by Scott Meyer
Jimmy said, “I slept very well, thank you. I’d rather not be in a jail cell if I don’t have to, but I know you’re working on that. How was your evening? I trust the agency has found you someplace to stay.”
Agent Miller remained silent and white knuckled, just staring at Jimmy and looking as if he were chewing on his own tongue. Agent Murphy chuckled lightly and said, “They’ve put us up at a charmingly rustic independent motel near the airport.”
“Oh,” Jimmy said, “that doesn’t sound very convenient.”
“Oh, the airport’s not far from downtown. It’s just a little over an hour commute each way, thanks to this amazing Seattle traffic. The hotel’s not much, but it’s all we need. There’s ten channels’ worth of cable on the TV, and clean sheets on our twin beds, and a picturesque view of the gentlemen’s club next door.”
Jimmy thought he saw Agent Miller’s left eye twitch.
Jimmy said, “I’m sure that’s very entertaining.”
Miller couldn’t take anymore. “It might be,” he said, “if we had a view of the inside, but all we can see is a parking lot full of desperate, lonely men, all of whom seem to look in our window. They seem to be fascinated by the sight of two middle-aged men lying in twin beds like Ernie and Bert, watching The Weather Channel because it’s the most exciting thing on. It’s like being an exhibit in an alien zoo, on the planet of the scabby pervs!”
Agent Murphy turned to look at his partner, and Agent Miller immediately stopped talking, clenching his jaw so hard that his teeth nearly cracked.
“Now, Miller, you know that the nice man at the front desk promised to get our blinds fixed so we could close them just as soon as he gets around to it.” The agents turned their attention back to Jimmy, one viewing him with an air of friendly benevolence, the other with cold loathing.
Jimmy said, “Look, guys, I’m sorry. I wish we could go back to your home office in L.A., but you know I can’t fly. You saw what being next to me did to your phone. Do you really want to ride in a plane with me?”
“We could drive it,” Miller growled. “It can be done in eighteen hours if you’re motivated.”
Jimmy had no doubt that Agent Miller was motivated. “You’d have to get a car with no integrated circuitry, so that means an unrestored car from the fifties. Then you’d have to take roads where traffic would never get closer than thirty feet from us for more than say, five seconds at a time, so that would mean taking little roads through Eastern Washington, Idaho, and Nevada to get there.”
“You seem to have given this a lot of thought,” Agent Murphy said.
“That route is how I got to Seattle,” Jimmy said.
“On your bicycle?”
“Yup.”
The agents looked at each other, then looked at Jimmy. He was in his sixties, and very thin, but neither man doubted for an instant that he was telling the truth.
“If you must get me to L.A., the fastest way would be to get the Treasury Department to hire a boxcar on the longest freight train you can find going to California. It’s faster than driving the long way, and it will keep me away from any electronics I might damage.”
“How much would that cost?” Agent Murphy asked.
“Sadly, a lot more than your hotel room for a week.”
Agent Miller grunted, “A week?” Jimmy thought he could hear tendons popping in the agents’ hands.
Jimmy put his hands up, defensively. “Maybe less. Hopefully less.”
Agent Miller muttered, “It’d better be less.”
Jimmy smiled and said, “It will be! It will!”
“Good.”
“Probably.”
10.
After their meeting with Brit the Elder, Gwen explained that she had to prepare for the reception an hour later. She called out to one of the impossibly good-looking guards, who somehow managed to sashay over to her in a way that was still undeniably manly. He stopped less than a foot in front of Gwen, looked deeply into her eyes, and in a husky voice, said, “Yes, ma’am? What can I do for you?”
Gwen said, “Please escort my friends to their quarters and arrange for their transportation to the reception.”
The guard glanced at Martin and Phillip, not like a man who was meeting new people, but rather like a man who was judging the weight of two heavy sacks of flour he’d been asked to carry. He looked back to Gwen’s eyes and said, “If that is what you want, that is what I will do.”
“Good. That’s what I want.”
“Is it?”
“It is.”
“Is that all you want?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
Gwen frowned. “Yes, that is all I want, from you.”
The guard smirked, but his eyes registered confusion. Martin made a note of it. Not hurt, confusion. The guard said, “Then it will be my pleasure to transport these,” the guard paused long enough to glance down at Martin and Phillip again, “these men to their quarters.” He leaned in closer to Gwen. “If you need anything else from me, anything at all, I trust you’ll ask.”
Gwen said, “That’ll be all.” She turned to Martin and Phillip, and her smile came back, but not as strongly as before. “Guys, it’s just so good to see both of you.”
Phillip asked, “Hey, Gwen, the reception—how formally should we dress?”
“What’s the nicest thing you brought?”
“We both had custom-tailored tuxedos made.”
Gwen laughed, but it was out of astonishment. “Wow. Class move. Well done. I’d say wear the tux, but use your robe for the top layer instead of the jacket. Just adjust the robe so it’s open to the sternum, like a tuxedo jacket, or wear the robe open. Oh, and bring the hats and staffs. You won’t need to do any magic, but it’s good for show. See you then.” With that, she turned and left via the same sliding glass door that Brit the Elder had used.
The four men on the terrace, Martin, Phillip, and the two guards, watched her leave with great fondness. As soon as the door slid shut behind her, the guards’ demeanor changed completely. The guard tasked with showing the wizards to their rooms looked to the other guard and shook his head dismissively. The second guard chuckled mirthlessly and shrugged.
The guard assigned to Martin and Phillip looked down at them. He was a full head taller than Martin and had no noticeable body fat. He said, “Follow me. Keep up.” With that he led the two wizards to a small staircase leading to the park below.
The grass was perfectly manicured. The trees were immaculately pruned. The flowers and shrubs were carefully arranged and lovingly maintained. They happened past a gardener, toiling in the sun. He was young and muscular. He wore a kilt and sandals, but no shirt. As he heard footsteps approaching, the gardener languidly turned to face whoever was approaching. He bowed his head slightly, pursed his lips, and raises his eyes to look through his long hair, which had artfully fallen into his eyes. He saw that the approaching footsteps belonged to a guard and two men and he immediately slouched. His expression soured. He made eye contact with the guard, who shrugged and shook his head.
Martin quickened his pace to walk next to the guard and said, “Hi!”
The guard said nothing.
“So,” Martin asked, “what’s your name?”
“Never mind,” the guard replied.
“Oh, come on,” Martin said. “You must have a name.”
“I do, but it’s not worth the trouble of telling you. What would you do with it? Use it to greet me if you see me again? What good would that do me? I’d have to explain to the other men who you are, what you are, and worse, how you came to know me well enough to use my name.”
Martin said, “I was just trying to make conversation.”
The guard considered this and sneered, “Is that what the males do where you come from? Make conversation? Do you squawk and titter like the wome
nfolk do?”
“Sometimes, I guess. It depends on what we’re talking about.”
The guard grimaced. “Well, that explains it.”
“Explains what?” Phillip asked, still lagging behind.
“The one who brought you here. Gwen, she comes from the same place as you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if males like you are what she is used to, then it’s no wonder she has yet to select a servant.”
“A servant?” Martin prodded.
“The sorceresses who rule this city each choose a servant to tend to them. Some more than one. Brit the Elder has several.”
“What all does the servant do?”
The guard squinted down at Martin. Phillip sped his pace slightly to be closer to the conversation. He wanted to know where this was going.
The guard repeated, “He tends to them.”
Phillip asked, “And this is a sought-after position among the men?”
“Yes. Of course. Men from everywhere who consider themselves a likely candidate flock to Atlantis to be near the sorceresses in hopes of being chosen.”
“Seriously? Your loftiest goal is to be a servant?”
“To a sorceress, yes. Their powers afford a servant every luxury you can imagine, and the prestige of being selected is second to none. In return for all this, a servant’s only duty is to tend to the needs of his sorceress.”
“Cooking, cleaning, that sort of thing?” Martin asked.
The guard snorted. “Never! There are menials for that.”
Martin started to understand what Gwen had meant when she said that there were aspects of Atlantean society of which she was not proud.
As the trio walked, skirting the edge of the park, Martin and Phillip began to see that any job that involved being seen in public was being done by a tall, brooding man. The guards, the gardeners, the food vendors, the porters, they were all men, all beautiful, and all noticeably disappointed by the sight of Martin and Phillip. Also, most of them were shirtless—even, disturbingly, the food vendors.
At last they came to the elevator station. The guard called it the cable car, but it had no cable, and looked nothing like a car. It was simply an open platform bordered by a thin safety railing. An empty path that could be called a track led straight up the curved wall that defined the city, but there were no rails, cables, or cogs. At first, Martin thought the empty path had been painted an extremely dark green color, then he realized that it was clear, and that he was seeing into the ocean itself on the other side of the basin.
They waited a few moments while a few more men boarded the platform, standing as far away from the wizards and their chaperone as they could. Then, silently, the platform started working its way up the side of the city.
Martin looked down at the platform on which he stood. It was milky white and translucent, and it had a grid pattern cut into its surface. For traction, he supposed.
Martin stamped his foot, listening to and feeling the vibration. He muttered, “More diamond?”
“Maybe,” Phillip said. “Or maybe a toughened glass, like Pyrex or something. I’ve seen a few different materials here, but they all seem to be crystalline.”
“Makes sense. It would be easy to produce using her molecular construction method, and the structures she builds would be perfectly monolithic.”
“Yes,” Phillip said, seeing what Martin meant. “Then she could use the shell, or whatever her version of it is called, to move them around at will without any fear of them losing their structural integrity.”
“It’s . . . it’s brilliant,” Martin said.
“Yes, I have to admit, it is,” Phillip said.
Martin and Phillip became aware that the guard was looking down at them, his face a mask of undisguised loathing. Martin changed the subject.
“So,” Martin said, using his best nonchalant voice, “you say Gwen hasn’t chosen a servant.”
“Yes,” the guard said, looking away. “That is what I said.”
“And she’s the only sorceress who hasn’t?”
“Yes.”
“I see. Have many of you tried to become Gwen’s servant?”
“We have all tried to become her servant. We are all still trying to become her servant. She is the most sought-after woman in all of Atlantis.”
Martin said, “Well, I can understand that. She is adorable.”
The guard laughed. “If by adorable you mean that she is short and strange and that she talks in gibberish, like you two. She is sought after solely because she is the only sorceress who has not chosen a servant. That is all. Someday, she will choose a servant, and if that servant is me, it means that the most difficult work I’ll ever need to do is pretending to enjoy her company.”
They rode in uncomfortable silence for a moment as the platform followed the contour of Atlantis’ massive bowl. Now that he was looking for it, the walls of the buildings were clearly some crystalline matter, colored a uniform milky white. Palm trees, footpaths, and small rooftop patches of soft grass broke up the jumble of buildings clinging to the wall’s permanent incline.
For the first time, the guard spoke without being asked a direct question. “Gwen came from wherever you live. Tell me, was there a male there whom Gwen found attractive?”
Martin chose to ignore the question.
“Yes,” Phillip said. “Yes, there was. Why do you ask?”
The guard looked around, then said, quietly, “If you were to tell me what this man that Gwen was attracted to was like, I might act more like him, and perhaps become her servant.”
“I see,” Phillip said, almost giggling with glee. “That’s an interesting idea.”
“Then will you help me?”
“Yes,” Phillip said, “but before I can help you, you should at least tell me your name.”
“I’m sorry,” the guard said. He stood straight, and puffed out his chest as if he were about to say the most momentous thing Phillip had ever heard. “My name,” the guard said in a deep, resonant voice, “is Ampyx.”
Phillip said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ampyx. My name is Phillip.” Martin kept looking at the city moving past and shook his head.
“So, Phillip,” Ampyx asked, “what can you tell me about this man that Gwen found attractive?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything. You’ve met him. It’s my friend, Martin.” Phillip put a hand on Martin’s shoulder, and gestured toward him with the other hand like a game show spokesmodel displaying a new car. Ampyx looked at Martin with an undisguised mixture of horror and disgust. Martin glared at Phillip. Phillip beamed back at him.
Most of the balance of the trip to their quarters passed in silence. Ampyx watched Martin’s every move. Martin tried not to show how profoundly uncomfortable Ampyx was making him. Phillip tried not to laugh out loud. The platform arrived at a station about two-thirds of the way up the side of the bowl. Ampyx led them off of the platform and down a broad, grassy footpath. They passed shops selling food, clothing, and hard goods, all of them small and tasteful, and all of them staffed by good-looking men. Ampyx asked Martin several questions, but Martin resisted answering, or even speaking to him. The only question that got any traction was when he asked Martin what he did. Martin tersely replied that he was a wizard and was met with a blank stare.
“You know, a wizard,” Martin said. “I do magic.”
Martin had expected that this would at least impress Ampyx. Martin was wrong.
“Why?” Ampyx asked.
“Why what? Why do I do magic?”
“Yes, why do you do magic?” Ampyx asked, as if it were the most obvious question in the world.
Martin looked at Phillip, who shrugged. Finally, Martin answered, “Why wouldn’t I do magic? Wouldn’t you do magic if you could?”
“Never,” Ampyx said.
“Well, why not?”
Ampyx scrunched his face and said, “Magic . . . it is . . . woman’s work.”
Martin just stared at him. Phillip piped up, “You do understand that this entire city was built with magic.”
“Yes,” Ampyx said. “By a woman, and it’s very impressive, in its way. I mean no disrespect to women. Someone has to do the magic, and they are very good at it, but it’s not fit work for a real man.”
“And what work is fit for a real man?” Phillip asked.
“Look around you, and see for yourself,” Ampyx said. “Guarding things, tending to the flowers, selling clothing, serving food. Some of us cut hair.”
“Manly work,” Phillip said.
“Yes.”
Now Martin had to make sure he was hearing things properly. “And what about building things, inventing, and running the government?”
Ampyx said, “The women seem to enjoy doing those things, and they’re good at it, so we leave them to it while we tend to what’s important.”
Finally, they reached what Martin and Phillip instantly recognized as a hotel. Inside, the thin, handsome young man behind the counter told them they were expected. He checked with the manager, who was not a sorceress, but she was a woman, and got their room number. They boarded an elevator that had no noticeable workings, but which still transported them between floors. Ampyx took his leave of them, and they entered their room. They were so dumbstruck by what they found inside that they forgot for a moment to put their suitcases down.
The room was two stories tall, with a staircase and a loft forming the second floor. There was a bed and a bathroom and a kitchenette on the ground floor, and a second bed and bath on the second. The second-floor loft was slightly less deep than the first floor, giving the impression of a grand balcony. Both floors had an unobstructed view of the room’s back wall, which was also the city’s outer wall. Essentially, one entire wall of their room was a massive, curved window out into the ocean. The clarity of the ocean in this area and time meant that they could see light filtering down from the surface, itself an endless, undulating, silvery plane, extending off into infinity. Schools of fish swam past as they watched. Looking below them, they saw no bottom to the sea, just a hazy gradient shifting from light blue to dark blue, then to black.
