Firefight (22 page)

It looked like he was also scanning for mentions of Regalia and stories regarding her direct appearance. Most of what he had was hearsay, but I was impressed with the detail of the notes, and with the conclusions he was drawing. Some of the notes indicated the frequency had been muffled, or static-filled, but he’d managed to re-create entire conversations—the words he actually heard underlined, the rest filled in.

I looked up from the sheet. “You’re a mortician,” I said, skeptical.

“Third generation,” he said proudly. “Was there for my own grandfather’s embalming. Stuffed the eyes with cotton myself.”

“They teach this in mortician school?” I said, holding up the paper.

“Nope,” Exel said with a grin. “Learned that in the CIA.”

“You’re a
spook
?” I asked, shocked.

“Hey, even the CIA needed morticians.”

“Uh, no. I don’t think it did.”

“More than you think,” Exel said, tuning to another frequency. “Back in the old days there were hundreds like me. Not all morticians, of course—but similar. People living normal lives, doing regular jobs, placed in areas where we could do a little good here and there. I spent years teaching mortuary science in Seoul, listening to the radios at night with my team. Everyone imagines spies to be the ‘cocktails and bow
tie’ sort, but there weren’t actually many of those. Most of us were regular folks.”

“You,” I said. “Regular?”

“Within plausible limits of believability,” Exel said.

I found myself smiling. “I don’t get you, Exel,” I said, picking up another sheet from his stack. “The other day you almost seemed to sympathize with the do-nothings who flock to this city.”

“I do sympathize with them,” Exel said. “I’d love to do nothing. Seems like a grand profession. It’s never because of the ‘do-nothings’ that people go to war.”

“Says the former spy.”

“Former?” Exel asked, waggling a pencil at me.

“Exel, if nobody changes the world, if nobody works to make it better, then we stagnate.”

“I could live with stagnation,” Exel said, “if it meant no war. No killing.”

I wasn’t certain I agreed. Maybe I was naive, as I’d never lived through any human-on-human wars—my life had been dominated by the conflict with the Epics. But I figured the world would be pretty boring if all you did was stay the same.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Exel continued. “That can’t be. My job now is about doing what I can to make sure people get to live their lives how they want to. If that means basking in the sun and not worrying, then good for them. At least someone in this sorry world is enjoying themselves.”

He continued writing. I could have argued further, but I found my heart wasn’t in it. If this was what motivated him to fight the Epics, then so be it. We each had our reasons.

Instead I let my attention be drawn by a page of notes relating to a specific topic: Dawnslight, the mythical Epic who
supposedly made the plants grow and the spraypaint shine. Exel’s page was filled with references to people discussing him, praying to him, cursing by his name.

I could see why people were so interested in Dawnslight. Babilar could not exist without him, whoever he was. But reports placed him in the city long before Regalia had arrived. Dared I hope it was true, that an Epic existed who was this benevolent? An Epic who didn’t kill, or didn’t even dominate, but who instead made food grow and light appear? Who was this person who created paradise in the buildings of old Manhattan?

“Exel,” I said, looking up from the paper, “you’ve lived here for a while.”

“Ever since Prof ordered us to embed,” the large man replied.

“Do you think Dawnslight is a real person?”

He tapped his pencil on his pad for a moment, then set it down and reached beside his seat for a pouch of orange soda. You could get it shipped out of Charlotte, like the cola, if you had connections. There was an Epic there who really loved soda and paid to have the machinery maintained.

“You’ve seen my notes,” Exel said, nodding to the sheet I was looking at. “That page is one of many. I’ve been keeping an ear out for mentions of Dawnslight since I arrived. He’s real. Too many people talk about him for him to not be.”

“A lot of people talk about God,” I said. “Or they used to.”

“Because he’s real too. You don’t believe, I assume?”

I wasn’t certain. I fished under my shirt, bringing out Abraham’s gift. The stylized
S
shape that was the symbol of the Faithful. What did I believe? For years my “religion” had been Steelheart’s death. I’d worshipped that goal as fervently as any old-time monk in a monkplace.

“Well, I’ve never been the missionary type,” Exel said, “and I think that God might be a topic for another day. But as for Dawnslight, I’m reasonably certain he’s real.”

“The people here
worship
him as a god.”

“Well, they may be a screwy bunch,” Exel said, raising his pouch. “But they’re a peaceful lot, right? So good for them.”

“And their Epic? Is Dawnslight peaceful?”

“Seems so.”

I was dancing around it. I needed to just say what I meant. I leaned forward. “Exel, do you think it’s
possible
for Epics to be good?”

“Of course they can be. We all have free will. It’s a divine right.”

I sat back, thoughtful.

“You don’t agree, I see.”

“Actually I do,” I said. I
had
to believe Epics could be good—for Megan’s sake. “I want to find a way to bring some Epics to our side, but Prof thinks I’m a fool.” I ran my hand through my hair. “Half the time, I think he’s right.”

“Well, Jonathan Phaedrus is a great man. A wise man. But I once saw him lose to a bluff in poker, so we have empirical evidence that he doesn’t know
everything
.”

I smiled.

“I think your goal is a worthy one, Steelslayer.” Exel sat up straighter and looked me in the eye. “I don’t think we can ever beat the Epics on our own. We’d need a lot more firepower. Perhaps all the world needs is for a few Epics to step up and openly oppose the others. Nothing so dramatic as the Faithful believe, no mystical coming of blessed, angelic Epics. Just one or two who are willing to say, ‘Hey, this isn’t right.’ If everyone including the Epics knew that there was another option, perhaps it would change everything.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

“Thanks for what? For blabbing my random opinions at you?”

“Pretty much. I needed someone to talk to. Tia was too busy, and Val seems to hate me.”

“Nah, you just remind her of Sam. The spyril was his baby, you know.”

Well, I guess that made a kind of sense then. Unfair though it was.

“I—”

“Wait a sec,” Exel said, holding up a hand. “Listen.”

I turned my attention to the radio, focusing on making out the words. The static had been constant as we were talking, but I hadn’t realized there were faint voices in the background.

“… yeah, I see him,” a voice said. “He’s just sitting there, on the rooftop in Turtle Bay.”

“Is he doing anything?” another voice said, the frequency crackling with static.

“Nah.” First voice. “His eyes are closed. His face is turned toward the sky.”

“Get out of there, Miles.” Second voice. Frightened. “He’s dangerous. Murdered a lot of people a couple weeks back.”

“Yeah.” First voice. “Why’s he just sitting there, though?”

Exel looked up and met my eyes. “Obliteration?” he asked.

I nodded, feeling sick.

“You guessed he’d be doing this,” Exel said. “Nice call.”

“I wish I hadn’t been right,” I said, throwing back my chair and standing. “I need to go find Prof.”

Obliteration had started storing up sunlight, like he had in Houston, Albuquerque, and finally San Diego.

If I was right, the city wouldn’t survive his next step.

27

I
found Prof in the conference room, the room with the large wall/window looking out into the ocean. The waters were clearer today than they’d been the last time I’d been in there, and I could see distant shadows, dark and square. They were buildings—a phantom skyline under the sea.

Prof stood in his black lab coat, staring out into the depths, hands clasped behind him.

“Prof?” I asked, hurrying into the room. “Exel just intercepted a conversation. Someone spotted Obliteration. He’s storing energy.”

Prof continued to stare into the depths.

“Like in Houston?” I prompted. “The days before he destroyed the entire place? Sir?”

Prof nodded toward the sunken city. “You never visited this place before it sank, did you?”

“No,” I answered, trying to ignore the awful window he stared out of.

“I came into the city regularly. To see plays, go shopping, sometimes to just walk. It seemed that the most humble diners in Manhattan served better food than the nicest restaurants back home. And the finest places … Ah, I remember the way it smelled.…”

“Um, yeah. Obliteration?”

He nodded curtly and turned from the window. “Let’s go have a look, then.”

“Have a look?”

“You and me,” Prof said, striding away. “We’re point men. If there’s danger, we check it out.”

I ran after him. I wasn’t going to argue—any excuse to get out of the base was a good one—but this didn’t seem like Prof. He liked to plan. In Newcago we’d rarely moved, even on a scouting mission, without careful deliberation.

We entered the hallway and passed the room where Mizzy and Val were working. “I’m taking the sub,” Prof announced to them without even a glance. I hurried to keep up, glancing back and shrugging toward a confused Mizzy, who had poked her head out after us.

I picked up my pace and ran ahead of Prof, fetching my gun from the equipment closet. I hesitated, then grabbed the backpack with the spyril inside as well.

“You shouldn’t need that,” Prof noted, passing me.

“So you think I should leave it?”

“Of course not.”

I slung the pack over my shoulder, then joined Prof as he entered the darkness of the docking room. Here we followed a
set of rope guides toward the sub.
Why
, I thought,
do I feel like a dog who just swallowed a hand grenade?
There was nothing to be nervous about; this was Prof. The great Jon Phaedrus. We were going on a scouting mission together. I should be excited.

Prof popped the hatch on the sub and we climbed in. Once we were down below, I locked the hatch, and Prof turned on a pale yellow emergency light. He waved me forward to sit in the copilot seat and started up the machine. A few moments later we were moving through the silent depths, and I had to stare out yet
another
window—the front of the sub—at more water.

“So … do you need to know where we’re going?” I finally asked.

“Yes.” His face was lit eerily by the yellow light.

“Well, we heard them say the words Turtle Bay.”

Prof turned the sub in a slow curve. “Missouri tells me you’re getting good with the spyril.”

“Yeah. Well, I mean, I’m practicing. I don’t know that I’d say I’m
good
, but I might get there eventually.”

My mobile beeped quietly. I winced, then pulled it out. This new one had a different silencing button, and I always forgot to tap it. It used my old pattern, so anyone who knew that could contact me, but the message on the screen was from a pattern I didn’t recognize.

Okay, let’s talk
, it read.

“That’s good,” Prof said. “The tensors won’t be of much use to you here.”

“I don’t know,” I said, trying to work out who was messaging. “When we were fighting inside the office building, it might have been good to slip through a wall unexpectedly.”

“The spyril will be more useful,” Prof said. “Focus on that
for now. We don’t want to mix the powers. Might cause interference.”

Interference? What kind of interference? I’d never heard of such a thing. Granted, I didn’t know much about this technology, but if such interference were a problem, wouldn’t it have affected the forcefields Prof gave me?

My mobile buzzed again. I’d silenced it but hadn’t turned off the vibrations.
You there, Knees?
the message read.

My heart jumped.

Megan?
I typed back.

Who else would it be, you slontze?

Prof glanced at me. “What’s happening?”

“Exel’s messaging me,” I lied. “With more information on how to find Obliteration.”

Prof nodded, turning eyes forward again. I quickly sent a message to Exel, asking if he had more information on Obliteration’s location, just in case Prof asked him later on. My mobile lit up almost immediately, saying someone else had seen Obliteration. Directions to the building followed.

In the middle of that, Megan messaged again.

I really need to talk to you about something
.

This isn’t exactly a good time
, I sent back.

Great. Fine
.

The terseness of that reply made me sick inside. I was turning her away after practically begging her to talk to me earlier? I glanced at Prof. He seemed absorbed by his driving, and the sub didn’t move quickly. I probably had plenty of time. How suspicious would it be?

Well, maybe I can spare some time to chat
. I pressed
SEND
.

No reply.

Sparks. Why did everything have to happen at once? I waited for a response, submarine engines churning, sweat
trickling down the sides of my face. Sitting up front here, you could see the whole underwater world stretching out before you, seemingly into infinity itself. Thinking about all this
nothing
made my hair stand on end.

I bent down over my mobile and sent another message to Megan.
Do you know why Regalia claimed she can make Epics?

This time I got a response almost immediately.
She said what?

She told me she’d made someone into an Epic
, I wrote back.
She seemed to think it would scare me. I think she wanted me to decide that we can’t fight back because she can send an unending string of Epics at us
.