The Atlas Six

by Olivie Blake

  She knew what he expected her to say. Today, like all days, he would not get it.

  “You want something from me,” Reina observed, adding tonelessly, “Everyone does.”

  “I do,” the man agreed. “I’d like a coffee, please.”

  “Great.” She waved a hand over her shoulder. “It’ll be out in two minutes. Anything else?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Does it work better when you’re angry? When you’re sad?”

  So, not coffee then. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “There are other naturalists.” He fixed her with a long, searching glance. “Why should I choose you?”

  “You shouldn’t,” she said. “I’m a waitress, not a naturalist.”

  One of the seedlings split open and dug into the wood of the table.

  “There are gifts and there are talents,” the man said. “What would you say this is?”

  “Neither.” The second seedling cracked. “A curse, maybe.”

  “Hm.” The man glanced down at the seeds, then up at Reina. “What are you reading?”

  She’d forgotten she still had the book tucked under her arm. “A translation of a manuscript by Circe, the Greek witch.”

  His mouth twitched. “That manuscript is long lost, isn’t it?”

  “People read it,” Reina said. “They wrote down what it contained.”

  “About as reliable as the New Testament, then,” the man said.

  Reina shrugged. “It’s what I have.”

  “What if I said you could have the real thing?”

  The third seedling shot up, colliding with the ceiling, and when it fell, it dug into the grains of the floor.

  For a few seconds, neither of them moved.

  “It doesn’t exist,” Reina said, clearing her throat. “You just said so.”

  “No, I specifically said it was long-lost,” the man said. “Not everyone gets to see it.”

  Reina felt her mouth tighten. It was a strange bribe, but she’d been offered things before. Everything came with a price. “So what would I have to do, then?” she asked, irritated. “Promise you eight years of harvest in exchange? Make up a percentage of your annual profits? No, thank you.”

  She turned and something cracked beneath her feet. Little green roots sprouted from the floor and crept out like tendrils, like tentacles, reaching for her ankles and tapping at the base of her shoes.

  “How about,” the man posed neutrally, “in exchange for three answers?”

  Reina turned sharply, and the man didn’t hesitate. Clearly he’d had some practice leveraging people before. “What makes it happen?” he asked. His first question, and certainly not the one Reina would have gone with if she’d been the one given the choice.

  “I don’t know.” He arched a brow, waiting, and she sighed. “Fine, it… uses me. Uses my energy, my thoughts, my emotions. If there’s more energy to give, then it takes more of it. Most of the time I’m restraining it, but if I let my mind go—”

  “What happens to you in those moments? No, wait, let me clarify,” he amended, apparently sticking to his promise of three answers. “Does it drain you?”

  She set her jaw. “It gives a little back, sometimes. But normally, yes.”

  “I see. Last question,” he said. “What happens if you try to use it?”

  “I told you,” she said, “I don’t use it.”

  He sat back, gesturing to the two seedlings still remaining on the table, one half-heartedly growing roots while the other lay split open and bare.

  The implication there was clear: Try it and see.

  She weighed the outcomes, running the calculations.

  “Who are you?” Reina asked, tearing her attention from the seedling.

  “Atlas Blakely, Caretaker,” replied the man.

  “And what is it you care for?”

  “I’d be happy to tell you,” he said, “but the truth is it’s a bit exclusive. I can’t technically invite you yet, as you’re still tied for sixth on our list.”

  She frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “It means only six can be invited,” Atlas said plainly. “Your professors at the Osaka Institute seem to think you will refuse my offer, which means your spot is somewhat…” He trailed off. “Well, I’ll be frank. It’s not unanimous, Miss Mori. I have exactly twenty minutes to convince the rest of the council that you should be our sixth choice.”

  “Who says I want to be chosen?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe you don’t,” he permitted. “If that’s the case, I will alert the other candidate the slot is theirs. A traveler,” he clarified. “A young man, very intelligent, well-trained. Perhaps better trained than you.” A pause to let that sink in. “It’s a very rare gift he possesses,” Atlas conceded, “but he has, in my view, a considerably less useful ability than yours.”

  She said nothing. The plant, which had curled around her ankle, gave a malcontented sigh, wilting slightly at her apprehension.

  “Very well,” Atlas said, rising to his feet, and Reina flinched.

  “Wait.” She swallowed. “Show me the manuscript.”

  Atlas arched a brow.

  “You said three answers were all I had to give,” Reina reminded him, and the corners of his mouth quirked up, approving.

  “So I did, didn’t I?”

  He waved a hand, producing a handwoven book, and levitated it in the air between them. The cover slid open carefully, revealing contents of tiny, scrawled handwriting that appeared to be a mix of ancient Greek and pseudo-hieroglyphic runes.

  “What spell were you reading?” he asked as she reached for it, hand already half-extended. “Apologies,” Atlas said, waving the book back from her a few inches, “I can’t let you touch it. It already shouldn’t be out of the archives, but again, I’m hoping you will prove my efforts worthwhile. What spell were you reading?”

  “I, um. The cloaking spell.” Reina stared at the pages, only understanding about half of it. Osaka’s program for rune-reading had been somewhat elementary; Tokyo’s would have been better, but again, it had come with strings. “The one she used to mask the appearance of the island.”

  Atlas nodded, the pages turning of their own accord, and there, on the page, was a crude drawing of Aiaia, part of the writing stripped away from age. It was a crude, unfinished illusion spell, which was something Reina had not been able to study at all beyond basic medeian theory. Illusion courses at the Osaka Institute were for illusionists, which she was not.

  “Oh,” she said.

  Atlas smiled.

  “Fifteen minutes,” he reminded her, and then he vanished the book.

  So this, too, came with strings. That was obvious. Reina had never liked this sort of persuasion, but there was a logical piece of her that understood people would never stop asking. She was a well of power, a vault with a heavy door, and people would either find ways to break in or she would have to simply open them on occasion. Only for a worthy purchaser.

  She closed her eyes.

  Can we? asked the seeds in their little seed language, which felt mostly like tiny pricks against her skin. Like children’s voices, pleasepleaseplease Mother may we?

  She sighed.

  Grow, she told them in their language. She had never known what it felt like to them, but it seemed they understood her well enough. Have what you need from me, she added grumpily, just do it.

  The relief was a slither from inside her bones: Yessssssssssssssssss.

  When she opened her eyes, the seedling on the ground had blossomed into a thin series of branches, stretching from her feet up to the ceiling and then sprawling over it, spreading across it like a rash. The one embedded in the table had cracked the wood in half, sprouting upwards from it like moss over a barren tree trunk. The last, the broken one, quivered and burst in a ripe stretch of color, taking the form of vines which then proceeded to bear fruit, each one ripening at an astronomical rate while they watched.

  When the apples were round
and heavy and temptingly ready to be plucked, Reina exhaled, releasing the ache in her shoulders, and glanced expectantly at her visitor.

  “Ah,” Atlas said, shifting in his seat. The plants had left little room for him to sit comfortably, and he no longer had space for his legs. “So it’s both a gift and a talent, then.”

  Reina knew her own worth well enough not to comment. “What other books do you have?”

  “I haven’t extended an offer yet, Miss Mori,” Atlas replied.

  “You’ll want me,” she said, lifting her chin. “Nobody can do what I can do.”

  “True, but you don’t know the other candidates on the list,” he pointed out. “We have two of the finest physicists the world has seen for generations, a uniquely gifted illusionist, a telepath the likes of which are incomparable, an empath capable of luring a crowd of thousands—”

  “It doesn’t matter who else you have.” Reina set her jaw. “You’ll still want me.”

  Atlas considered her a moment.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s quite true, isn’t it?”

  Ha ha ha, laughed the plants. Ha ha, Mother wins, we win.

  “Stop it,” Reina whispered to the branches that had swept down to brush the top of her head with approval, and Atlas rose to his feet with a chuckle, extending a hand which contained a single slip of cardstock.

  “Take this,” he said, “and in about four hours, you’ll be transported for orientation.”

  “For what?” Reina asked, and he shrugged.

  “Better I not have to repeat myself,” he replied. “Best of luck to you, Reina Mori. This will not be your final test.”

  Then he was gone, and Reina scowled.

  The last thing she needed was a cafe full of plants, and now his coffee sat forgotten on the counter, already going cold.

  TRISTAN

  Three Hours Ago

  “No,” Tristan said when the door opened. “Not again. Not now.”

  “Mate,” groaned Rupesh, “you’ve been in here for ages.”

  “Yes,” Tristan agreed. “Doing my job. Incredible, isn’t it?”

  “Hardly,” Rupesh muttered, falling into the vacant chair across from Tristan’s desk. “You’re the future son and heir, Tris. Hardly makes sense for you to work so hard when you’ll only inherit it by default.”

  “First of all, this company isn’t the monarchy,” Tristan muttered, not looking up from the figures he’d been working on. He waved a hand, rearranging them. His valuation was slightly off and he adjusted the discount rate, knowing the risk-averse board of investors would want to see a broader range of percentages. “Even if it were, I’m not the heir, I’m just—”

  “Just engaged to the boss’s daughter,” Rupesh supplied for him, raising a brow. “You should set the date, you know. It’s been a couple of months, hasn’t it? I’m sure Eden’s getting impatient.”

  She was, and she’d been growing less subtle about it by the day. “I’ve been busy,” Tristan said stiffly. “And anyway, this is precisely what I said I didn’t have time for. Out,” he said, gesturing to the door. “I have at least three more valuations to finish before I can leave.”

  It was the annual Wessex family holiday and Tristan would be Eden’s escort, as always. This would be Tristan’s fourth year coming along as the eldest Wessex daughter’s plus one, and needless to say, it was not his favorite activity. Watching his step, holding his tongue, all of it was exhausting—but still, it was worth it. It was worth it to be here, to be considered an heir by someone whose name was not the one belonging to his biological father.

  Tristan wondered if he could talk Eden into letting him take her name; assuming, that is, that he could summon the final step necessary to seal his fate.

  “You’re going on holiday with them,” Rupesh pointed out, crooking a single dark brow. “You’re already part of the family.”

  “No, I’m not.” Not yet. Tristan rubbed his temple, glancing over the figures again. The capital required to make this deal work was steep, not to mention that the existing magical infrastructure was riddled with problems. Still, the potential to cash in was higher for this portfolio than it was for any of the thirteen other medeian projects he’d valued that day. James would like it, even if the rest of the board didn’t, and the name on the building wasn’t his for nothing.

  Tristan filed the project under maybe, adding, “I’m not just going to inherit this company, Rup. If I want it, I have to work for it. You might consider doing the same,” he advised, looking up to adjust his glasses, and Rupesh rolled his eyes.

  “Just finish, then,” Rupesh suggested. “Eden’s been posting pictures of her get-ready routine all morning.”

  Eden Wessex, daughter of billionaire investor James Wessex, was a pretty heiress and therefore a ready-built product, capable of making capital out of intangibles like beauty and influence alone. It had been Tristan himself who’d advised the Wessex board to consider investing in Lightning, the magical version of a mortal social media app. Eden had been the face of the company ever since.

  “Right, thanks,” Tristan said, clearing his throat. He was probably missing messages from her as they spoke. “I’ll be done soon. Is that all?”

  “You know I can’t leave until you do, mate.” Rupesh winked at him. “Can’t very well leave before the golden boy, can I?”

  “Right, well, you’re doing yourself no favors, then,” Tristan said, gesturing to the door. Two more, he thought, glancing at the paperwork. Well, one. One of them was clearly unsuitable. “Run along, Rup. And do something about that coffee stain.”

  “What?” Rupesh asked, glancing down, and Tristan looked up from the file.

  “Been letting your illusions get stale,” he noted, pointing to the mark at the bottom of Rupesh’s tie. “You can’t spend five hundred quid on a designer belt and then rummage your stain spells out of a bin.” Though, even as he said it, Tristan knew it was a very Rupesh quality to do precisely that. Some people cared only about what others could see, and Rupesh in particular was unaware of the extent to which Tristan saw through him.

  “God, you’re a pain, you know that?” Rupesh said, rolling his eyes. “No one else is paying attention to whether my charms have worn through or not.”

  “That you know of.” For Tristan, there was little else to pay attention to.

  “Just another reason to loathe you, mate,” Rupesh said, grinning. “Anyway, finish up, Tris. Do us all a favor and go be picturesque by the sea so the rest of us can take it easy for a few days, would you?”

  “Trying,” Tristan assured him, and then the door shut, leaving him alone at last.

  He tossed one pitch aside, picking up the promising one. The figures looked reliable. Not a lot of capital required upfront, which meant—

  The door opened, and Tristan groaned.

  “For the last time, Rupesh—”

  “Not quite Rupesh,” came a deep voice in reply, and Tristan looked up, eyeing the stranger in the room. He was a tall, dark-skinned man in a nondescript tweed suit, and he was glancing around at the vaulted ceilings of Tristan’s office.

  “Well,” the man observed, letting the door fall shut as he meandered inside. “This is a far cry from where you started, isn’t it?”

  Anyone who knew where Tristan had started was trouble, and he braced himself, souring.

  “If you’re a—” He bit down on the word friend, grinding it between his teeth. “An associate of my father’s—”

  “Not quite that,” the man assured him. “Though we all know about Adrian Caine in some capacity, don’t we?”

  We. Tristan fought a grimace.

  “I’m not a Caine here,” he said. It was still the name on his desk, but people here would likely never make the connection. The wealthy cared little for the filth underfoot if it was cleaned up from time to time and mostly left out of sight. “There’s nothing I can do for you.”

  “I’m not asking for anything,” the man said, pausing for a moment. �
�Though, I do have to wonder how you came upon this particular path. After all, you were heir to your own empire of sorts, weren’t you?” he asked, and Tristan said nothing. “I’m not sure how the only Caine son came to play for the Wessex fortune.”

  “Some things aren’t about money,” Tristan muttered. “And if you don’t mind—”

  “What’s it about, then?” the man asked, and Tristan sighed loudly.

  “Look, I don’t know who let you in, but—”

  “You can do more than this.” The man fixed him with a solemn stare. “You and I both know this won’t satisfy you for long.”

  “You don’t actually know me,” Tristan pointed out. “Knowing my name is only a very small piece, and not a particularly persuasive one.”

  “I know you’re rarer than you think you are,” the man countered. “Your father may think your gifts a waste, but I know better. Anyone could be an illusionist. Anyone can be a thug. Anyone can be Adrian Caine.” His lips thinned. “What you have, no one can do.”

  “What exactly do I have?” Tristan asked drily. “And don’t say potential.”

  “Potential? Hardly. Certainly not here.” The man waved a hand around the palatial office. “It’s a very nice cage, but a cage nonetheless.”

  “Who are you?” Tristan asked him, which was probably delayed, though in his defense, he’d been working for several hours. He wasn’t at his sharpest. “If you’re not a friend of my father’s and you’re not a friend of James Wessex—and I’m assuming you’re not here to pitch me your latest medeian software service,” he muttered, throwing down the inadequate proposal as the man’s mouth twitched with confirmation, “I can’t imagine there’s a reason for you to be here at all.”

  “Is it so difficult to believe I might be here for you, Tristan?” the man asked, looking vaguely entertained. “I was once in your position, you know.”

  Tristan leaned back, gesturing to his corner office. “I doubt that.”

  “True, I was never poised to marry into the most powerful medeian family in London, I’ll give you that,” the stranger replied with a chuckle. “But I was once very set on a particular path. One I thought was my only option for success, until one day, someone made me an offer.”