The Atlas Six

by Olivie Blake

  “He’s multiplying!”

  “Just hold steady, I have him—”

  This time, as Tristan locked Libby’s palm on the trajectory of the medeian’s escape, he caught a glimpse of something; evidence of magic that hadn’t been clear from afar. It was a little glittering chain, delicate like jewelry, that abruptly snapped.

  In that precise moment the medeian turned his head, eyes widening in anguish. It had been a linking charm, but it was gone now.

  “He had a partner but he doesn’t anymore,” Tristan translated in Libby’s ear.

  She tensed. “Does that mean—”

  “It means kill him before he gets away!”

  He felt the impact leave her body from where his fingers had curled around her wrists. He could feel the entire force of it pumping through her veins and marveled, silently, at being so close to what felt like live ammunition. She was a human bomb; she could split the room, the air itself, into tiny, indistinguishable (except to Tristan) atoms. If Adrian Caine had ever met Libby Rhodes, he wouldn’t have hesitated to buy her somehow; he’d have offered her the biggest cut, given her the highest privilege of his little witchy cult. He was like that, Tristan’s father; male, female, race, class, it didn’t matter. Optics were nothing. Usefulness was paramount. Destruction was Adrian Caine’s god.

  Tristan turned his head away from the explosion, though the heat of the blast was enough to sting his cheek. Libby faltered, struggling for a moment from the effort, and he locked an arm around her waist, half-dragging, half-carrying her from the room.

  He kept moving until he saw Parisa, who emerged from one of the lower floors onto the landing of the stairwell, white-faced. Callum was at her side.

  “There you are,” said Parisa dully, sounding like she’d seen a ghost.

  “What happened?” Tristan asked them, setting Libby back on her feet. She looked a little woozy, but nodded to him for release, disentangling herself from his grip.

  “I’m fine,” she said, though she remained braced for another attack, shoulders still tense.

  “Just ran into another medeian downstairs,” Callum said. “Some spy organization from Beijing. A combat specialist.”

  Tristan blinked with recognition. “Did the medeian have a partner?”

  “Yes, an ill-”

  “An illusionist,” Tristan confirmed, exchanging a knowing glance with Libby. “We got him. How did you know they were spies?”

  “Aside from the obvious? She told me,” said Callum. “It was just her and the partner who were magical, everyone else was mortal.”

  A distraction, probably, while only one of the medeians broke in.

  Libby was testing her joints, still glancing around in paranoia. “She told you there was no one else? She could have easily been lying.”

  “She wasn’t,” Callum said.

  “How do you know?” Libby pressed, suspicious. “She could’ve just—”

  “Because I asked nicely,” Callum said.

  Parisa would have known—or could have, assuming the medeian hadn’t been using any mental defensive shields—but she, Tristan noticed, hadn’t said a word on the subject.

  “You okay?” Tristan asked her, and she shuddered to cognizance, glancing up at him with a look of temporary displacement.

  “Yeah. Fine.” She cleared her throat. “As far as I can tell, the house is empty now.”

  “Was it just one group?”

  Parisa shook her head. “Whoever Nico and Reina took out, they were a group, then the partners we took out, and someone else who was working alone.”

  “Not alone,” came a voice, as the four of them looked up, instantly assuming various positions of defense. “Not to worry,” chuckled Atlas, who had Dalton trailing at his heels. “It’s only me.”

  “Is it actually?” Libby whispered to Tristan, who was mildly impressed. Paranoia clearly suited her, or perfectionism, or whatever this was. She no longer trusted her own two eyes, and long-term, that was probably for the best.

  “Yes,” he said. “It is.”

  She nodded gravely, but didn’t say anything.

  “The agent taken out by Miss Kamali was sent by your former employer, Mr. Caine,” Atlas said, glancing at Tristan. “We always expect to see someone from Wessex Corp, mind you, so that was unsurprising.”

  Tristan frowned. “You… expect to see them?”

  At precisely that moment, Nico bounded euphorically up the stairs, Reina following like the slip of a shadow behind him.

  “Hey,” Nico said, gorily disfigured. His thin white t-shirt was caked in blood from his shoulder and his nose was broken, though he appeared not to have noticed. He thrummed with adrenaline, acknowledging Atlas with an overeager nod. “What’s going on?”

  “Well, Mr. de Varona, I was just informing the others about the operatives you faced this evening,” Atlas replied, opting not to comment discourteously on Nico’s appearance. “You and Miss Mori took out a military task force.”

  “MI6?” Nico guessed.

  “Yes, and CIA,” confirmed Atlas. “Led by a medeian who specialized in—”

  “Waves, yeah,” Nico supplied, still buzzing as he glanced at Libby. “How’d you come out, Rhodes?”

  Beside Tristan, Libby stiffened.

  “Don’t look so thrilled, Varona, it’s monstrous,” she hissed, though Atlas answered for her.

  “With Mr. Caine’s help, Miss Rhodes dispatched one of the world’s most wanted illusionists,” said Atlas, giving Tristan an additional nod of deference. “Her partner, a hand-to-hand combat specialist, was dispatched by Mr. Nova. They are both favored operatives of the Guǐhún, an intelligence operation from Beijing. Conveniently, they were both wanted globally for war crimes,” he informed Libby kindly, “which we will be pleased to inform the authorities they will not have to concern themselves with anymore.”

  “Did we miss anyone?” asked Libby, who clearly couldn’t be deterred from her apprehension, but before Atlas could open his mouth, Reina had spoken.

  “Yes. Two got away.”

  The other five heads swiveled to hers, and she shrugged.

  “They couldn’t get what they came for,” she said placidly. “Wards were too complex.”

  “Yes,” Atlas confirmed. “Miss Mori is correct. There were, in fact, two medeians from the Forum who attempted unsuccessfully to penetrate the defensive wards of the library’s archives.”

  “The Forum?” asked Callum.

  “An academic society not unlike this one,” Atlas confirmed. “It is their belief that knowledge should not be carefully stored, but freely distributed. I confess they greatly misunderstand our work, and frequently target our archives.”

  “Why do you know all this?” asked Tristan, who was growing rather frustrated by the Caretaker’s upsettingly careless tone. “It sounds as if we were all sitting ducks for something you already knew was going to happen.”

  “Because it was a test,” Callum cut in.

  Atlas gave him an impatient smile. “Not a test,” he said. “Not strictly speaking.”

  “Try speaking less strictly, then,” Parisa advised tightly. “After all, we did nearly get killed.”

  “You did not nearly get killed,” Atlas corrected her. “Your lives were in danger, yes, but you were selected for the Society because you already possessed the tools necessary to survive. The chance that any of you might have died was—”

  “Possible.” Libby’s lips were thin. “Statistically, that is,” she added, inclining her head towards Atlas in something Tristan disgustingly guessed to be deference, “it was possible.”

  “Many things are possible,” Atlas agreed. “But then, I never claimed your safety was a guarantee. In fact, I was quite clear that you would be required to have some knowledge of combat and security.”

  Nobody spoke; they were waiting, Tristan expected, to be less annoyed about the fact that while they had never specifically signed anything saying they preferred not to be shot at in the middle of the
night, some principles of preference remained.

  “It is the Society’s practice to ‘leak’ the date of the new members’ arrival,” Atlas continued in their silence. “Some attempts at entry are expected, but it was never for us to know who or what those attacks would be.”

  “The majority of the attempts were deflected by preexisting enchantments,” Dalton added, surprising them with his presence. “The installation allows us to see the ways our enemies may have evolved.”

  “Installation,” Nico echoed. “What is that, like a game?”

  He seemed delighted about having been invited to participate.

  “Merely common practice,” said Atlas. “We like to see how well our potential initiates work together.”

  “So, in short, a test,” said Callum, sounding none too pleased about it.

  “A tradition,” Atlas corrected, with another steady smile. “And you all did quite well, truth be told, though I hope having seen each other in action allows you to put together a more thorough defense system. Collaboration is very important for the sort of work we do here.” He turned to Dalton, arching a brow. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Ellery?”

  “As I said, every class of initiates consists of a unique composite of specialties,” Dalton supplied neutrally, addressing them as a group. “You were selected for a team as much as you were chosen as individual members. It is the Society’s hope that, moving forward, you will act accordingly.”

  “Yes, quite,” Atlas concluded, returning his attention to the group of them. “There will of course be some relevant details to see to as far as any structural or magical damage, but seeing as the house has now been emptied and the wards have resumed their usual work, I would invite you to get some rest and revisit the house’s security in the morning. Good night,” he offered crisply, nodding to them as a group, and then turned on his heel, followed by Dalton.

  Parisa, Tristan noted, watched Dalton go with intense and possibly excessive interest, frowning slightly in his wake. Tristan waited for the others to move—first Reina, who headed to bed without a word, and then Callum, who rolled his eyes, followed by Nico and Libby, who immediately started arguing in hushed tones—before he approached Parisa, sidling up to her as she turned away in troubled thought.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Her gaze flicked up to Callum, who was a few strides ahead of them.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing.”

  “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  Only in that Callum looked perfectly unchanged.

  “What happened?” Tristan asked again.

  “Nothing,” Parisa repeated. “It was just…” She trailed off, and then cleared her throat. “It was nothing.”

  “Ah yes, nothing,” Tristan said drily. “Right.”

  They reached their rooms, lingering at the start of the corridor as the others filed off to bed. Nico barked something disapproving at Libby—something about “Fowler will fucking live for fuck’s sake”—and then only Tristan and Parisa remained in the hall.

  He paused beside her door, hesitating as she opened it.

  “I was thinking,” he said, clearing his throat. “If you wanted to—”

  “I don’t at the moment,” she said. “Last night was fun, but I don’t really think we should make it a regular thing, do you?”

  He bristled. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Sure it was,” said Parisa. “You’ve just had a near-death experience and now you want to stick your prick in something until you feel better.” Tristan, who was much too English for this conversation, rather resented her choice of words, though she cut him off before he could express his demurral aloud. “It’s evolutionary,” she assured him. “When you come close to death, the body’s natural impulse is procreation.”

  “I wasn’t that close to death,” Tristan muttered.

  “No? Well, lucky you.” Parisa’s expression hardened, her eyes darting to Callum’s bedroom door.

  Not that Tristan had doubted it before, but ‘nothing’ had most definitely been ‘something.’

  “I thought you liked him,” Tristan commented, and Parisa bristled.

  “Who says I don’t?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “I don’t know him.”

  Tristan contemplated the value of asking a third time.

  “Something clearly happened,” he allowed instead. “You don’t have to tell me what it was, I just—”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing.” She gave him a defensive glance. “How was little miss sunshine?”

  “Libby? Fine. Good,” Tristan corrected himself, as it didn’t seem fair not to give her credit. She may not have been able to get out easily without him, but he wouldn’t have gotten out at all without her. “She’s good.”

  “Needy little thing, isn’t she?”

  “Is she?”

  Parisa scoffed. “You should see the inside of her head.”

  Tristan was already quite certain that was a place he had no interest in being. “I doubt we’ll be friends,” he said uncomfortably, “but at least she’s useful.”

  There it was again. Useful.

  The one thing he was not.

  “Self-deprecation is such a waste,” said Parisa, sounding bored by the prospect of his interior thoughts. “Either you believe you’re worthy or you don’t, end of story. And if you don’t,” she added, opening the door to her room, “I certainly don’t want to chance ruining the high opinion of you I may have mistakenly gotten from last night.”

  Tristan rolled his eyes. “So I’m too good, then? Is that the problem?”

  “The problem is I don’t want you getting attached,” Parisa said. “You can’t just replace one high-maintenance woman with another, and more importantly, I don’t have time for your daddy problems.”

  “By all means, let me down gently,” drawled Tristan.

  “Oh, I’m not letting you down at all. I’m sure we’ll have our fun, but certainly not two nights in a row,” Parisa said, shrugging. “That’s sending entirely the wrong message.”

  “Which is?”

  “That I wouldn’t eliminate you if given the chance,” she said, and slipped inside her bedroom, shutting the door.

  Great, Tristan thought. It was such a confounding reality that Parisa was beautiful even when she was being mean; especially then, in fact. She was also much more beautiful than Eden, which said a lot about beauty, and about cruelty, too.

  He had such a talent for finding women who put themselves first. It was like he was some sort of sniffer-dog for emotional fatality, always able to dig it up from the one person in the room who would have no trouble making him feel small. He wished he were less attracted to it, that brazen sense of self, but unfortunately ambition left such a sweet taste in his mouth, and so had Parisa. Maybe she was right; maybe it was daddy problems.

  Maybe after a lifetime of being useless, Tristan simply wanted to be used.

  IV: SPACE

  LIBBY

  “So,” Ezra said. “How’s it going?”

  “Oh, you know,” Libby said. “Fine.”

  “...fine?” Ezra gave a little groan; half-charmed, half-doubtful, accompanied by an eye roll she could hear through the phone. “Come on, Libs, I just went on for ten minutes about my supervisor’s affinity for onion bagels. I think you can probably come up with something to tell me about your new job.”

  Well, magnificent. She thought she’d escaped any necessity for confession, given her dutiful half-listening to said story about supervisor and bagels along with the likelihood that she could slip casually into phone sex, but evidently not. It was just what she needed, really, to have to tell someone who would want to know everything the absolutely nothing she was allowed to explain.

  “It’s a fellowship,” Libby began, chewing the inside of her cheek. “We do… you know. Fellowship things. Research.”

  There. That was one way to put it. A boring one, ideally, i
nviting no further questions.

  “What are you researching?”

  Alas.

  “Oh, um…”

  “There has always been an intersect between magic and science,” Atlas had said upon introduction to their first topic of study, leading them inside what he referred to as the reading room. It was a split level, high-ceilinged open space with a series of tables in the center, most of which were occupied with nothing aside from one or two chairs and a small reading lamp. Illumination was minimal in the bottom half of the room, so as to not disturb the literature itself, while the top level glowed faintly with track lighting, looked down from a balcony lined with shelves.

  At the moment they entered, a middle-aged man had glanced down from above, observing their entry and nodding to Atlas.

  Atlas, in return, gave the visitor a courteous wave. “Bom dia, Senhor Oliveira,” Atlas offered in greeting, startling Libby slightly with the reference to someone she was fairly certain was currently the chairman of the medeian offices of Brazil.

  “In any case,” Atlas continued, tonally unchanged, “much of what exists in the Society’s archives draws no separation between magic and science; that distinction is more often made in later centuries, particularly pre-Enlightenment and post-Protestant Reformation. The scientific reflections of antiquity, such as the many works of Democritus we have in the archives—”

  (Here Reina suddenly came alive from her usual half-comatose look of wanting to be elsewhere. Unsurprising that she would be interested; Democritus wrote dozens of texts on ancient atomism, nearly all of which would have been classified throughout Reina’s classics education as ‘missing.’)

  “—indicate that most studies on nature, and of the nature of life itself, do not suggest any preclusion of magic. Indeed, even some medieval studies of heaven and the cosmos suggest both scientific and magical study; take, for example, Paradiso by Dante, which manages an artistically interpreted—but not inaccurate—understanding of the Earth and its atmosphere. The mystique of Dante’s heaven may be attributed to both scientific and magical forces.”

  Most of their ‘lessons,’ if one could call them that, were Socratic discussions that took place in one of the outrageously stuffy drawing rooms, various places redeemed only by the presence of their countless first edition texts. Any additional books—anything referenced during the day’s discussion, for example—were easily summoned from the archives; in fact, they were so easily available that a handwritten copy of Heisenberg’s notes once appeared beside Libby on the table even before she had spoken her curiosity aloud.