The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(138)

Dalton Ellery stood before the five initiates of the Alexandrian Society and watched them take their vows, marrying themselves to the inevitability of change and inseverable alteration. Henceforth, things would only be more difficult. Barriers would fall away; the world belonging to those who had not merited entry through the Society’s doors would no longer exist, and the only walls left to contain these five would be the ones they managed to build themselves. What they did not realize yet, Dalton thought in silence, was the safety of a cage, the security of containment. Given a task, even a lab rat could be capable of satisfaction; from a prescribed morality, contentment; from the fulfillment of a purpose, the discovery of a cause. Endless choices, by contrast, would only leave the rat to chase itself in circles, unable to rest or be fulfilled.

For a moment it occurred to Dalton like a seedling of something half-remembered that perhaps he should say something along those lines. That perhaps he should warn them how the access they were soon to have would be too much to allow for any weakness, too little to accommodate for pre-existing strengths. He thought: You are entering the cycle of your own destruction, the wheel of your own fortune, which will rise and fall and so will you. You will deconstruct and resurrect in some other form, and the ashes of yourself will be the rubble from the fall.

Rome falls, he wanted to say. Everything collapses. You will, too.

You will, soon.

But before Dalton could bring himself to speak, he looked up at the mirrored surface of the reading room’s glass and saw, behind him, the face of Atlas Blakely, who was the reason he still existed in any form. He had needed walls, an addict, and Atlas had given them to him in the form of a purpose. It was Atlas who had promised him that there would be an end, a conclusion to the hunger, completion of the cycle. He had taken away the chains of Dalton’s invulnerability and given him what he needed most; the one thing the others might not find on their own: an answer.

Was there such a thing as too much power?

In the glass, a little manic glimmer flashed behind Dalton’s eyes; a glimpse of who he’d once been. Past lives, ill-fitting. But this answer Dalton Ellery knew, as the initiates would soon learn, because it was the only answer even if it was the worst one, the least comforting, the most limitless:

Yes.

But as the world itself will tell you, something put in motion will not stop.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



I can’t believe I keep writing things and you keep reading them. Miraculous.

This book in particular was a long time coming; these characters existed in an entirely different world amid a vastly unrelated plot before I dismantled the whole thing, used the remains for kindling, and rebuilt the story before you from the ashes of its former self. A special outpouring of thanks to Aurora and Mr Blake, who read all of this book’s different versions and persuaded me to keep going. I say this every time, but every time, I mean it: if not for them, the book you hold in your hands would not exist.

Many thanks to the usual suspects: my editors, Aurora and Cyndi; my science consultant, Mr Blake; my fight consultant, Nacho; my beloved illustrator, Little Chmura. Will I ever be able to thank you enough? Distressingly no, but I’ll keep trying. For my parents, who cheerfully back away when I’m writing and don’t ask me too often how things are going. Thank you for putting up with my artistic temperament and my deep, disturbing love of my work. For my sisters, KMS. To all of my family, my friends who continuously support me: Allie, Ana, Bella, Cara, Carrie, David, Elena, Garrett, Kayla, Lauren, Mackenzie, Megan, Stacie. To the Boxing Book Club. To my therapist, who let me use an entire hour for an incoherent stream of consciousness to work out a plot point I couldn’t untangle. To all the people who say you’re not crazy, keep going, this is good. I wish gratitude were easier to package.

To my mom, since I know she reads these: I love and am very indebted to you. (Just generally.)

To Mr Blake: thank you for telling me that my construction of magic proves I understand basic principles of physics. I worry you will eventually discover this is not correct; when that day arrives, my condolences. Thank you for considering me the good kind of crazy. Thank you for teaching everyone, me most of all. I tire of everything, always, but never you.

To you: writing is my excruciating joy, my feast of hope, my method of survival. Ipso facto, so are you. As always, it has been an honor to put these words down for you. I sincerely hope you enjoyed the story.

xx, Olivie





ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Olivie Blake is the pseudonym of Alexene Farol Follmuth, a lover and writer of stories. She has penned several indie SFF projects, including the webtoon Clara and the Devil with illustrator Little Chmura and the BookTok-viral Atlas series. As Alexene, her young adult rom-com My Mechanical Romance releases May 2022. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, new baby, and rescue pit bull. Find her at olivieblake.com.