Calamity (The Reckoners 3)

“I could do with a bite,” she noted.

“Doesn’t all this feel a little morbid to you?” I asked softly. “We’re talking about machines made from the corpses of your people, Megan.”

“It’s not like I’m a different species. I’m still human.”

“You have different DNA though.”

“And I’m still human. Don’t try to understand it. It will drive you crazy.”

It was a common sentiment; trying to explain Epics with science was maddening at best. When America had passed the Capitulation Act, which declared Epics exempt from the legal system, one senator had explained that we shouldn’t expect human laws to be able to bind them when they didn’t even obey the laws of physics.

But, call me a fool, I still wanted to understand. I needed it to make sense.

I looked at Megan. “I don’t care what you are, as long as you’re you, Megan. But I don’t like the way we use corpses without understanding what we’re doing to them, or how it all works.”

“Then we’ll pry it out of him,” she whispered, drawing close. “You’re right, motivators might be important. What if the way they work is related to the weaknesses, or the fears?”

I nodded.

More sounds came from the kitchen. Popcorn? I looked in, surprised to see Knighthawk relaxing in his easy chair while his mannequin stood next to the microwave popping popcorn.

“Popcorn?” I called to him. “For breakfast?”

“The apocalypse hit us over a decade ago, kid,” he called back. “We live in a frontier, a wasteland.”

“And that has to do with this how?”

“Means social mores are dead and buried,” he said. “Good riddance. I’ll eat whatever I sparking want for breakfast.”

I went to go in, but Megan caught me by the shoulder, leaning closer. She smelled like smoke—like detonated ordnance, gunpowder from spent bullet casings, and burning wood from a forest set aflame. It was a wonderful, heady scent, better than any perfume.

“What was it you were going to say earlier?” she asked. “When you were talking about yourself and Knighthawk cut you off, wouldn’t let you finish?”

“It was nothing. Just me being stupid.”

Megan held on, meeting my eyes, waiting.

I sighed. “You were talking about how obsessed I am. And that’s not it. I’m like…well, I’m like a room-sized, steam-powered, robotic toenail-clipping machine.”

She cocked an eyebrow.

“I can basically do only one thing,” I explained, “but damn it, I’m going to do that one thing really, really well.”

Megan smiled. A beautiful sight. She kissed me then, for some reason. “I love you, David Charleston.”

I grinned. “You sure you can love a giant robotic toenail clipper?”

“You’re you, whatever you are,” she said. “And that’s what matters.” She paused. “But please don’t grow to room-sized. That would be awkward.”

She let go, and we entered the kitchen to discuss the fate of the world over popcorn.

WE settled down at the large table. It had a fancy glass top that revealed black slate underneath. There was a majestic sense to it, which seemed completely at odds with the peeling linoleum and faded paint of the kitchen. Knighthawk’s mannequin sat primly on a stool next to the man’s large chair, then began to feed him pieces of popcorn one at a time.

I had no more than fuzzy knowledge of the Wooden Soul, the Epic from whom he’d stolen powers to create such a servant. Supposedly she’d been able to control marionettes with her mind. Which meant this thing in the suit wasn’t autonomous; it was more like an extra set of limbs for Knighthawk to use. Likely he wore some kind of device with a motivator that gave him the ability to control the mannequin.

Voices outside the room announced new arrivals. A little drone scuttled in on the floor—Knighthawk had sent it to lead Abraham, and perhaps to keep him from poking into places he didn’t belong. Soon afterward, the tall Canadian man entered and nodded to us.

The other two members of my team followed him. Cody appeared first, a lanky man in his late thirties. He wore a camouflage hunting jacket and cap—though not specifically for this mission. He basically always wore camo. He hadn’t shaved in days, which he’d explained was a “true Highlander tradition used to prepare for battle.”

“Is that popcorn?” he asked in his strong Southern drawl. He walked over and snatched a handful from the bowl right out of the mannequin’s hand. “Brilliant! Boy, Abraham, you weren’t kidding ’bout the creepy wooden robot thing.”

Mizzy bounced in behind him. Dark-skinned and slight of build, she wore her wild curly hair pulled back so that it exploded in an enormous puff, kind of like an Afro mushroom cloud. She took a place at the table as far from Megan as possible, and shot me an encouraging smile.

I tried not to think of the missing team members. Val and Exel, dead at Prof’s hand. Tia, lost somewhere, probably dead as well. Though we were usually silent about such things, Abraham had confided in me that he’d known of two other Reckoner cells. He’d tried to contact them while fleeing Newcago, but he’d had no response. It seemed Prof had gotten to them first.

Cody crunched down his handful of popcorn. “How does a fellow score some more of this? Don’t know if y’all realize, but we’ve had an exhausting day.”

“Yes,” Knighthawk said, “an exhausting morning spent attacking my home and trying to rob me.”

“Now, now,” Cody said. “Don’t be sore. Why, in parts of the old country, it’s considered polite to introduce yourself with a fist to the face. Yes indeed, a man won’t think you’re serious unless you come in swinging.”

“Dare I ask…,” Knighthawk said. “Of what old country do you speak?”

“He thinks he’s Scottish,” Abraham said.

“I am Scottish, ya big slab of doubt and monotony,” Cody said, climbing from his chair—apparently determined

to fix his own popcorn, since nobody had offered to do it for him.

“Name one city in Scotland,” Abraham said, “other than Edinburgh.”

“Ah yes, the Burgh of Edin,” Cody said. “Where they buried old Adam and Eve, who were—naturally—Scots.”

“Naturally,” Abraham said. “A city name, please?”

“That’s easy. I can name a ton. London. Paris. Dublin.”

“Those—”

“—are completely Scottish,” Cody said. “We founded them, you see, and then those other folks up and stole them from us. Y’all need to learn your history. Want some popcorn?”

“No. Thank you,” Abraham said, giving me a bemused smile.

I leaned toward Knighthawk. “You promised us technology.”

“Promised is a strong word, kid.”

“I want that healing device,” Abraham said.

“The harmsway? Not a chance. I don’t have a backup.”

“You call it that too?” Megan asked, frowning.

“One of Jonathan’s old jokes,” Knighthawk said, his mannequin shrugging. “It just stuck. Anyway, mine isn’t nearly as efficient as Jonathan’s own healing powers. It’s all I got though, and you aren’t taking it. But I have two other bits of fun I can lend you. One—”

“Wait,” Mizzy said. “You’ve got a healing machine, and you still walk around with Smiles McCreepy there? Why not, you know, fix your legs?”

Knighthawk gave her a flat stare, and his mannequin shook its head. As if asking about his disability broke some kind of taboo.

“How much do you know about Epic healing, young lady?” he asked.

“Weeellll,” Mizzy said, “the Epics we kill tend to stay pretty dead. So I don’t get to see healing often.”

“Epic healing,” Knighthawk said, “doesn’t change your DNA or your immune system. It merely fixes damage to cells. My current state is not the result of an accident; if it were no more than a severed spinal cord, I’d be fine. The problem runs far deeper, and while I’ve found that healing returns some sensation in my limbs, they soon degrade again. So I use Manny instead.”