Atlas

by Nicholas Gagnier

  He wandered for so long, it might have been days before he heard the footsteps behind him.

  You have to understand, he tells me. I looked back at her, and saw the girl I fell in love with as a teenager — who I married at twenty, and lost at thirty-eight; whose ghost drove me to what I am now.

  Nothing of that woman remained, and she didn’t ask permission to join him.

  “I imagine you’re angry with me,” Hannah said. “After all, quite the jump, isn’t it? From nobody, to holding the fate of the universe in your hands.”

  “Referring to yourself?”

  “Please. I’m not your pet, Tim. You can’t dance around me. Remember the girl from Valencia? What was that slut’s name?”

  “Wendy,” he cringed, wondering how long this conversation would continue.

  Hannah chuckled.

  “You always did remember the pretty ones. Shame you couldn’t hold a place for the most important woman in your life. What’s the phrase? ‘Until death does us part’?”

  “Only death did us part, darling. I had no way to assume you survived. And here you are — petty as you always were,” Tim said. “Hiding in the shadows like a rat, instead of communicating like a rational person? And now, you serve a god who is essentially the Devil.”

  The woman’s gown rifled in the slight breeze washing over her graveyard of decency. The eyes he remembered were glossed over in megalomania, and her movements did not suffer the rebuke.

  “Ziz said I would face a test of my faith. He didn’t indicate when this would happen, or the form it would present itself. Now, I am beginning to believe that the test concerns you, dear husband. You and your little friends can keep fighting inevitability, or accept the uniform truth.”

  Tim frowned.

  “And what is the uniform truth?”

  “That I am going to win,” she said. “Eventually, you will realize that your only rightful place is beside me, Tim. That all of this — Atlas, the Shroud, the Council? None of it matters. The only thing that matters is us.”

  Her thin hands reached across the space between them, wrapping around Tim’s lapels, then cupping his hands in hers. She lifted one to her mouth, kissing the knuckle.

  “I have missed you...so much. There were days I never thought I’d see you again. And maybe...I made an impulsive choice when I realized where you were, and who you were...with.”

  Her blue eyes dug into his brown ones, pleading to return some kind of sentiment — but like the Phoenix told me in our shared cell, the old Tim Hawkins was erased by his cosmic role.

  “If that was true, you would join us against Ziz.”

  This made Hannah’s ordinary smile transition to a bleaker one. Her breaths became short, irises coated by a film of water.

  “Unfortunately, that is no longer possible. The Dark Lord and I are entwined. My soul belonged to him from the moment he washed over me, becoming one with my thoughts. He is part of me now — separating from him would destroy me.”

  Tim pulled back his hand; both of Hannah’s dropped to her sides. Envisioning the child who claimed her life on a hospital delivery table all those years ago; that his wife was possessed by yet another leech on her lifeforce angered him. It’s no poison infant, whose travel down the birth canal would kill both mother and child, but a Devil nonetheless.

  “So what’s your endgame here, Hannah? Forcing me to abandon the people closest to me to consolidate your ego? Allowing Ziz to destroy Creation, all to settle a damn grudge?”

  Hannah chuckled.

  “To do what we have always done. Make the best of a bad situation. But if that is your position, World-Killer, I cannot stop you. Just know this:

  “The Dark Lord is everywhere. He is more powerful than ever, and only requires a body to complete the metamorphosis — a conduit whose power can sustain him, but not be so strong they can refute his will.”

  Tim knew exactly who Hannah was referring to, but did not dare utter the name. He turned to leave, ready to storm past the scene he had been so determined to see again, take accountability for.

  This conversation had erased all of that resolve.

  “Tim!”

  Her call stopped Death in his tracks, leery to face her again — and when he did, Tim wished he’d kept walking.

  “If I were you, I’d treasure what time the two of you have left together.”

  Speechless, Tim turned toward the main arches of the Arena. He didn’t look back at his wife standing alone in the massive structure’s center, but could swear he felt the giant footpads of multiple Behemoths shake the ground as they touched down, encircling their mistress in a phalanx of webbed wings.

  ***

  “Wow.”

  The silence between us sits in the dead air, fouling it with the smell of my panic. Everything is on the table now. In one lane is Hannah trying to win her husband back. In another, Ziz is trying to wipe out Creation by destroying or repurposing the Avatar, and wants a body worthy of possession for his reincarnation.

  And at the center is Death’s champion, who refuses to play her part out of resentment.

  “Ramona,” Tim says, “this is not likely to have a good outcome.”

  I nod, hands still in his.

  “I know.”

  “And I need you to know whatever happens, I am not giving into her demands. I am done playing her vile games.”

  “It may not come to that.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks. “I don’t see how we can possibly stand against them.”

  And so I tell him about Quorroc — how Barrett betrayed Atlas, allowing its key defenses to short-circuit, and Hannah to pull off her coup against the Council. I tell him about Luca’s off-the-books operation, the Magi’s involvement, and the plan to recruit the Crimson League.

  “That may be a risk in itself,” Tim warns. “From what I know of the Crimson League, they may sabotage any resistance we could form.”

  “Except that the League has worshipped Ziz for an Age, and wasn’t brought into the fold for Hannah’s assault on the Council. I saw a few being mistreated by the Brotherhood on the way back here.”

  “But is that enough to turn them against the Dark Lord, Ro? If they see this as a trial of their faith — as Hannah so lovingly put it — they may be too far gone to save.”

  Pulling hands away, I stare at the floor, hoping for some guarantee of certainty this can all work out. The only chance to save Atlas rests on my ability to organize these disparate forces.

  “Maybe they are. I won’t need Demetrius and his crew for long — just long enough to sabotage Hannah, and prevent the match from taking place.”

  Tim says okay, and never have I doubted less that he is with me. Luca is with me. I have a Maester at my disposal and some magicians who can make portals and insects out of nothing. And soon, I may compel the gang of hoodrats who once threatened to publicly execute me to lend their assistance.

  If I can bring the Phoenix to our side, we may stand a fucking chance.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  History is full of people whose shifting allegiances sealed events a certain way — ask anyone, and I’m sure they would tell you Lee Harvey Oswald was not born bad. Lenin was no madman as a child; even Adolf Hitler had to traverse the world, learning all the nuances and injustices that inspired the Holocaust. I make no excuses for these people — only wonder what drove them to such lengths.

  The woman’s motives are clear. She sees salvation in Tim, or Ziz, but not both. I am the nuisance standing in her way, not considering myself a mistress, as she does; not claiming prettier, smarter or better.

  Less batshit crazy? Probably.

  The Crimson League is the key. My initial adversaries in Atlas are locked out of salvation and damnation, but it doesn’t have to be one or the other. Until now, they have protected the Whisperers who held information on the Dark Lord’s return; passed each other notes in alleys, playing cards close to the chest — hoping when the time came, Ziz would choose them as his l
oyal, undying servants.

  There is no such future for the League. Their ambitions are delusions, their loss my gain. They are rats and roaches— pests in the shadows the woman never considered twice for the job. The Brotherhood was the more capable, subtle force. They were legitimate, rather than troublemakers— in short, everything the League wanted to be.

  Luca and I find Demetrius and Gossamer where we last confronted them in Devil’s Corner. The former still wears grungy red robes, eyes reflecting more insanity than rational thought in their red-tinted irises. The Whisperer dons his fox mask, but has made no effort to iron out the concave nose where I hit him square in the face.

  At the sight of my angel companion, Demetrius lapses into a mix of terror and disgust.

  “No!” yells the League leader, hailing his sentries across the road. “Get them out of here!”

  Knowing he trusts Luca about as much as the Dark Lord trusts the League, I take the lead on questioning.

  “Relax,” I say. “I’m not here to cause trouble for you. We have a proposal.”

  Demetrius snarls, exposing rows of the yellow, jagged teeth. His robed friends draw closer around us, and Luca finds the hilt of his sword.

  “And what does a Nephalim have to offer us? Your kind is no more, angel. The Dark Lord has seen to that.”

  “Is that right?” I ask. “Seems to me like your precious Dark Lord is far more interested in your Brotherhood friends. For all your reverence, he doesn’t seem to want much to do with you, old Dem.

  “But we could use your help. I’m not coming to you as some Order I never asked to be part of. After all, what use do Nephalim have for a woman, right?”

  As if he has waited a thousand years to hear these words, Demetrius’ crimson irises widen. There is no altruism in them, only an insatiable hunger to be included.

  “And what makes you believe the Dark Lord would not quash us for helping you? I assume you are not bringing him daisies, hoping to earn His favor.”

  “Sorry,” I quip. “Not a flower-and-chocolate kind of girl. I was thinking more along the lines of fucking his shit up.”

  Demetrius shares a glance with his compatriots. When he turns back to face me, the hunger has grown.

  “And what would such an allegiance offer us? You cannot possibly hope that we would trade our standing in the Dark Lord’s eyes for scraps.”

  Of course the League would conflagrate their delusional alliance to Ziz. I know better, but I have to play Demetrius’ game.

  “Help me,” I say. “Save Atlas with us, and I will make sure you are taken care of.”

  Luca’s lips form a scowl as I barter with the League’s leader for use of his men — it is just as distasteful to me.

  “You will have to give me a few days to confer with my people—”

  I shake my head.

  “Offer’s on the table, and good for about five minutes before I leave you here. I will not come back, old Dem.”

  Demetrius snarls at my nickname for him, but makes no mention of it. He says his people will hold a palaver now.

  “Do you think they will really cooperate?” Luca asks as we observe their muffled huddling.

  “Do you?”

  The angel grimaces.

  “I have had many dealings with them during my tenure as the Council’s military advisor. They do not trust me, and my faith in them goes just as far.”

  “Don’t worry,” I reply. “I have every intention of keeping them on a short leash.”

  Demetrius returns a few moments later. His entourage remains on the road’s opposite side, watching their leader intently. Gossamer remains with them — even through the pruned mask of childish making, I feel his beady eyes on me.

  “We accept your terms,” Demetrius says, drawing my gaze off the Fox’s mask. “Tentatively, I might add — we have served faithfully, some might even say blindly. But we are no martyrs; if the Dark Lord will not accept us, we will go where we’re accepted. But do not break your word.”

  The League’s leader is no master in the art of negotiation, and still manages to convince me that betraying him would be a fool’s choice.

  “Trust me— I don’t believe I could if I wanted to.”

  “Very well,” Demetrius says. “I will gather my people. Where shall we meet?”

  Despite my companion’s drawn lips and squinted eyes, he knows better than to offer the same suggestion I want to. But telling the robed figures to get bent— on some hedged grudge that has not aged well — will not bring us any closer to saving Atlas from the blond witch of the wind that blows red in the west— as the Brotherhood is so fond of saying.

  For now, we will have to put our stock in them — for the greater good.

  ***

  According to Tim, Hannah is holding the Phoenix in the Observatory. Whether his creepy omniscience is booting out of the shock that Hannah’s reappearance inflicted, or the woman told him, is a question for another time.

  The district is well-guarded. Two Behemoths man the lawn, scaly backs poking over the broken stone wall.

  The rest of Harper’s wardens consist of Brotherhood. Now that we’re not fighting for our lives, I can observe them more clearly, and they come in various shapes and sizes. Some are round with poorly fitted robes, while others are bulky and tall, causing their outfits to ride high in the ankles, exposing sandaled feet.

  The two stationed by the arch in from the God’s Road are the former. I don’t see past the weird bird masks with tinted goggles, but learn a couple things from their body types and posture.

  They’re grunts.

  Luca and I share a satisfied grin. Their only weapons are spears appropriated from the annihilated Royal Guard. Left out of the action by their more dominant brethren, these boys look all too happy to man the access point, away from the violent excitement surrounding Hannah.

  “Here to see the prisoner,” I tell them, stopping short of walking right through them. “At the woman’s request.”

  The guards study me, escorted by a much taller angel who should all rights be dead, too; exhibiting fear in their exchanged glance no mask could ever conceal.

  “And him?”

  “My bodyguard,” I reply. “I thought he looked better with wings.”

  “Really?” asks the other one, trying to feign confidence in the face of potential conflict. “Because he looks a lot like a traitor’s son.”

  I shake my head.

  “Nonsense. He’s my manservant. Can we pass?” But they are reluctant, and I can’t joke my way past them. “Look, I’m not going to cause trouble. Your queen came to me, insisted I speak with the Phoenix. Now, what do you think she’s going to do when I go back and tell her you refused to let me pass, all because you thought I was walking around with a dead man? Think about it, boys.”

  Another shared glance results in our passing through the gate. The Behemoths beyond the stone arch (only two, thank baby Jesus) follow us with yellow eyes over their snouts, expanding and contracting, punctuated by faint smoke out the nostrils. There are almost no other Brotherhood — I guess two dragons would give any jailbreaker second thoughts on their own.

  Luca and I pass over the steps where Behemoths chased us into Tim’s trial, and a hypothermic chill trickles up my spine. It begins at the second shallow flight leading into the structure itself — the lower-pitched hall between two sets of doors where I was almost trampled in a stampede trying to reach Tim warms with anticipation, but the chill soon returns in a wave worse than the last.

  In the heart of the Observatory, a cloaked figure who resembles Stone Mountain’s Arbiters barks at a haggard woman wielding an iron sword. I have never figured out why this place is named like it was meant to study the stars that dwarf it — it is nothing more than a glorified courtroom.

  “Stop dragging your feet, girl! That woman has caused me enough of a headache!” he says, waving a bony hand from sagging sleeves of a gray robe. A hood is pulled over its head, but there is only dense blackness inside th
e fabric.

  Harper scowls. Her face is blackened with the exhaustion of her adventures, her spirit sooted by loss, and she refuses to lift the sword as we enter the room.

  “What’s the point?” she says. “They’re just going to try and kill me anyway. And we both know it’ll fail.”

  The hooded being scoffs, and I notice that my angel companion recognizes him.

  “Semantics, Phoenix. It is in your best interest to do as you’re told—”

  The being notices Luca drawing closer — mostly glossing over me — and turns to face us.

  “So the son of Tomas lives.”

  Like every other time someone has invoked his traitorous father, it slides off — but there is a new confidence to it now.

  “As does the mutant.”

  “Luca?” I ask, in one of the few times my curiosity has gotten the better of me since coming here. “Who is this?”

  The angel’s scowl never leaves the hooded figure coaching Harper.

  “This is Jonah— or Reaper, which is the name he has taken for himself. Before that, he was the Nephalim assigned to Aumothera after Ziz was banished. Someone had to guard it while it turned into a dumping ground for troublemakers. Instead, he let the Shroud’s power corrupt him.”

  Reaper cocks his head in the only display of emotion the empty hood allows.

  “Old history, son of Tomas —”

  My hand reaches out and grabs Reaper’s tattered gown. He glides towards me, rather than stumbles, but the effect is the same.

  “His name is Luca, you sick fuck. He’s a Nephalim now — show some respect.”

  Reaper jolts back as my palm opens, releasing him, and adjusts the Halloween porch costume of a robe with his pointed, fleshless hands. Not a string or tendon remains on them. They are white as my teeth.