Firefight (15 page)

Tia remained in her seat as the others left, and I found myself sweating. I shoved that down and forced myself to stand up and walk to Prof, who sat beside the big window filled with endless blue water.

“You need to take care, son,” Prof said quietly. “You know things others don’t. That is a trust I’ve given you.”

“I—”

“And don’t think I didn’t notice you trying to deflect the conversation today away from killing Regalia and toward killing Obliteration.”

“Do you deny it’s better to hit him first?”

“No. I didn’t contradict you because you’re right. It makes sense to hit Obliteration—and perhaps Newton—first to remove some of Regalia’s resources and help box her in. But I remind you not to forget that she is our primary target.”

“Yes sir,” I said.

“Dismissed.”

I walked from the room, annoyed that I was singled out so specifically for that treatment. I made my way down the hall, and for some reason I couldn’t help thinking of Sourcefield. Not the powerful Epic, but the regular person deprived of her powers, looking at me with dawning horror and utter confusion.

I’d never had a problem killing Epics. I still wouldn’t have a problem doing it, when the time came. That didn’t prevent me from imagining Megan’s face instead of Sourcefield’s as I pulled the trigger.

Once, I’d absolutely hated Epics. I realized I couldn’t feel that way any longer. Not now that I’d known Prof, Megan, and Edmund. Perhaps that was why I rebelled against killing Regalia. It seemed to me she was trying to fight her Epic nature. And maybe that meant we could save her.

All of these questions led me toward dangerous speculation. What would happen if we captured an Epic here, like we’d done with Edmund back in Newcago? What if we tied up someone like Newton or Obliteration, then used their weakness to perpetually negate their powers? How long without using their abilities would it take for them to start acting like a regular person?

If Newton or Obliteration weren’t under the influence of their powers, would they help us like Edmund had? And would that not, in turn, prove that we could do the same for Regalia herself? And after her, Megan?

As I reached my room, I found myself mulling over the idea, liking it more and more.

18

EVENING
was just arriving as Mizzy, Exel, and I climbed from the sub into the dark, water-filled building. We moved by touch to the Reckoners’ little boat. Once settled, Mizzy clicked a button on her mobile, and the sub silently slipped back into the depths.

I wasn’t certain how effective this was at hiding from Regalia. Hopefully our precautions would at least keep her from finding the exact location of our base, even if she figured out about the sub itself. We took oars, turned on the lights of our mobiles, and set out down a flooded street.

It was evening—two days since the meeting where we’d settled on a plan for killing Regalia—and by the time we reached populated rooftops the sun had begun to set. We climbed out of the boat, and Exel tossed a water bottle to
an old man who was watching over several boats tied here. Pure water was somewhat difficult to come by in the city; it needed to be fetched from streams across in Jersey. A bottle of it wasn’t worth much, but enough to act as a basic kind of currency for small services.

The others set out across the rooftop, but I lingered, watching the sun set. I’d spent most of my life trapped in the gloom of Steelheart’s reign. Why did the people of Babilar only come out at night? These people could know the light intimately, but they instead
opted
for the darkness. Didn’t they know how lucky they were?

The sun sank down like a giant golden pat of butter melting onto the corn of New Jersey. Or … wait. That abandoned city was kind of more like spinach than corn. So the sun sank down into the spinach of Jersey.

And Babilar came alive.

Graffiti lit with vibrant, electric colors. A mosaic, unnoticed in the sunlight, burst outward at my feet: a depiction of the moon with someone’s name signed in big, fat white letters at the bottom. I had to admit there was something organically magnificent about it. There hadn’t been graffiti in Newcago, where it had been a sign of rebellion—and rebellion had been punishable by death. Of course in Newcago, picking your nose could have been construed as a sign of rebellion too.

I hurried off after Mizzy and Exel, feeling naked without my rifle—though I carried Megan’s handgun in my pocket and wore my Reckoner shield, which really just meant Prof had gifted me with some of his forcefield energy. I wasn’t sure why Mizzy and Exel had asked for me to join this reconnaissance mission. I didn’t mind—anything to get out into the open air—but wouldn’t Val have been better suited to meeting with informants and interpreting their intel?

We walked for a short while, crossing bridges and passing
groups of people who carried baskets of glowing fruit. They nodded affably to us, which was creepy. Weren’t people supposed to walk with their eyes down, worried that anyone they passed might be an Epic?

I knew there was something profoundly wrong with those thoughts inside my head. I’d spent months in Newcago after Steelheart’s fall trying to help build a city where people
wouldn’t
be afraid all the time. Now I worried when these people acted open and friendly?

I couldn’t help how I felt, though, and my instinct was that something was wrong with people around here. We crossed a low rooftop, passing Babilarans who lounged with their feet in the water. Others idled, lying on their backs, eating glowing fruit as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Hadn’t these people heard what Obliteration had done uptown just the other day?

I glanced down as we crossed onto another rope bridge, unnerved as a group of youths swam beneath us, laughing. The people of this city didn’t need to display the beaten-down attitudes that had been common in Newcago, but a healthy dose of paranoia never hurt anyone. Right?

Mizzy noticed me looking at the splashing swimmers. “What?” she asked.

“They seem so …”

“Carefree?” she asked.

“Idiotic.”

Mizzy grinned. “Babilar does tend to inspire a relaxed attitude.”

“It’s the way of life,” Exel agreed from just ahead, where he led us toward the informants. “More specifically, it’s the religion—if you want to call it that—of Dawnslight.”

“Dawnslight,” I said. “That’s an Epic, right?”

“Maybe,” Exel said with a shrug. “Everyone attributes the
food and the light to ‘Dawnslight.’ There’s considerable disagreement over who, or what, that is.”

“An Epic, obviously,” I said, glancing toward a nearby building lit with glowing fruit inside the broken windows. I had nothing in my notes about such an Epic, however. It was disconcerting to know that I’d somehow missed such a powerful one.

“Well, either way,” Exel continued, “a lot of people here have learned to just let go. What good does it do to stress all the time about the Epics? You can’t do anything about them. A lot of people figure it’s just better to enjoy their lives and accept that the Epics might kill them tomorrow.”

“That’s stupid,” I said.

Exel looked back, raising an eyebrow.

“If you accept the Epics,” I said, “they’ve won. That’s what went wrong; that’s why nobody fights back.”

“Sure, I guess. But there’s no harm in relaxing a little, you know?”

“There’s
all kinds
of harm in it. Relaxed people don’t get anything done.”

Exel shrugged. Sparks! He almost talked like he believed all that nonsense. I let the matter drop, though my unease didn’t lessen. It wasn’t just the people we passed, with their friendly smiles. It was about being so exposed, so in the open. With all these rooftops and broken windows around, a sniper could take me down with ease. I’d be glad when we reached the informants. Those types liked closed doors and hidden rooms.

“So,” I said to Mizzy as we turned at another roof and stepped onto another bridge. Children sat along one side, kicking in unison and giggling as they made the bridge swing slowly side to side. “Val mentioned something at our meeting the other day. The … spyril?”

“It was Sam’s,” Mizzy said softly. “Special equipment we bought from the Knighthawk Foundry.”

“It was a weapon, then?”

“Well, kind of,” Mizzy said. “It was Epic-derived, built to mimic their powers. The spyril manipulated water; Sam would shoot it out beneath him, boosting him into the air, letting him move around the city easily.”

“A water jet pack …?”

“Yeah, kind of like that.”

“A water
jet pack
. And nobody’s using it right now?” I was stunned. “So … you know … I could maybe …”

“It’s broken,” Mizzy said before I could finish. “When we recovered Sam—” She had to stop for a moment. “Anyway, when we got him back, the spyril was missing its motivator.”

“Which is …?”

She looked at me as we walked on the bridge; she seemed dumbfounded. “The motivator? You know? It makes technology based on Epic powers work.”

I shrugged. Technology based off Epics was new to me since I’d joined the Reckoners. Despite things like my shield and the harmsway—which were fake—we
did
have technology that didn’t come from Prof’s powers. Supposedly these had originally been crafted using genetic material taken from the corpses of Epics. When we killed them we would often harvest cells and use it as high-level currency for trading with arms dealers.

“So stick another motivator thingy in,” I said.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Mizzy said, laughing. “You really don’t know any of this?”

“Mizzy,” Exel said from the bridge ahead of us, “David is a point man. He spends his time shooting Epics, not fixing things in the shop. Which is why we have people like you.”

“Riiiight,” Mizzy said, rolling her eyes at him. “Thank
you. Great lecture. Thumbs-up. David, motivators come from research into Epics, and each one is coded to the individual device.” She sounded excited as she talked—this was obviously something she’d read a lot about. “We’ve asked Knighthawk for a replacement, but it could take quite a bit of time.”

“Fine,” I said. “As long as when we do fix the thing,
I
get to try it first.”

Exel laughed. “Are you sure you want to do that, David? Using the spyril would involve lots of swimming.”

“I can swim.”

He looked back at me and raised an eyebrow. “Care to discuss the way you regarded the water on our trip into the city? You looked like you thought it would bite you.”

“I think guns are dangerous too,” I said, “but I’m carrying one right now.”

“If you say so,” he said, turning back around and leading the way onward.

I followed, sullen. How had he figured out about me and water? Was it that obvious to everyone?
I
hadn’t even known about it until I’d gotten to this flooded city.

I remembered that sinking feeling … the water closing around me … the darkness and the sheer panic of water flooding inside my nose and mouth. And …

I shivered. Besides, didn’t sharks live in water like this? Why weren’t those swimmers afraid?

They’re crazy people
, I reminded myself.
They aren’t afraid of Epics either
. Well, I wasn’t about to get eaten by a shark, but I did need to learn to swim. I’d have to do something about the sharks. Spikes on my feet, maybe?

We eventually stopped at the lower end of a bridge that stretched high into the sky toward a glowing rooftop above. “We’re here,” Exel noted, then started the steep climb.

I followed, curious. Were we going to find the informants
hiding inside the jungles of that building, perhaps? As we climbed upward, I picked out an odd sound coming from above. Was that music?

Indeed it was. It enveloped me as we drew closer—the sound of drums and fiddles. Neon forms moved this way and that wearing spraypainted clothing, and beneath the music came the sounds of people talking.

I stopped on the bridge, causing Mizzy to pause just ahead of me.

“What is that?” I asked.

“A party,” she said.

“And our informants are there?”

“Informants? What are you talking about?”

“The people Exel is coming to meet. To purchase information.”

“Purchase … David—Exel, you, and I are going to mingle and chat with people at the party to see what we can find out.”

Oh.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure, of course I am.” I continued forward, pushing past her up the bridge toward the roof.

A party. What was
I
going to do at a party?

I had a feeling I’d have been much better off in the water with the sharks.

19

I
stood at the edge of the expansive rooftop, concentrating on breathing in and out, wrestling with a mild panic as Mizzy and Exel entered the party.

People wearing glowing, painted clothing moved about in a frenetic mix; some danced while others feasted on the variety of fruits that had been heaped upon tables along the perimeter. Music crashed across us all—overwhelming sounds of drums and fiddles.

It felt like a riot. A rhythmic, and well-catered, riot. And most of the people here were my age.

I’d known other teenagers, of course. There had been many at the Factory in Newcago where I’d worked and lived since I was nine. But the Factory hadn’t thrown parties, unless you counted the movie nights where we’d watched old
films, and I hadn’t interacted much with the others. My free time had been dedicated to my notes on Epics and my plans to bring down Steelheart. I hadn’t been a nerd, mind you. I’d just been the type of guy who spent a lot of time by himself, focused entirely on a single consuming interest.

“Come on!” Mizzy said, appearing from the party like a seed spat from the mouth of a glowing jack-o’-lantern. She grabbed my hand and towed me into the chaos.

The tempest of light and sound enveloped me. Weren’t parties about talking to people? I could barely hear myself in the middle of this thing, with all of the noise and the music. I followed Mizzy as she brought me to one of the food tables, which was surrounded by a small group of Babilarans in painted clothing.