The Atlas Complex (The Atlas, #3)

by Olivie Blake

Nico had the sudden, unavoidable urge to punish Gideon for his usual flippancy toward his own death, so he chose violence. He leaned over the table and kissed him square on the mouth. “Shut up,” Nico muttered with his eyes closed, unmoving, because everything between Nico and Gideon was exactly the same as it had always been, really.

“Just because you make me happy doesn’t mean you don’t drive me absolutely insane.” Aptly, Nico only heard one thing. “Are you, Sandman? Happy.” “Oh my god,” said Gideon.

“It has to have been for something, the pieces falling into place this way. If it’s not, then what was any of this for?”

Isn’t this what it is to be human? To want to matter? To have a purpose?

I think the point is to be surprised by people. It’s not to know them completely. It’s to see them in a new way all the time, always turning them over and finding something different, some new fascinating thing.

You’re in every world I exist in, your fate is my fate, either you follow me or I follow you, it doesn’t matter which and I don’t care. If that’s not love then maybe I don’t understand love, and that’s fine with me—it doesn’t make me angry to know I’m actually an idiot after all. And if it’s not enough for you, then okay, it’s not enough. That doesn’t change the fact that I’m willing to give it. What you’re willing to accept doesn’t change what I’m willing to give.”

This is the problem with knowledge: its inexhaustible craving. The madness inherent in knowing there is only more to know. It’s a problem of mortality, of seeing the invariable end from the immovable beginning, of determining that the more you try to fix it, the more beginnings there are to discover, the more ways to reach the same unavoidable end.

“It’s not life I have a problem with. I’m not choosing to die because death feels better. It’s just that—” She sighed, doubtful he’d understand. “It’s that running is exhausting and my hair is turning gray and all the rest of you have something to live for, but I don’t. All I have is me, and I don’t mind that. I never have. But if someone’s going to lose something, then maybe I want it to be on my terms.”

But wanting things was not enough. Loving someone was not enough. You gave and you gave and you gave and sometimes, as was the way of things, that love did not come back, or even if it did, it died young. Sometimes you couldn’t save things, and the knowledge of it, the finality—the odd, horrifying satisfaction of the conclusion that nothing was in Gideon’s control except himself—was like a falling blade of certainty. Yet another heartbreak. Another goodbye.

Power did nothing to soften a grave. It also did nothing to keep a promise.

Knowledge was a funny thing. It could be shared. It could be given. But it could not be stolen.

“People often search for meaning where there is none,” said Aiya placidly. Perhaps in a tone of sympathy, though Reina wasn’t sure what to think anymore. “Just because you can see two points does not mean anything exists between them.”

“You don’t like feeling powerless? Then change your definition of power. Do not fix unfixable problems. Do not devote yourself to things you cannot control. You cannot make this world respect you. You cannot make it dignify you. It will never bend to you.

Life and death, meaning and existence, purpose and power, the weight of the world. We are stardust on earth, we are impossible beings—the moral of the story shouldn’t revolve so absurdly on the behaviors of a condom or the decision one man makes to buy a gun and act out his hate. And yet it does, because what else can matter?

The world as you believe it to exist is not a thing. The world is not an idea, something to be made or exalted or saved. It is an ecosystem of other people’s pain, a chorus of other people’s street foods, the variety of magic that people can make with the same set of chords. The world is pretty simple, in the end. People are bad. People are good. Inescapably there will be people, some who will disappoint you, some who will define you, unravel you, inspire you. These are facts. In every culture there is bread, and it is good.

There is power to be taken if you wish to seek it. Knowledge to be gained if you really want to know. You should be warned, though, whatever else you take from this, that knowledge is always carnage. Power is a siren song, bloodstained and miserly hoarded. Forgiveness is not a given. Redemption is not a right. It eats away at you, the things you know. The price you pay, and it will ...