Chapter I
There were no shadows in New Eden, as there was no darkness; the air itself was heavy with the radiance of the city’s God, blazing like a sun above its heart and burning the true sky from view. There was no moon, there were no stars; at night the light would sink into the quiet hum of an eternal sunset, to rise again in the morning as a cloud of rays that reached to every hidden corner. The light was ever-watchful, the city always dreaming, caught in that realm between sleep and waking; and there were no nightmares in New Eden, as Atlas had taken all the terrors of the night upon his back.
Though time had little meaning in such a paradise, it was by normal reckoning a Thursday morning when Jacob awoke from his quiet slumber to the brightening of the light. It was a peaceful awakening, of the kind where the mind comes by steps to its place behind the senses; he was aware first of the whisper of silk upon his skin as he stretched beneath the sheets, then the warmth of the light against his shuttered eyes, and then the songs of birds that drifted through the open window.
For a few moments Jacob lay silently, breathing deeply of the sensations of life, only finally throwing off the covers to cross the room when his newborn daughter began to mewl from her crib in the corner. She quieted for a moment when Jacob took her in his arms, fixing her tiny face in an almost quizzical expression. He met his daughter’s confusion with a soft laugh; ordinarily, Ophelia would have been the one to wake with her, but she had left earlier to attend her cousin’s naming, leaving Jacob with a responsibility that he did not mind in the slightest.
His daughter was only two weeks old and was smaller than Jacob had ever supposed a baby could be. She would be named tomorrow, at her own ceremony to be held in Atlas’s Temple at the city center; and even though Atlas would ultimately be the one to give the name, Jacob couldn’t help but think of what he would name her himself. He mused over the idea as his child looked up at him with her deep blue eyes, so dark they seemed nearly black; it would have to be a happy name, he eventually decided, not a name with a tragic history, as were so many of the names Atlas gave—names like Ophelia, Antigone, Jeanne.
Eventually, the child seemed to accept the oddity of the morning, and she began to mewl and root for food. There was a bottle already prepared, resting where it had been placed the night before; it was still warm, and his daughter eagerly seized upon her breakfast as soon as it was brought within her reach, searching with her mouth like hunger itself until she had it, and even then she grabbed at her father’s hand that held it.
“I trust that the milk is heated to your liking?” A voice came from the open hallway door—the voice of Atlas, albeit a version different from the one that gave names at the Temple. At the Temple, his voice rang like thunder and the clash of a thousand bells; here, his voice put one more in mind of a quiet river, or the comforting crackle of a campfire. “I’ve tried to maintain its temperature at a constant level since last night.”
“It’s perfect, Atlas—thank you,” Jacob replied, turning to give the automaton an affirming nod. Atlas’s priests often quoted the doctrine that the God was created firstly to serve, and the Arms reinforced this concept with every aspect of their design. The machine was humanoid in shape, like the other Arms of Atlas, and also affected to the same kinds of self-effacing mannerisms all the other Arms exhibited. Its frame was made from metal gracefully curved, sleek and unassuming—small enough to be non-threatening, yet large enough to be a comforting strength. Its face was a projection of colors upon the smooth steel, the image that of a man no one in the city, not even Atlas’s father Abraham, had ever been able to place—a paradoxical man, with features so strong that they gave the impression of vulnerability, and eyes so piercingly cold they signaled warmth. It was unnerving, that face, and although Ophelia and Constantine and all the rest seemed to simply accept it, Jacob had never grown used to the blatant contradictions of its structure.
The Arm bowed, a grateful smile passing over that strange face. “I am glad. Will you be taking breakfast before you leave?”
“No, I’m not sure I have the time. Constantine wanted to get an early start,” Jacob said with a sigh, looking back down at his daughter, whose eyes had never left his face.
The Arm gave him an appraising glance, then crossed the room to place a knowing hand on his shoulder, moving in a mimicry of man that was somehow even more convincing in its grace than the real thing. “Of course. Do not be afraid, I will watch the girl until Ophelia returns.”
Jacob gave him a wordless nod, gingerly placing his infant daughter in the arms of the machine. She didn’t cry, didn’t fuss, merely turning her inquisitive stare from his face to Atlas’s instead, as if she too found his visage an unsolvable mystery; the God in turn looked back at her, with the tenderness of judgement in his eyes—and for a brief moment, Jacob questioned Atlas.
But the moment passed, and Jacob left his daughter in Atlas’s care.
