Firefight

by Brandon Sanderson

  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.

  I found my hand in my jacket pocket, gripping Megan’s handgun. Being in this press of bodies was even worse than being exposed. With so many people around, I couldn’t keep an eye on them all to watch for guns or knives.

  Mizzy positioned me in front of the table, butting into a conversation among a group of older teenagers. “This,” she declared, raising her hands to the side to present me like a new washer and dryer, “is my friend David Charleston. He’s from out of town.”

  “Really!” said one of the people at the table, a tall guy with blue hair. “I’d never have been able to tell that from his boring clothing and goofy face.”

  I hated him immediately.

  Mizzy punched the guy in the shoulder, grinning. “This is Calaka,” she said to me, then pointed at the other three at the table—girl, boy, girl—in turn. “Infinity, Marco, and Lulu.” She practically had to shout to make herself heard over the noise.

  “So where are you from, new guy?” Calaka asked, taking a drink of glowing fruit juice. That did not look safe. “Someplace small, I’d guess, considering your wide eyes and overwhelmed expression.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Small.”

  “Your clothes are dull,” said one of the girls, Infinity. Blonde and perky, she grabbed a can of something from under the table and shook it. Spraypaint. “Here, we can fix that.”

  I jumped back and threw my left hand out while firming my other hand’s grip on the gun in my pocket. Everyone else in this crazy city could go around glowing as much as they wanted, but I wasn’t about to make myself an easier target in the night.

  The four flinched away from me, eyes widening. Mizzy took me by the arm. “It’s okay, David. They’re friends. Relax.”

  There was that word again. Relax.

  “I just don’t want any spraypaint on me,” I said, trying to settle myself.

  “Your friend is weird, Mizzy,” Marco noted. He was a short guy with light brown hair so curly it looked like he’d stapled moss to his head. He leaned on the table in an easygoing posture, turning his cup with two fingers.

  “I like him,” Lulu said, eyeing me. “Quiet type. Tall, deep, sultry.”

  Deep?

  Wait … sultry?

  I focused on her. Curvaceous, dark skin, lustrous black hair that caught the light. Going to parties was partially about meeting girls, right? If I made a good impression, I might be able to ask her for information about Dawnslight or Regalia.

  “Sooooo,” Mizzy said, slumping against the table and stealing Marco’s drink. “Anyone seen Steve around?”

  “I don’t think he’s here,” Calaka said. “At least, I haven’t heard the sounds of anyone being slapped nearby.”

  “I think he was there,” Infinity said, her tone becoming mellow. “The other day. Uptown.”

  “Bad business, that,” Marco said.

  The others nodded.

  “Well,” Calaka said. “Suppose we’d better raise a cup for old Steve, then. Creep though he was, if the Epics finally got ’im, he deserves a proper sendoff.”

  Marco reached to take his drink back, but Mizzy ducked to the side, clinking it against Calaka’s and then drinking. Infinity and Lulu raised their cups as well.

  They bowed their heads while Marco grabbed some glowing grapes off a plate on the food table and wandered back. I bowed my head as well. I didn’t know this Steve guy, but he’d fallen to an Epic. That made him kindred, to an extent.

  Marco began tossing the grapes to various members of the group. I caught one. Grapes, the nonglowing kind, had been a rare treat back in Newcago. We hadn’t starved at the Factory, but much of the food had been stuff that stored well. Fruit was for the rich.

  I popped it in my mouth. It tasted fantastic.

  “Good music tonight,” Marco noted, eating a grape.

  “Edso’s been getting better,” Infinity agreed, grinning. “I think the heckling made a difference.”

  “Wait,” I interrupted. “Aren’t you worried about Obliteration? After what he did to your friend? You’re just going to drink and move on?”

  “What should we do?” Marco said. “Gotta keep living.”

  “Epics might come,” Calaka agreed. “Could take you today, could take you tomorrow. But so might a heart attack. No reason not to party today, while you can.”

  “There were some shots fired at that one last night,” Mizzy said, speaking carefully. “Some people fighting back.”

  “Idiots,” Calaka said. “Making things worse.”

  “Yeah,” Infinity said. “Half the dead would still be alive if we just let the Epics do what they want. They always get bored and move on eventually.”

  The others nodded, Marco cursing under his breath about the “sparking Reckoners.”

  I blinked. Was this some kind of bad joke? But no, there was no mirth here—though I did notice Mizzy relaxing visibly. It appeared that although we’d fought back, she hadn’t been recognized. I wasn’t surprised; in the chaos of Obliteration’s destruction, news of what exactly had happened—and who had been involved—hadn’t likely been reliable in the city.

  The group moved on to a further discussion of the music, and I just stood there feeling awkward and depressed. No wonder the Epics were winning, with attitudes like this.

  At least they’re enjoying themselves, a piece of my mind noted. Maybe there’s nothing they can do. Why judge them so harshly?

  It just felt that with some of us trying so hard, everyone should at least acknowledge the work we were putting in. We fought for the freedom of people like these. We
were their heroes.

  Weren’t we?

  As the conversation progressed, Lulu sidled up to me, a cup of glowing blue juice in her hand. “This is boring,” she said, stretching up and leaning in close to speak into my ear. “Let’s dance, handsome.”

  Handsome?

  I hadn’t even managed a reply before Lulu was giving her cup to Marco and towing me away from the table. Mizzy gave me a little wave, but otherwise completely abandoned me as I was pulled through the crowd. To the dancing.

  I guess that’s what you’d call it. It looked like everyone had insects in their shirts and were trying really hard to get them out. I’d seen dancing in movies, and it had seemed a lot more … coordinated than this.

  Lulu dragged me into the center of it all, and I wasn’t about to admit I’d never danced before. So I started moving, trying my best to blend in by imitating what everyone else was doing. Though I felt like a cupcake on a steak plate, the other dancers were so absorbed in what they were doing, maybe they wouldn’t notice me.

  “Hey!” Lulu shouted. “You’re good!”

  I was?

  She was better, always moving, seeming to anticipate the music and flowing with it. In the middle of a move, she threw herself my direction, wrapping her arms around me and pulling herself in close. It was unexpected, but not unpleasant.

  Was I supposed to move with her, somehow? Having her that close was rather distracting. She barely knew me. Is she an assassin, maybe? a piece of me wondered.

  No. She was just a normal person. And she seemed to like me, which was baffling. My only real experience with girls had been with Megan; how was I supposed to react to a girl who didn’t immediately seem like she wanted to shoot me?

  A little part of me figured I should ask about Dawnslight and Regalia—but that would be too obvious, right? I decided it was best to act natural for now, then try to get her to open up to me later.

  So I just danced. Lulu had called me the quiet type. I could manage that, right? We continued for a while—long enough for sweat to start dripping down my brow as I tried to figure out the right way to dance. There didn’t seem to be any form to it; Lulu alternated between gyrating around and pressing against me very close so we could move together. Several songs came and went, each different yet somehow the same.