Atlas Six (Atlas Series, 1)

Parisa didn’t trust him now. It radiated from her, suspicion, her misgivings warping irreparably in the air between them. Considering their respective talents, she must have known he was aware of how she felt; of the corrosion atrophying their potential from one side. That she hadn’t bothered to conceal it could only mean she had no intention to repair it, and if she did not care to repair it, then it appeared she had chosen to draw a line.

Which was too bad, not only for the obvious reasons, but also because it meant Callum had been mistaken. He had taken Parisa for the sort of girl who admired when a man took control of a situation instead of leaving her to do the work herself.

Evidently not.

In terms of allying himself with the others, Libby was out for obvious reasons, and so was Nico. Reina was an island, so that was useless, but Callum would have to befriend someone. Not to keep from being eliminated, of course; he could persuade them if it really came down to it, or if he even decided to stay.

It was more an issue of entertainment, and since Callum wasn’t entertained by books or research, he would have to find stimulation in a person.

Luckily, one potential source still remained.

“You look distressed,” Callum commented to Tristan, leaning over to speak with him in pseudo-privacy. “Something bothering you?”

Tristan’s gaze slid to his, and then back to Libby and Nico. “Aren’t you seeing this?”

“I’m seeing it.” 

“And you’re not distressed?”

Callum smiled thinly.

“I suppose I don’t see much use for having a black hole in my living room,” he said.

It wasn’t as if Callum was unaware that what Libby and Nico (and, he supposed, Reina) were doing was relatively monumental. He could understand, theoretically speaking, why magically modeling a previously unexplained phenomenon was a matter of significance, and for purposes of the Society, he could acknowledge it as the sort of thing belonging somewhere in the archives. There was no question of academic value.

It all just seemed terrifically impractical, and Callum was a practical sort of man.

“Most people are stupid enough that this sort of information is useless,” Callum offered Tristan in explanation. “Why bother understanding the universe when everything it’s made of exceeds basic human comprehension?”

“But they just proved a major element of quantum theory,” Tristan said, frowning. He, Callum noted, couldn’t take his eyes from what they’d done. “Those two twenty-something medeians just created something that all of human history has tried to understand and couldn’t.”

He sounded unreasonably awed, in Callum’s view. Unsurprising; it was all dreamland all the time in this house. Clearly somebody needed a reality check.

“Those two twenty-something medeians put into practice a theory that has been all of human history in the making,” Callum corrected Tristan, trying to shine a little much-needed pragmatism on the situation. “Though, again, I don’t know what possible use could come out of dropping something into a black hole and watching it bounce back out again.”

Tristan finally managed to tear his attention from Nico and Libby’s molecular sleight of hand, glancing sharply at Callum. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Lethally, I’m afraid,” said Callum. “I think it’s a clever parlor trick.”

“Parlor trick,” Tristan echoed, disbelieving. “And what is it you can do, then?”

Tristan was being facetious, of course, merely proving a point and not genuinely asking, which was a pity, as the answer would have been decently silencing. For starters, Callum could make the twin cosmologists do anything he wanted. That meant, among other things, that he could take ownership of that black hole quite easily himself. If he were in a particularly enterprising mood, he could go a step further and persuade every person in the room to leap inside it.

Across from them, Parisa stiffened.

“I dislike physical magics,” Callum said eventually, turning his attention back to Tristan. “Gives me a sort of unidentifiable itch. Like a scratch in my throat.”

It took a moment, but Tristan did catch the undertones of a joke. Good, so he wasn’t totally inept, then.

“At least tell me,” Tristan sighed, “that you can recognize the significance of what’s happening here.”

“Recognize it? Yes, certainly. An enormous magical event,” Callum confirmed, “which will soon be swallowed up by some other enormous magical event.” That was how all of science worked, anyway. They were all pieces of some other eventual thing. The atom was part of the atomic bomb. Cataclysm, carnage, world wars, subprime mortgage lending, bank bailouts. In Callum’s mind, human history was interesting because of humans, not science. Because humans were idiots who turned the elements of life into a weapon. The only interesting thing Libby and Nico had accomplished so far was to successfully terraform a miniature model of the moon, because it meant the moon could eventually be conquered. Someone would try to build Rome anew, or start a new Vatican. It would be madness, and therefore interesting.

More interesting, anyway, than studying the altered carbon levels or whatever it was they’d managed to do.

“On the bright side, there haven’t been a thousand questions,” Callum commented at dinner that evening, gesturing across the table to Libby with his chin after Tristan had taken the vacant chair beside him. The table was currently occupied with the sound of low chatter between Nico and Libby, who were comparing notes; Parisa had already excused herself for the evening, and Reina was absently spooning food into her mouth while she pored over the duplicate of some ancient journal. 

“I will regret leaving Rhodes’ element,” Callum added at a murmur, “if only because that will no longer be true.”

Tristan gave a reluctant sort of smirk, as if principles of moral superiority had compelled him not to laugh, but only just. “You really don’t like her, do you?”

“Some people are flawed and interesting,” Callum said with a shrug. “Others are just flawed.”

“Remind me not to ask you what you think of me,” Tristan said.

“Actually,” Callum said, “I rather think you should.”

Tristan said nothing.

“I know you’re very suspicious of me,” Callum said, before amending, “Of everyone.”

“I find people to be largely disappointing,” Tristan commented.

“Interestingly, so do I.”

“Is that considered interesting?”

“Well, seeing that my specialty requires me to grasp most details of human nature, yes, I think so,” Callum said. “Knowing what I know, I should really find other people fascinating, or at least valuable.”

“And do you?”

“Some. Most, I find, are just replicas of others.”

“Do you prefer good people,” Tristan asked tangentially, “or bad?”

“I like to have a bit of both. Discord,” Callum replied. “You’re a prime example.”

“Am I?”

“You want to be loyal to Parisa, which is interesting,” Callum observed, as Tristan gave a little involuntary twitch of acknowledgement. “For a woman you slept with once, you seem to feel you owe her something. Same with Rhodes.”

Tristan blanched. “I hardly think they’re the same category.”

“Oh, they’re not,” Callum agreed. “You feel you owe Rhodes your life. Parisa you simply want to owe your life to.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. And you want very badly to mistrust me on her behalf.” Callum gave Tristan another wary smile. “Unfortunately, you also find me appealing.”

“In what way?”

“Nearly all of them,” Callum said, adding with a glance between them, “You’re not alone in that.”

Tristan was silent another moment.

“You seem to have done something to Parisa,” he noted, and Callum sighed.

“Yes, I do seem to, don’t I? Pity. I like her.”

“What did you do? Insult her?”

“Not that I know of,” Callum said, though the real answer was no, he had not insulted her. He had scared her, which was the only sensation Parisa Kamali could not abide. “But I think perhaps she’ll come around.” She was the sort of person who would always do what was best for herself, even if it took her some time to puzzle it out.

“You don’t concern yourself much with being liked, do you?” Tristan asked, half-amused. 

“No, I don’t.” Doubtful Tristan would be capable of understanding that, but the sensation of being liked was extraordinarily dull. It was the closest thing to vanilla that Callum could think of, though nothing was truly comparable. Being feared was a bit like anise, like absinthe. A strange and arousing flavor. Being admired was golden, maple-sweet. Being despised was a woodsy, sulfuric aroma, smoke in his nostrils; something to choke on, when done properly. Being envied was tart, a citrusy tang, like green apple. 

Being desired was Callum’s favorite. That was smoky, too, in a sense, but more sultry, cloaked and perfumed in precisely what it was. It smelled like tangled bedsheets. It tasted like the flicker of a candle flame. It felt like a sigh, a quiet one; concessionary and pleading. He could always feel it on his skin, sharp as a blade. Piercing, like the groan of a lover in his ear.

“Being liked is fairly ordinary, I’m afraid,” Callum said. “Intensely commonplace.”

“How unimpressive,” Tristan said drily.

“Oh, it can be helpful at times. But I certainly don’t aim for it.”

“How exactly do you plan to avoid being eliminated, then?”

“Well,” said Callum patiently, “for one thing, you won’t let it happen.”

Tristan raised a hand to release a scoff into his palm, curling his fingers around it. “And how won’t I?”

“Rhodes listens to you. Varona listens to her. And Reina listens to him.”

Tristan arched a brow. “So your presumption about me is…?”

“That you will not want to eliminate me.” Callum smiled again. “It’s really quite simple, don’t you think?”

“I noticed you didn’t include Parisa in your calculations. Or me, for that matter,” Tristan said in his usual drawl, “though I’m willing to overlook that for the sake of argument.”

“Well,” Callum said, “a telepath is useful, of course, if your goal is to interfere with someone’s thoughts. But do you know how infrequently people actually think?” he prompted, raising his glass to his lips while Tristan, inescapably in agreement, offered the echo of a soundless laugh. “With very rare exceptions, emotions are far stronger. And, unlike thought, emotion can be easily manipulated. Thoughts, on the other hand, must be implanted or incepted or stolen, which means a telepath will always burn more energy than an empath when magic is being used.” 

“So you think you are the more useful option, then?”

“I think I’m the better option,” Callum clarified. “But more importantly, I think that, at the end of the day, you understand me more than you care to admit.”

The statement rang with relative clarity. Callum had almost no doubt that whatever reasoning the others had to dislike him, Tristan would find his rationale more persuasive. Tristan’s cynicism, or his disillusionment, or whatever it was that left him so bitterly disenchanted with the world, was useful that way.

“My offer is this,” Callum said. “I am on your side.”

“And?”

“And nothing,” Callum said. “Surely you see this is a game of alliances? I am your ally.”

“So then I should be yours?”

At that precise moment, Libby looked up. She had already adopted a habit of skirting Callum’s attention (probably wise) and so managed to lock eyes with Tristan by accident before quickly looking away, returning to her conversation with Nico.

Tristan tensed; aware, probably, that he had just been caught in discussion with Callum, whom none of the others were in a rush to befriend.

“Parisa is not an ally,” Callum cautioned Tristan, who cleared his throat. “Neither is Rhodes. As for the others, Varona and Reina are pragmatists; they will side with whoever will take them the furthest.”

“Shouldn’t you do the same, and wait,” Tristan advised, “to see if I have any value before trying to recruit me?”

“You have value,” Callum said. “I hardly need assign it to you.”

Across the table, Nico exclaimed something unintelligible about gravitational waves and heat. Or perhaps time and temperature. Or perhaps it didn’t matter at all, not even remotely, because unless Nico wanted to be some sort of medeian physicist chained to a laboratory for the rest of his life, nothing would come of it. The purpose of the Society was to get in, get access, and then get out. Remaining here, as Dalton Ellery had done, was pointless. The best of them would seek to parlay the influence of the Society, not bind themselves to the annals it contained.

Callum was the sort of person readily built to go far, Society or no Society. Tristan was the same, though in a different way. Callum could smell it on him: the ambition, the hunger, the drive. It was on the others, too, but not nearly so strong, and certainly not so close to longing. Nico had a hidden agenda (it was tightly sealed, tasting of metal) and perhaps the others had their reasons, but only Tristan truly wanted it, with his whole being. It was salty, savory, like salivation itself. 

The only person who was as starved and desperate as Tristan was Reina, and there was certainly no point trying to win her. Not yet. She’d take whichever side she needed to when the time arose. 

Libby was so unthreatening as to be a non-factor. Thus, Callum did not factor her into his personal calculations. If he ever needed another black hole, he’d simply seek her out in whatever mundane government job she accepted after being eliminated from this group. True, there was an as-yet unidentified link between Libby and Tristan—perhaps as a result of their experience during the installation—but that would be a simple enough matter to resolve. Tristan quietly resented her, or resented her abilities, and that was an uncomplicated emotion to play with. Callum could twist it easily around his finger, turning it steadily to hate. 

As for Parisa, she was a difficulty. Callum had understated her abilities to Tristan for obvious reasons, and that was only with regard to her technical specialty. She was a better medeian than Callum, who had never been a particularly devoted student, and she was immensely calculating. Fatally, even. She was the one enemy Callum didn’t want, but she had already drawn the line, so he’d have to knock her pieces off the board quickly. 

Callum didn’t want to waste time toying with Parisa’s pawns; he wanted her king.

“I have to admit, I am a little sick of the physicist show,” Tristan murmured to himself, staring with an intensity he didn’t know was envy while Libby and Nico, for unknowable and unimportant reasons, tried reversing a boiling cup of water. 

Ah, inevitable acquiescence. How bountifully sweet.

“Let’s have a nightcap,” Callum suggested, rising to his feet. “Do you take your scotch neat?”

“I’d take it in a barrel at this point,” said Tristan.

“Excellent. Have a good night,” Callum said to the others, rising to his feet and making his way from the dining room to the painted room.

Reina didn’t look up as he went, nor did Nico. Libby did, which was why Callum had said it to begin with. She would see Tristan following in Callum’s wake and feel more isolated than she already did, and without even a blink of effort.

Poor little magic girl. So much power, so few friends.

“Good night,” Libby said quietly, not looking at Tristan.

People were such delicate little playthings.