Atlas

by Nicholas Gagnier

  A piece of the roof collapses above me. The shards are chaotically choreographed to the shattering stained glass windows, nearly flattening me. Were I not constantly moving forward, drawing back, darting sideways and pushing on, one or more chunks of the imploding ceiling would take me out.

  Free of the pest that is Luca, the dragon turns its cat-like eyes onto Barrett as I reach the panicking elder. It raises its back haunches from across the room, huffing, drawing air.

  "That's a Behemoth, Nephalim!" the Maester screams. Before I can thank him for stating the fucking obvious, a stream of flame escapes its open mandible. Wide nets of fire advance from the dragon's lungs. Barrett screams as the scorching breath grazes us, dropping off; any closer, its outburst would have rendered us burnt toast. Sensing its failure, the dragon sucks in another breath, and we won't be so lucky next time.

  A screaming figure runs up its tail and backside. Before I can assign the flailing shape to Luca— bringing his broadsword down into the dragon's neck before it can cook us alive, its scream pulls me back from fear as the head is nearly severed from its body.

  Thrown from the dragon's back, Luca hits the ground in a roll. The Behemoth thrusts its muscular tail into the far wall as a desperate, final act of self-defense. With most of the Cathedral's supports suffering a dragon carved through them, the angel yells at me to get Barrett to safety. The dragon frantically seizes, swinging at anything in reach as I place my hand at the Maester's waist. His arm finds my neck and I pull him to his feet.

  "Ramona! Get him out of here!"

  Luca dodges the dying monster as its massive paw takes out another section of brick on the western side and most of a window frame set within it. Debris and glass is pulled inward, landing near the sept where Siskett died in a heap of settling sediment. Countering the charge, Luca brings the sword down on the dragon's crown. Eyes roll into the back of its scaled head as it collapses in a circular, counterclockwise motion. Wings sweep, tripping Luca as Barrett and I clear their gigantic reach.

  The church trembles on its final supports. Reaching the collapsed entryway, I push Barrett toward his freedom, yelling to get away from here as fast as he can.

  The dragon is dead, but Luca is not in the clear yet. I inch closer, ignoring his protests as the roof buckles above. I wouldn't hear Luca anyway, screaming at me to leave him. Covering my head with both hands until sure the roof will hold, I advance over the vibrations of snapping structural integrity.

  "Give me your hand!" I yell.

  Luca doesn't hesitate. Using all my remaining strength, I pull the angel to his feet. His wings are dirtied and his hand wraps around the giant broadsword, yanking it from the Behemoth's skull, breaking into a sprint toward the doors.

  The Cathedral gives way. We clear them beneath a relentless avalanche white powder which ensnares Luca and I in a rising cloud that spreads well beyond the wreckage. Split-second glimpses at the evacuated crowd who ran to safety when the dragon broke through the rear wall choke beneath blasts of brick and concrete aimed for the shins, consuming me in a sand-colored tunnel.

  Thrown onto my stomach — and caught within the subsequent wave of ricocheted materials that bury me alive— I don't see Luca before the cloud of rising ash becomes darkness overtaking me.

  I can only hope my companion fared better than I did.

  CHAPTER TEN

  White lights.

  When my eyes open, they are not ready for the glare that pours in my nose and mouth, suffocating me, Closing them does nothing— Light will simply find its way in if it wants to. This time, when I concede to the peel in darkness becoming a gaping wound, I expect to see Wilson, scooping canned beans into his mouth without the teeth Atlas provided him. But there is no rigid green chair, nor a man eating canned goods in it, nor a hospital room in the United States Capitol. There are no beeping heart monitors or creepy, destabilized hallways abandoned in the plague, never to be waxed again.

  A king-sized bed is overseen by a canopy of wood beams. The fine-pulled sheets and blankets are lovingly made, with thread counts that must be in the thousands. Pillows against my back prop up my torso; a white cone drenches my concealed feet from between gently billowing drapes across the room.

  What happened?

  My hair is loose. It smells clean, washed of the cloud that covered Luca and I at the Cathedral— the last thing I remember. Hands reach under the covers, grasping frantically at my leg. Fingers feel for bandages or breaks of any kind; they are bare but unhurt, and my toes wiggle on command. Other than a T-shirt covering everything above my thighs, I have nothing on beneath.

  And in a chair across from the bed's empty side, a robed figure stares blankly at the floor.

  "Barrett?" I croak, snapping the elder’s attention to me.

  "By the Light, Ramona!" he smiles, and I could swear tears form in the old man's eyes. "We thought we had lost you."

  So many questions wait on the tip of my tongue, but a parched mouth stops them like a dam holding violent water, only transmitting single syllables.

  "Council?"

  Barrett smiles again, nodding tearfully.

  "Safe. We predicted such an event. Not of this exact nature, mind you. No one really saw a Behemoth getting back into Atlas, especially not one so agitated. It must have been starved before someone let it loose.

  "Don't worry," Barrett urges, seeing my frown. "These things can wait until you're up and about. Had it not been for our quick thinking and your quicker actions, we might have all perished."

  There's something he's not saying.

  "Barrett?"

  "Yes, Nephalim?"

  I don't want to ask, but feel compelled to.

  "Luca?"

  The smile falls off his face— I can feel it dissolve. My face is flushed, and I suddenly regret asking.

  "Luca gave his life to save the Council. His remains were too mangled to save, and he has passed onto the White Light, Creation keep his soul safe."

  The news is a punch to my gut, worse than any physical injury would have been. I could have walked on through that. Luca was my safety net in this strange place. News of his death both affirms I can die here, and saddens me greatly.

  "The man settled his family's debt," I sob, fighting tears. "He should be honored for his sacrifice."

  Barrett leans over the bed, clasping his hands with a sigh.

  "I can understand the sentiment, Ramona. But his father did untold damage to this realm, endangering Atlas—"

  "And you already killed him," I snipe back. "Retribution was served the moment the Habinar bested Tomas, and saved the city. But that wasn't enough, was it? What's the expression? Sins of the father, Maester?

  "I don't disagree, Nephalim. But that family's legacy is determined by the Council, on the guidance of every living person in Atlas."

  "I don't care. You tell those fuckers hiding in the Seat that man made the ultimate sacrifice for all of us. We would all be dead if he hadn't. If the Council wants my continued investigation, cooperation, whatever— they will do what they have to. You clear Luca's name, and you make this right!"

  After a moment, Barrett nods.

  "I will bring the topic of a posthumous honor before the Council."

  "Good. Next, I want Stephen Hardwick released into my custody. Right now. Then, we're going after Seraphina."

  The Maester processes this plan, connecting Seraphina's ejection from Siskett's farewell party to the Behemoth that intruded less than a half hour later.

  "You think the High Priestess had something to do with this?"

  "You don't?"

  "I just don't understand the connection," Barrett says, "if one exists at all."

  "Simple. Luca didn't trust her, and I trust him more than anyone I've met here. He knew things, Barrett. He lived his entire life in Atlas, and knew Seraphina is bad fucking news.

  "I don't know what part she's playing yet, Maester, but she's involved in this somehow. The High Priestess has been stewing in her anger for years—
pretty much since she lost any grasp on power following Tomas' rebellion.

  "Hardwick told me a woman came to see him. She knew who I was. She wanted to know more. I don't know, maybe she can see the future or something. One way or another, she knew I would come here eventually."

  "And what evidence are you basing this on, Nephalim? Remember, I have no power over you. Only the Council does. Confide as much or little as you want. I'm just struggling to connect it all."

  I scoff, sinking down the pillows.

  "So am I. Believe me— I'm not looking for some link between Seraphina and the Behemoth. It's just there. She intervened right before Luca and I interrogated Maester Quorroc. She is a woman, and likely told Hardwick about the dragons. And finally, the timing between Venicia kicking her out of the Cathedral and the dragon is too coincidental."

  All this evidence before him, Barrett offers no further questions. Before leaving, the Maester asks if there's anything else I need.

  "Yes," I say. "Can you get a message to someone for me?"

  ***

  The Gardens— only days ago, the late Maester Siskett and I sat on a bench here— are serene. I have lost track of time staring at the giant hedge maze. Its green needles beckon to step forth into its abyss, lose myself in its twists and turns. I do, but only from the outside; the twists are my thoughts, and the turns are conversations repeatedly playing among them.

  Trauma is the single greatest catalyst for transforming that genetic sequence. It can take the best men and turn them into monsters. It can take a young vagrant, transforming him to revolutionary. The code can change, Ramona. The code can change. But it is very, very difficult.

  So much has happened, all of it madness. Never in my fleeting, mortal life did I imagine dragons fighting angels. Chasing down child abductors seemed far-fetched enough.

  Piece of advice— anyone who tells you they've seen a dragon in the last four thousand years, or wants to sell you something to do with dragons, is selling you lies.

  My eyes well at the thought of Luca. Siskett was due, ready to go off and seek his White Light. In comparison, my angel companion was young, so much time left to disprove his family's tarnished legacy. From every corner, Luca weathered criticism over Tomas' betrayal. It mostly slid off, but would catch under his skin once in a while, make him frown in a way that broke my heart— even if we didn't know each other well enough to say that little number out loud.

  "You called?"

  The voice behind me is immediately familiar and true. I don't know if it was coming out of a coma, or the strange world I found myself in before Atlas—whatever had me spooked in the Shroud is absent now. Turning to face the bearded man I have known my entire life, his presence is suddenly comforting.

  "Yes," I say, standing to meet him. Our feet are only yards apart, yet he has never felt so distant. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry I ran away from you."

  Tim smiles, says it is alright. He motions to the bench, and we take a seat together. The Gardens are beautiful from here. The blossoms are perennial while sending down its pink and purple petals to litter the grove. Unlike before, no yelling children run by, daring to step foot inside the giant hedge maze but never crossing so far that their mothers would scold them.

  We are alone, only Light itself observing us.

  "How are you settling in?"

  I smirk.

  "Quite the transition."

  "From grown men abducting children to angels and dragons? I would say so."

  "When you spoke of all that, to do with...your world, I guess— I wasn't even sure it was real. I'm sorry if that's hard to hear."

  "It is quite the tall tale," Tim admits, "but Atlas is not my world, Ramona."

  "I know."

  "Just like you, this is my first time standing in it."

  "I know that, too," I reply, admiring luscious grass leading up to the maze's entrance. "Siskett told me you surrendered."

  Tim nods.

  "That's right."

  "My freedom, for yours."

  "That's right, too. I won't lie. The night we separated, I was scared— terrified we had made some inconsolable mistake."

  "In a way, we did, right?"

  "I stayed scared for a long time,” Tim says. “When I returned to the present, I tracked you down, even as Atlas had its agents searching for me. And I just waited," Tim admits. "There was a chance to fix it, but it's gone now."

  "What do you mean, it's 'gone now'?"

  He sighs— his way of preparing a grand omission, or revealing one. He has manipulated me to no end, but saved my life, and I trust him more than anyone.

  "The Atlas sent an agent to eliminate some of the reincarnated individuals. Their deaths were undone by our choice, and she was tasked with eliminating seven names to undo the apocalypse."

  And so Tim tells me what happened while I was asleep— how an angel of Atlas code-named the Phoenix strived to fulfill her task, restoring the world; how the Atlas and Tim both betrayed her in different ways. By the end, it feels like the most honest conversation we've had.

  "Jesus," is all I can say.

  "There's more," Tim says, "but that brings you up to speed in general, so you're not lost during the trial."

  "Siskett mentioned that, too."

  Tim sits forward, clasping his hands. I have never seen this celestial being exhibit fear. He was even calmer than I was during my raid on the FBI.

  There is no trace of that man remaining.

  "I don't know what the outcome will be," he admits. "I could face the White Light. I could be sent to Stone Mountain. Whatever the outcome, none are good."

  "The Council is preoccupied with this Behemoth threat, if what Barrett says is any indication."

  "And?"

  "Maybe I can put in a good word, if you're willing to help me."

  "No," Tim says. "Do not waste the Council's goodwill on me. I have run from my mistakes long enough, Ro."

  "Listen to me— if a handful of gods can't understand why we did what we did, they’ll just have to accept it. I am not about to sacrifice you just so the Council can make some example of you, Tim. If anyone is going to kick your celestial ass, it will be me. Got it?"

  The man who calls himself Death smiles.

  "Very well. What do you propose?"

  And so, I tell him my plan— every last detail matters. When I finish, Tim mulls it over.

  "And you think this will work?"

  "I know it will work. Seraphina is in league with the Crimson League, and I intend to make her watch the Nephalim return to relevance. Just wait."

  We sit in silence for a while, watching strong winds knock more blossoms off their branches, sending a lavender storm whirling down. They spin like all my doubts at work, released above the hedge maze of my pessimism.

  If Seraphina is responsible for the Behemoth attacking the Cathedral, and Luca’s death by extension, then it is my sole purpose from this moment to expose her misdeeds — no matter what it costs me.

  I am not a monster.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Days in Atlas don't seem to pass like those on Earth. The passage of time becomes unremarkable. My meeting with Tim in the Gardens could just easily have been days ago as it has been hours.

  Were I to estimate how long I've been here in Earth time, it’s somewhere in the area of a week. On the first day after waking from a coma, I died in an explosion, wandered a weird world with purple skies and spoke to the Avatar. I met the Council, punched a Whisperer and met an angel whose family history black-marked their line, preventing bestowment of their traditional title upon him.

  On the second day, I became a Nephalim while Luca was forced to watch, visited Stone Mountain and resolved to never return to its shadowlands— complete with shrieking souls pouring from its thousand creepy windows.

  On the third day, a dragon trampled a Cathedral, and Luca sacrificed himself to save the people inside. Lord knows how long I was unconscious after that. Barrett said a couple days, but it felt mo
re like a month.

  Since then, time has stopped and started as I await opportunities to draw the High Priestess into an admission of guilt. I keep my ears open while wandering Atlas, listening to conversations between its denizens. I pass the Dark Quadrant, eyes pointed down but picking up snippets in my travels.

  Did you hear the Council—

  Who does that new Nephalim think she is?

  Dragons are coming. Was dragons that killed Luca, wasn't it? Big beasts, huge as the Spire, their screams echoing throughout Atlas. Dragons are coming, they're the apocalypse and they're here in numbers now, waiting to emerge.

  The rumors are far and wide, varied and confused, each more outrageous than the last. The content doesn't change from God City to Devil's Corner; only the degree of sunken eyes and ratty clothes. Passing through the district I punched Gossamer recalls the angel’s words.

  This area has been overrun by worshippers of Ziz. Those who choose to remain here are at the mercy of his draining essences to sustain a minimal strength. Rather than accept his fate and sleep, the demon is fitful, aspirations stoked by his followers.

  Could Ziz be responsible for dragons returning to Atlas? If Seraphina is the demon's executor, that makes her extremely dangerous. Devil's Corner makes sense to cover for intel. But the Whisperers know my plainclothes approach and the Crimson Dawn members recognize me as I pass by.

  Luca is no longer here to protect me.

  Stephen Hardwick will have to do.

  ***

  I arrive after Stone Mountain’s iron doors have ramshackled shut, and the Arbiters are withdrawn back into their black hole. Coming across the man I would give anything to leave in its twisted innards—but fate has bestowed I cannot— his eyes are closed, drawing in fresh air of the Dark Quadrant.

  "God City is cleaner," I inform him. My presence startles Hardwick, sapping the moment of any victory. I feel no remorse for it.