“Nightwielder’s darkness?”
“Sure,” Cody said. “I’ve always thought it was strange that he kept it so dark here.”
“That’s probably because of Nightwielder himself,” I said. “He doesn’t want sunlight shining on him and making him corporeal. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was part of the deal between them, one of the reasons Nightwielder serves beneath Steelheart. Steelheart’s government provides infrastructure-food, electricity, crime prevention-to compensate for it always being dark.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” Cody said. “Nightwielder needs darkness, but can’t have it unless he’s got a good city to work from. Kind of like a piper needs a good city to support him, so he can stand on the cliff tops and play.”
“A … piper?” I asked.
“Oh please, don’t get him started,” Tia said, raising a hand to her head.
“Bagpiper,” Cody said.
I looked at him blankly.
“You’ve never heard of bagpipes?” Cody asked, sounding aghast. “They’re as Scottish as kilts and red armpit hair!”
“Um … yuck?” I said.
“That’s it,” Cody said. “Steelheart has to fall so we can get back to educating children properly. This is an offense against the dignity of my motherland.”
“Great,” Prof said, “I’m glad we now have proper motivation.” He tapped the desk idly.
“You’re worried,” Tia said. She seemed to be able to read Prof pretty well.
“We’re getting closer and closer to a confrontation. If we continue on this course we’ll draw Steelheart out but will be unable to fight him.”
The people at the desk grew still. I looked up, gazing at the high ceiling; the sterile white lights around the room provided insufficient glow to reach the room’s farthest corners. It was cold in this room, and quiet. “When’s the last moment we could pull out?”
“Well,” Prof said, “we could draw him to a confrontation with Limelight, then not show.”
“That might be kind of fun on its own merits,” Cody noted. “I doubt Steelheart gets stood up very often.”
“He’d react poorly to the embarrassment,” Prof said. “Right now the Reckoners are a thorn-an annoyance. We’ve only done three hits in his city and have never killed anyone vital to his organization. If we run, what we’ve been doing will get out. Abraham and I set in place evidence that will prove we’re behind this-that is the only way to make sure our victory, if we obtain one, isn’t attributed to an Epic instead of ordinary men.”
“So if we run …,” Cody said.
“Steelheart will know that Limelight was a fake and that the Reckoners were working on a way to assassinate him,” Tia said.
“Well,” Cody said, “most Epics already want to kill the lot of us. So maybe nothing will change.”
“This will be worse,” I said, still looking up at the ceiling. “He killed the rescue workers, Cody. He’s paranoid. He’ll hunt us actively if he finds out what we’ve been up to. The thought that we tried to get to him … that we were researching his weakness … he won’t take that sitting down.”
The shadows flickered, and I looked down to see Abraham walking up to our cubicle. “Prof, you asked me to warn you when we reached the hour.”
Prof checked his mobile, then nodded. “We should be getting back to the hideout. Everyone grab a sack and fill it with the things we found. We’ll sort through them further in a more controlled environment.”
We got up from our seats, Cody patting the head of the dead-and steel-frozen-bank patron who slumped beside the wall of this particular cubicle. As they left, Abraham set something down on the desk. “For you.”
It was a handgun. “I’m no good with …” I trailed off. It looked familiar. The gun … the one my father picked up.
“I found it in the rubble beside your father,” Abraham said. “The transfersion turned the grip and frame to metal, but most of the parts were already good steel. I removed the magazine and cleared the chamber, and the slide and trigger still function as expected. I wouldn’t completely trust it until I give it a thorough once-over back at base, but there’s a good chance it will fire reliably.”
I picked up the gun. This was the weapon that had killed my father. Holding it felt wrong.
But it was also, so far as I knew, the only weapon ever to have wounded Steelheart.
“We can’t know if it was something about the gun that allowed Steelheart to be hurt,” Abraham said. “I felt it would be worth digging out. I’ll take it apart and clean it for you, check over the cartridges. They should still be good, though I might need to change the powder, if the casings didn’t insulate against the transfersion. If it all checks out, you can carry it. If the opportunity presents itself, you can try shooting him with it.”
I nodded in thanks, then ran to get a sack and haul out my part of what we’d found.
“Piping is the most sublime sound y’all have ever heard,” Cody explained, gesturing widely as we walked down the corridor toward the hideout. “A sonorous mix of power, frailty, and wonder.”
“It sounds like dying cats being stuffed into a blender,” Tia said to me.
Cody looked wistful. “Aye, and a beauteous melody that is, lass.”
“So, wait,” I said, holding up a finger. “These bagpipes. To make them, you … what was it you said? ‘Y’all need to kill yourself a wee dragon, which are totally real and not at all mythological-they live in the Scottish Highlands to this day.’ ”
“Aye,” Cody said. “It’s important y’all pick a wee one. The big ones are too dangerous, you see, and their bladders don’t make good pipes. But you have to kill it yourself, you see. A piper needs to have slain his own dragon. It’s part of the code.”
“After that,” I said, “you need to cut out the bladder, and attach … what was it?”
“Carved unicorn horns to make the pipes,” Cody said. “I mean, you could use something less rare, like ivory. But if you’re going to be a purist, it has to be unicorn horns.”
“Delightful,” Tia said.
“A grand word to choose,” Cody said. “It, of course, is originally a Scottish term. Del coming from Dál Riata, the ancient and great Scottish kingdom of myth. Why, I think one of the great piping songs is from that era. ‘Abharsair e d’a chois e na Dùn Èideann.’ ”
“Ab … ha … what?” I asked.
“Abharsair e d’a chois e na Dùn Èideann,” Cody said. “It is a sweetly poetic name that doesn’t really translate to English-”
“It means ‘The Devil Went Down to Edinburgh’ in Scottish Gaelic,” Tia said, leaning in toward me but speaking loudly enough that Cody could hear.
Cody, for once, missed a step. “You speak Scottish Gaelic, lass?”
“No,” Tia said. “But I looked that up last time you told this story.”
“Er … you did, eh?”
“Yes. Though your translation is questionable.”
“Well, now. I always did say you were a smart one, lass. Yes indeed.” He coughed into his hand. “Ah, look. We’re at the base. I’ll continue the story later.” The others had arrived at the hideout just ahead and Cody scurried up to meet them, then followed Megan up the tunnel.
Tia shook her head, then walked with me to the tunnel. I went last, making sure the cords and cables that hid the entrance were in place. I turned on the hidden motion sensors that would alert us if someone came in, then crawled up myself.
“… just don’t know, Prof,” Abraham was saying in his soft voice. “I just don’t know.” The two of them had spent the trip back walking ahead, speaking softly. I’d tried to edge up to hear them, but Tia had pointedly placed a hand on my shoulder and drawn me back.
“So?” Megan asked, crossing her arms as we all gathered around the main table. “What’s going on?”
“Abraham doesn’t like the way the rumors are going,” Prof said.
“The general public does seem to accept our tale of Limelight,” Abraha
m said. “They are scared, and our hit on the power station has had an effect-there are rolling blackouts all over the city. However, I see no proof that Steelheart believes. Enforcement is sweeping the understreets. Nightwielder is scouring the city. Everything I hear from informants is that Steelheart is searching for a group of rebels, not a rival Epic.”
“So we hit back with a fury,” Cody said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall beside the tunnel. “Kill a few more Epics.”
“No,” I said, remembering my conversation with Prof. “We need to be more focused. We can’t just take out random Epics; we have to think like someone trying to capture the city.”
Prof nodded. “Each and every hit we make without having Limelight appear in the open will make Steelheart more suspicious.”
“We’re giving up?” Megan said, a hint of eagerness in her voice, though she obviously tried to cover it.
“Not by a mile,” Prof said. “Perhaps I will still decide we need to pull out-if we aren’t confident enough about Steelheart’s weakness, I might do just that. We aren’t there yet. We’re going to keep on with this plan, but we need to do something big, preferably with an appearance by Limelight. We need to squeeze Steelheart as hard as we can and drive that temper of his. Force him out.”
“And we do that how?” Tia asked.
“It’s time to kill Conflux,” Prof said. “And bring down Enforcement.”
27
Conflux.
In many ways he was the backbone of Steelheart’s rule. A mysterious figure, even when compared to the likes of Firefight and Nightwielder.
I had no good photos of Conflux. The few I’d paid dearly to get were blurry and unspecific. I couldn’t even know if he was real.
The van thumped as it moved through the dark streets of Newcago; it was stuffy inside. I sat in the passenger seat, with Megan driving. Cody and Abraham were in the back. Prof was running point in a different vehicle, and Tia was running support back at our base, watching the spy videos of the city streets. It was a frigid day and the heater in our van didn’t work-Abraham hadn’t gotten around to fixing it.
Prof’s words ran through my mind. We’ve considered hitting Conflux before, but discarded the idea because we thought it would be too dangerous. We still have the plans we made. It’s no less dangerous now, but we’re in deep. No reason not to move forward.
Was Conflux real? My gut said he was. Much as the clues pointed to Firefight being a fabrication, the clues surrounding Conflux added up to something being there. A powerful but fragile Epic.
Steelheart moves Conflux around, Prof had said, never letting him stay long in the same place. But there’s a pattern to how he’s moved. He often uses an armored limo with six guards and a two-motorcycle escort. If we watch for that, wait until he uses that convoy to move, we can hit him on the streets in transit.
The clues. Even with power plants Steelheart didn’t have enough electricity to run the city, and yet he somehow produced those fuel cells. The mechanized armor units didn’t pack power sources, and neither did many of the copters. The fact that they were powered directly by high-ranking members of Enforcement wasn’t much of a secret. Everyone knew it.
He was out there. A gifter who could make energy in a form that could power vehicles, fill fuel cells, even light a large chunk of the city. That level of power was awesome, but no more so than what Nightwielder or Steelheart held. The most powerful Epics set their own scale of strength.
The van bumped, and I gripped my rifle-held low, safety on, barrel pointed down and toward the door. Out of sight, but handy. Just in case.
Tia had spotted the right kind of limo convoy today, and we’d scrambled. Megan drove us toward a point where our road would intersect with Conflux’s limo. Her eyes were characteristically intense, though there was a particular edge to her today. Not fear. Just … worry, maybe?
“You don’t think we should be doing this, do you?” I asked.
“I think I made that clear,” Megan said, her voice even, eyes ahead. “Steelheart doesn’t need to fall.”
“I’m talking about Conflux specifically,” I said. “You’re nervous. You’re normally not nervous.”
“I just don’t think we know enough about him,” she said. “We shouldn’t be hitting an Epic we don’t even have photographs of.”
“But you are nervous.”
She drove, eyes forward and hands tight on the wheel.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I feel like a brick made of porridge.”
She looked at me, brow scrunching up. The van’s cab fell silent. Then Megan started to laugh.
“No, no,” I said. “It makes sense! Listen. A brick is supposed to be strong, right? But if one were secretly made of porridge, and all of the other bricks didn’t know, he’d sit around worrying that he’d be weak when the rest of them were strong. He’d get smooshed when he was placed in the wall, you see, maybe get some of his porridge mixed with that stuff they stick between bricks.”
Megan was laughing even harder now, so hard she was actually gasping for breath. I tried to keep explaining but found myself smiling. I don’t think I’d ever heard her laugh, really laugh. Not chuckle, not part her lips in wry mockery, but truly laugh. She was almost in tears by the time she got control of herself. I think we were fortunate she didn’t crash into a post or something.
“David,” she said between gasps, “I think that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard anyone say. The most outlandishly, audaciously ridiculous.”
“Um …”
“Sparks,” she said, exhaling. “I needed that.”
“You did?”
She nodded.
“Can we … pretend that’s why I said it, then?”
She looked at me, smiling, eyes sparkling. The tension was still there, but it had retreated somewhat. “Sure,” she said. “I mean, bad puns are something of an art, right? So why not bad metaphors?”
“Exactly.”
“And if they’re an art, you are a master painter.”
“Well, actually,” I said, “that won’t work, you see, because the metaphor makes too much sense. I’d have to be, like, the ace pilot or something.” I cocked my head. “Actually, that makes a little bit of sense too.” Sparks, doing it badly intentionally was hard too. I found that decidedly unfair.
“Y’all okay up there?” Cody said in our ears. The back of the van was separated from the cab by a metal partition, like a service van. There was a little window in it, but Cody preferred to use the mobiles to communicate.
“We’re fine,” Megan said. “Just having an abstract conversation about linguistic parallelism.”
“You wouldn’t be interested,” I said. “It doesn’t involve Scotsmen.”
“Well, actually,” Cody said, “the original tongue of my motherland …”
Megan and I looked at each other, then both pointedly reached to our mobiles and muted him.
“Let me know when he’s done, Abraham,” I said into mine.
Abraham sighed on the other end of the line. “Want to trade places? I’d sure like to be able to mute Cody myself right about now. It is regrettably difficult when he’s sitting beside you.”
I chuckled, then glanced at Megan. She was still grinning. Seeing her smile made me feel like I’d done something grand.
“Megan,” Tia said in our ears, “keep on straight as you are. The convoy is progressing along the road, without deviations. You should meet up in another fifteen minutes or so.”
“Affirmative.”
Outside the streetlights flickered, as did the lights inside an apartment complex we were passing. Another brownout.
So far there hadn’t been any looting. Enforcement walked the streets, and people were too frightened. Even as we drove past an intersection, I saw a large, mechanized armor unit lumbering down a side street. Twelve feet tall with arms that were little more than machine-gun barrels, the mechanized armor was accompanied by a five-man Enforcement Core. One soldier
bore a distinctive energy weapon, painted bright red in warning. A few blasts from that could level a building.
“I’ve always wanted to pilot one of those armor units,” I noted as we drove on.
“It’s not much fun,” Megan said.
“You’ve done it?” I asked, shocked.
“Yeah. They’re stuffy inside, and they respond very sluggishly.” She hesitated. “I’ll admit that firing both rotary guns with wild abandon can be rather fulfilling, in a primal sort of way.”
“We’ll convert you away from those handguns yet.”
“Not a chance,” she said, reaching over and patting her underarm holster. “What if I got stuck in close confines?”
“Then you hit ’em with the stock of the gun,” I said. “If they’re too far away for that, it’s always better to have a gun you can actually hit with.”
She gave me a flat stare as she drove. “Rifles take too much time. They’re not … spontaneous enough.”
“This from the woman who complains when people improvise.”
“I complain when you improvise,” she said. “That’s different from improvising myself. Besides, not all handguns are inaccurate. Have you ever fired an MT 318?”
“Nice gun, that,” I admitted. “If I had to carry a handgun, I’d consider an MT. Problem is, the thing is so weak, you might as well just be throwing the bullets at someone. Likely to hurt them about as much.”
“If you’re a good shot, it doesn’t matter how much stopping power a gun has.”
“If you’re a good shot,” I said solemnly, raising a hand to my breast, “you’re probably already using a rifle.”
She snorted. “And what handgun would you pick, given the choice?”
“Jennings .44.”
“A Spitfire?” she asked, incredulous. “Those things shoot about as accurately as tossing a handful of bullets into a fire.”
“Sure. But if I’m using a handgun, that means someone is in my face. I might not have a chance for a second shot, so I want to down them fast. At that point accuracy doesn’t matter, since they’re so close anyway.”
Megan just rolled her eyes and shook her head. “You’re hopeless. You’re buying into assumptions. You can be just as accurate with a handgun as you can with a rifle, and you can use it at more immediate ranges. In a way, because it’s harder, truly skilled people use the handgun. Any slontze can hit with a rifle.”
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