by Tim Lebbon
“Cheery bastard,” Sparky said. “Maybe the smell's coming from him.”
“Sparky!” Jenna said.
But Fleeter only laughed. “Come on. Almost there.”
They went through another tunnel and emerged into what seemed to be a natural cavern. Dead, dried roots hung from the ceiling, and a swathe of spiderwebs hazed the ceiling from view. Jack shivered. He'd never liked spiders, and he wondered what they ate down here.
“Oh, gross,” Jenna said, and Jack saw where she was pointing. Several rat corpses hung directly above them, spun in silk yet still clearly visible.
“Reaper?” Fleeter asked.
“Yes,” a deep voice said, and Jack recognised his father instantly. He had seen him kill with that voice; one word could shatter bones and boil blood. And try though he did, Jack could find nothing in it that reminded him of the man he had once loved. “Yes, thank you, Fleeter.”
“I did say sorry,” she said, voice rising slightly.
A sigh from somewhere in the cavern. Then silence.
“Shall I…” she asked.
“Yes,” Reaper said. “Send them in.”
She aimed her torch into the cavern's corner and looked at Jack, Sparky and Jenna. She nodded ahead. “Go on. Through.”
Jack went first. As he passed through the crack in the wall he thought about what he was going to say to his father, and what Reaper might say back. He was nervous, but also excited. He'd seen something of the father he had once loved left in Reaper, he was sure of it, and now was the time to—
But in the place beyond the cavern, shock froze Jack motionless.
Reaper was standing just beyond the opening that had been melted through concrete and brick sometime in the past, and beyond him was a room from the past. Jack had seen places like this in old war movies his mother used to enjoy, peopled by thin-moustached soldiers and pretty uniformed women. They'd all spoken very properly. The men had smoked and looked worried, and the women had taken calls on old-fashioned phones and pushed small flags around a large table.
This room must have once been one of those old war rooms. High-ceilinged, one long wall had a platform halfway up, and a man Jack recognised stood there, leaning casually on a rickety-looking handrail. His name was Puppeteer, and he had almost killed Jack's little sister.
Past Reaper, the huge table in the centre of the room was taken with a map of London. Sheets of paper were taped together to form one continuous map, and at its edges were areas of splashed red paint. The red formed a boundary, and Jack assumed this represented the Exclusion Zone, that collar of firebombed and flattened suburbs now separating London from the rest of the world.
“I thought I told you to run,” Reaper said.
“You did,” Jack said. “And we did, just before you murdered Miller.”
Reaper raised an eyebrow. It was a startlingly familiar expression, one that used to denote humour when his father was normal. But now it was something else. It spoke of superiority.
“Who said I murdered him?”
Jack let it go. It might have been a word game and he was too tired, and too afraid for his family, to indulge.
“What's this?” Jack asked. On the London map were perhaps two dozen small blue flags, reminiscent of the Choppers’ uniform colour. There were other flags, too—red, yellow, white. What they were meant to represent was more obscure.
A tall, extremely thin black woman with startlingly white hair stood beside the table. Now and then she would reach out and touch a flag, pause, look to the ceiling, and then move it slightly across the map. Sometimes she touched a flag and then seemed to have second thoughts, shifting her spindly hand to another flag before moving it. Her arms were incredibly long. She blinked slowly at Jack, barely acknowledging his and his friends’ presence.
“What does it look like?” Reaper said.
“A war room,” Sparky said.
Reaper barely glanced at Sparky and Jenna before focussing on Jack again. They stood there in silence for a moment, cool subterranean breath wafting through the gap in the wall behind them. The stone and concrete had been melted and reset, and Jack wondered by what. A Superior, perhaps. But he would not ask.
“We need to talk,” he said to Reaper, and the tall man's expression did not flicker.
“He followed me,” Fleeter said. “Some Choppers found them, so I flipped and took them out…most of them, at least. And Jack followed me.”
“He flipped too?” Reaper said. He could not hide his surprise, and in that unguarded moment Jack saw something of his father. Just a flash, but it was there.
“I told you,” Jack said. “Nomad touched me. And you told me she didn't exist.”
Reaper—his father—stared at him. Jack felt like a child examined by an adult, a mouse being scrutinised by a cat. But he did not flinch.
“I saw her once,” Reaper said. “But I don't believe in her.”
“Maybe you're scared that she's more powerful than you?”
Reaper was silent for a long time, never once taking his eyes from Jack. The stare was a challenge; Jack stood up to it. Then Reaper said, “Perhaps we do need to talk. Fleeter, feed his friends, and show them where they can rest.” He looked up at Sparky and Jenna, his expression stern. “You're tired.”
No backchat, Sparky, Jack thought. Please, not now when we might be getting somewhere.
But Jenna said, “Yeah,” and Fleeter moved off to their left. Sparky and Jenna followed, and Sparky threw a glance back at Jack that said, Gonna be okay?
Jack smiled, nodded. Yes. He'd be okay.
“Where shall we talk, Dad?”
From the moment Reaper led him away from the war room, Jack felt a confidence that belied everything that had happened. Following the man who had been his father, he plunged into that tumultuous, ever-expanding universe of abilities and closed on one without even thinking, feeling its heat, sensing its incredible gravity. He smiled as it filled his consciousness, and he was suddenly awash in a sea of beautiful memories. These times with his family warmed and calmed him, and made him feel that everything really was going to be all right.
But they were not for him.
That's the first time I've used it without real effort, he thought. Nomad's scent touched his nostrils, her taste flooded his mouth. It was something amazing.
This was certainly no James Bond–style secret base. The subterranean rooms must have been flooded in the past, and a layer of moss covered the walls up to waist height. The place smelled musty and unused. Whatever the Superiors were doing here—and Jack was going to get to that—they were not concerned about comfort.
Reaper shoved a door open with his knee and entered a small room, beckoning Jack to follow. Inside were several folding chairs and a table covered with bottles of water, spirits, and tinned food.
“Drink?” Reaper asked. He snatched up a whiskey bottle and spun the top off, tipping it to his mouth and taking several deep glugs. He watched Jack sidelong as he did so, perhaps expecting or hoping for some reaction.
Jack smiled and pushed a memory…
The four of them on holiday in Center Parcs. Emily is only a baby in a pushchair, but already she has a laugh that consumes everyone around her. Jack's mother is sitting on a bench feeding Emily an ice cream, and he and his father are paddling a double kayak on the lake. Jack is in front, and with each stroke he deliberately flicks water back at his dad. There is shouting and splashing, and laughter, and as they steer away from the shore Jack feels something pulling him back. He's enjoying this so much, but he wants the four of them to be close together, within touching distance. They all feel like that. It's one of those perfect moments.
Reaper blinked a few times, frowning. Then he slammed the bottle down on the table. “So?”
“Just water,” Jack said. Reaper lobbed him a bottle and he caught it one-handed.
“I'm not surprised you came back,” Reaper said. “I'm trouble. You seem to be drawn to it like a moth to a flame.”
&nbs
p; “Fleeter been reporting back to you?”
Reaper nodded.
“Worried about me?”
“No. You interest Miller, and he interests me.”
“He's not dead?”
Reaper smiled, and it was horrible. “Oh, I didn't kill him. He won't forget me in a hurry, though.”
“So this is a war room,” Jack said.
“Just somewhere to hide away,” Reaper said. He took another drink of whiskey, and when Jack blinked he lived another memory. But he did not want to push just yet. Reaper was canny, and he might suspect Jack of doing something.
“But the map, the flags. Chopper locations?”
Reaper regarded him for a while, looking him up and down as if he'd never seen him before. It made Jack uncomfortable; a father should know his son so well. “It's a guerrilla war,” he said. “Good to keep track of things.”
“So if you know where all the Choppers are, why not kill them all?” Jack asked. The idea of it was reprehensible, but he was trying to understand the man his father had become. Or the thing.
“Wendy's talent only goes so far,” he said.
“Wendy's the woman working the table out there,” Jack said. “She doesn't look like the rest of you. Fleeter. Puppeteer. That shadow guy was out in the tunnels, and I'll bet Scryer isn't that far away.”
Reaper gave nothing away.
“Wendy's not a Superior like you, is she? She doesn't think of herself as one anyway.”
“She does, actually,” Reaper said, leaning back against the table and smiling. “She quickly tired of wandering London, aimless and alone. Sometimes the Irregulars get together in pairs or small groups, but mostly they're just surviving. Not moving on. Evolving.”
“Is that what you're doing?” Jack waved one hand at their surroundings.
“We're making plans,” Reaper said.
“For what?”
“And why would you need to know that?” Reaper took another drink. This was not the man Jack had expected to find. His father had enjoyed a drink, yes, but Reaper had seemed to be someone different, projecting a disinterest in normal human things. He called himself Superior, yet here he was taking to the bottle.
“Because I need your help,” Jack said. “They have Emily and Mum at Camp H.”
“Or so Miller told you.”
“You think they're somewhere else?”
Reaper barked a loud, mocking laugh. “I don't give a damn where they are, boy! But you can trust Miller as far as you can throw him.”
That might be a very long way, Jack thought, because there was a universe inside he had yet to explore. But for now he was enveloped with one power, and he felt it haunting his memory like a name on the tip of his tongue. Soon he would push it to the fore again.
“Here's why I really came back,” Jack said. He sat down on one of the folding chairs and stared at his father, trying to see the man he loved. Even his physical features seemed to have changed—hardening, growing grimmer. “The Choppers have Mum and Emily prisoner. They're at Camp H. I have to rescue them, and for that I need your help.”
Reaper did not even respond. He snorted a soft laugh and took another drink.
“While we're there, we release everyone else they're holding. And they've got the girl. The Irregular who works for them, spotting any large groups moving around London.”
Reaper hid his surprise well at how much Jack knew. He snorted a laugh again, but Jack saw through the façade, and for a flicker his father was there before him. His eyes opened a little wider, and he scratched at one ear.
“You could stop her,” Jack said. “That'd give you London.”
“I have London,” Reaper said. His voice was quiet, but loaded with the awful potential of his murderous power. One growl and he'll crush me and this chair into a bloody metal mass, Jack thought.
“Surely that's not all you want,” he said.
Reaper looked into the whiskey bottle, acting casual but considering what Jack had said. Now, Jack thought, but just a little. He took a drink of water to hide his eyes and pushed a memory Reaper's way.
Jack is playing with Emily on Christmas morning. His train set lies half-finished, and he will return to it very soon. But Emily has a new wooden checkers set, and she's been bugging him for a game. So the two of them sit amongst the detritus of Christmas—rolled-up wrapping paper, scattered presents, plastic ties, the remains of popped crackers—and play a game of checkers. Emily is concentrating so hard that her tongue sticks from one corner of her mouth, and Jack has already made one mistake towards helping her win. Delicious smells come from the kitchen. Soft music plays. Jack glances up, and through the half-open kitchen door he sees his parents embracing, leaning against the work surface and spying on him and Emily. He pretends not to have seen them, but their warm, gentle smiles make him smile. Emily takes two of his pieces and whoops in triumph, and Jack knows it is going to be a day to remember.
He lowered the water bottle and wiped his lips. “Whatever it is you want, I want my Mum and Emily back. And we can help each other.”
Reaper was silent for a moment, still looking into his bottle. His confident smiled had dropped. For a long moment, not moving or talking, he was Jack's father once more.
“I don't need anyone's help,” Reaper said. “A normal child's least of all.”
“You know I'm not that,” Jack said. “Nomad touched me. Things are changing. I don't know what the future might bring, but I want my family safe.”
“And you're putting thoughts in my head,” Reaper said.
“Does it matter? It's your reaction to them that's important.”
“I have no reaction. I see strangers, that's all. Strangers living normal, boring lives, with their normal, boring children. Pointless lives.”
Jack laughed out loud. Reaper, startled, growled softly, and Jack felt a massive unseen hand shove him back into his chair and against the wall. It hurt, but he laughed some more, somehow managing to fill his compressed lungs. I could fight back, he thought, circling constellations of power. But he chose not to. Fighting back would give Reaper what he wanted—simplicity. This was far more complex than power and strength.
“You think your family's lives are pointless?” Jack asked, unbelieving. “What have you got? You live like a rat, you're hunted by people who want to chop you to pieces to examine your brains. You think you're special, but you're more normal than anyone! Just a sad man who thinks power is his friend.”
Reaper's growl increased, and the pressure shoving Jack against the wall intensified. One shout from the man and Jack would be a smear across the concrete. From living to dead in a blink. How everything he knew and was could be wiped out in an instant terrified him, but it also gave him more determination. His story was far from over, and he would not let the monster his father had become end it.
“And you're my father,” he wheezed. “I'm not putting any thoughts into your head now, Dad. But what are you thinking when you see me? When I mention Mum and Emily? What are you thinking?”
Reaper grimaced, baring his teeth and leaning in over Jack as he prepared to unleash his killing shout. On the outside, he was farther away from his father than Jack had ever seen. But inside, something was changing.
Reaper eased back. He was breathing heavily, and he turned back to the bottle-strewn table, snatching up that whiskey bottle and drinking again.
Bloody hell, Jack thought, trying to halt his shaking. It was excitement as well as fear, and so he let it come.
“They're probably dead already,” Reaper said.
“I can't just assume that.”
“We don't know where Camp H is.”
“I'm sure you have an idea,” Jack said. But Reaper shook his head.
“I've been trying to find out. But it's protected. Choppers we capture can't tell us. Whatever we do to them, they won't divulge. I've asked them nicely. Beaten them. Burnt them. Sliced them up. But no one's that well trained. Either they've never known where Miller's base is, or
they've had something done to them to make them forget.”
“And none of your Superiors can find it.” He tried not to inject a note of satisfaction into the statement, but it was difficult. Reaper positioned himself as a leader of superhumans, way above and beyond the sad remnants of humanity left in London. But here he was getting steadily drunk and admitting that there were simple acts beyond their means.
“We could if we really wanted to,” Reaper said. It sounded like schoolboy bluster, and it was Jack's turn to snort.
“There really aren't many of you, are there? A few of you living underground, planning grand schemes, killing a few soldiers here and there to make yourself feel important. Special.”
“Watch your tone, child.”
“I'm no child!” Jack whispered, and without even thinking he imbued those words with a hint of the power Reaper himself possessed. They became heavier, harder, seeming to travel farther, and by the time they were uttered they had picked up a deadly momentum. Reaper took a step back and dropped his bottle, and as it smashed at his feet, a dribble of blood ran from his nose.
Jack tried not to show his surprise at what he'd done. Now more than ever was the time to display complete, conscious control. Because this is the moment everything hinges on, he thought. Reaper can choose to fight back, and we'll destroy each other in this room. Or Dad will make himself known.
But Reaper did neither. He smiled without threat or affection, and dabbed at the blood dribbling from his nose. Unbidden, a slew of memories came to Jack—this man as his father, doing fatherly things and being a solid core around which his life used to proceed. For the past two years that physical core had been absent, but Jack had been able to continue looking after his younger sister precisely because he kept hope alive that he would find his father and mother again. He had found both…yet they were both still lost to him.
“I've killed a hundred people for doing far less than that,” Reaper said.
“A fine lesson for a father to teach his son,” Jack said.
Reaper looked at his blood on his fingers, then up at Jack again. “So I assume you have a plan?”
