or the flicker of Muerker’s skin intensifying in glow. But it is Venicia whose unravelling calmness unnerves me — the snakes are truly an extension of her fear, shrivelling at her scalp to escape a sense of impending doom.

  I have been wrong, because the only monster to ever exist in Ramona Carol Knox was the one she saw in her
self. And because she saw it, others did, too. Layering sexism and misogyny over top of it allowed mortal men to amplify that lack of confidence until nothing remained but instinct and determination.

  The blond woman suffers no such shortcomings— her shoulders are straight and her head held high, perfectly able to predict what comes next. This woman holds the keys to the universe. She wheels and deals on behalf of the true monsters, the real things that jump in the night.

  Next to her, I am an imposter.

  “Now that we have gotten the unpleasant part out of the way—” Hannah begins.

  She is almost immediately cut off by the Habinar.

  “Unpleasantness is nothing next to traitors.”

  Hannah smiles, unaffected by the label.

  “I understand— this must come as quite the shock, Your Eminences. Rest assured, the utmost diligence has been undertaken to arrive at this point. The plan had its challenges, as all plans do.”

  “I assume you will ultimately tell us what this plan consists of,” Venicia remarks. “Personally, I’m still trying to figure out your role in all this, Miss…”

  “My name is unimportant,” Hannah says. “This Council has rarely excelled in deductions, hasn’t it? In the interest of laying out the whole picture, let’s review just how wrong you have been— though it is quite difficult to establish where ineptitude truly begins. If I had to wager, it would be around the time Ziz first rose against you. And why was that?”

  Muerkher clears his throat.

  Venicia does not answer, and the Habinar is deathly quiet. The dragons’ screams have dropped off beyond the Observatory walls, and Tim can only stare at the stranger for as long as he is trapped with a front row seat.

  When none of the Council answers, Hannah does it for them.

  “Because he was one of you, wasn’t he? The infamous fifth chair. Only an arrogant being would keep it as a reminder of their selfish glories—”