Firefight (The Reckoners 2)

Heart thumping crazily, I closed my eyes and leaned in. I immediately felt something cold against my temple.

I opened my eyes to find Megan had leaned in, her lips almost to mine, but then had raised her gun and pressed it against the side of my head. “You’re doing it again,” she said, almost a growl. “Distorting the truth, making people go along with your craziness. This thing between us isn’t going to work.”

“We’ll make it work.”

“Maybe I don’t want it to. Maybe I want to be hard. Maybe I don’t want to like people. Maybe I’ve never wanted to like people, even before Calamity.”

I held her eyes, ignoring the gun to my head. I smiled.

“Bah,” she said, pulling the gun away. She stalked off down the corridor, brushing the fronds of a fern. “Don’t follow. I need to think.”

I stayed put, though I did watch her until she was gone. I fingered the batterylike item she’d given me, feeling a lingering pleasure—for as she’d left, I’d glanced at her gun.

This time, when she’d pointed it at me, she’d flicked the safety on. If that wasn’t true love, I don’t know what was.

23

EXEL strapped the spyril onto me. It was sleeker than I’d expected it to be; the only bulky parts were two large, canisterlike tubes that attached to my calves. A nozzle extended from the back of my right hand, the opening as large as a common hose; it was secured into a black glove with an attached wrist brace. The setup inhibited my wrist motion a little.

My left hand had a different kind of glove on it, with a few odd devices on the back about the shape of two rolls of coins. I prodded at these.

“I’d avoid playing with those if I were you,” Exel said affably. “Unless you want to rush your funeral along. I happen to know of a wonderful place in Babilar that sells lilies year-round.”

“You’re a strange man,” I said, though I lowered my hands to my sides per his warning.

“Mizzy?” Exel asked.

“Looks good,” she said, walking around and inspecting me. She knelt down and tugged on the line running from my foot to the back portion and nodded. She seemed to know a lot about things like this, particularly Epic-derived technology. When I’d come back with the motivator that Megan had given me—explaining that I’d followed Newton and that she’d dropped it—Mizzy had been the one to run it through tests and determine that everything was all right.

The three of us were on a rooftop in northern Babilar, away from populated areas in a section where only the rare building peeked from the surface of the water. No bridges led between them. Aside from that it was daytime, when most people would be sleeping.

I wore a wetsuit with the spyril, and I pointedly ignored how nervous that made me. Before agreeing to equip me with the device, Mizzy had insisted on teaching me some basic swimming strokes. Almost a week had passed since my meeting with Megan. I was getting pretty good at swimming—or, well, pretty good at not panicking when I got in the water. That was the majority of the battle, I supposed.

I still hadn’t figured out a design for foot spikes to stop potential shark attacks. Hopefully I wouldn’t need them.

Prof surveyed from the other side of the rooftop. He wore his black lab coat, goggles stuffed into the pocket. He didn’t believe my lie about having found the spyril’s motivator in the room after spying on Obliteration and Newton. I’d been tempted to tell him about Megan. I’d find a time soon enough. When Mizzy, Val, or Exel weren’t around. I didn’t think they’d react well to hearing that I’d had a pleasant conversation with the Epic who had supposedly killed their friend.

She didn’t do it, I thought to myself for the thousandth time as Mizzy pulled my arm strap tight. Even if she did have the spyril’s motivator.

“All right,” Mizzy said, finally. “Done!”

“Congratulations,” Exel said. “You’re now wearing the most dangerous piece of equipment we own.”

“Where are the rest of the tubes?” I asked, frowning. The canisters and gloves were each attached with some small wires—which were strapped securely to my arms and legs—to a circular device on my back, where Mizzy had installed the motivator.

“No tubes needed,” Mizzy said.

“None? No pumps, hoses …”

“Nope.”

“I’m pretty sure that doesn’t make any sense.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re wearing a freaky, Epic-derived weapon,” Mizzy said. “The tensors vaporize metal. This is a stroll in the park compared to that. Granted, our local park is completely submerged.…”

I raised my right hand, making a fist. The wetsuit covering my arm scrunched as I moved. Her explanation bothered me. Shouldn’t we know how things like this actually worked? Of course, I didn’t understand how computers or mobiles worked either, and that didn’t bother me. Those didn’t have mysterious motivators, though, and weren’t built after studying the cells of dead Epics.

And they also didn’t, so far as I knew, defy the laws of physics.

Those were probably questions for another day. For now, I needed to focus on the task at hand: learning to use the spyril. “So how does it work?”

“This,” Mizzy said, taking my left hand and flipping a switch, “is the streambeam. You point it at water and make a fist.”

“Streambeam?” I asked dryly.

“I named it,” Mizzy said happily.

I inspected the glove. One of the coin-roll devices on the back kind of looked like a laser pointer. I stepped to the edge of the roof and pointed my left hand at the water just below, then made a fist.

A bright red laser shot from my left hand. Even in full daylight, even with no smoke or anything dusting the air, I could see the beam easily. The device on my back started to hum.

“The streambeam draws out water,” Exel said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Or … well, teleports the water to you, or something like that.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Now, you have to be careful,” Mizzy said, “as your other hand will control the flow. You need to—”

I made a fist with my right hand. Jets of water erupted from my feet, flipping me into the air end over end. I shouted, flailing my arms. The streambeam twisted toward the sky, then turned off as I was no longer making a fist. The jets immediately cut out.

The world spun around me, drops of water spraying everywhere, then the force of the ocean hit me as I crashed into it. It was a huge shock, even with Prof’s forcefield to protect me. Brackish water sprayed into my mouth and up my nose. For a brief, terrified moment my mind was convinced I was drowning to death.

I thrashed, remembering the time before when I’d been towed down by the weight on my ankle. My panic was accompanied by a deeper, more ancient terror—a primal fear of drowning mixed with a fear of what could be out there, in those depths, watching me.

I struggled to the surface, sputtering, and swam awkwardly to the rooftop. I grabbed hold of a partially submerged windowsill and wiped my face, trying to catch my breath, stilling my nerves. Even with the wetsuit, I felt cold.

A laugh bellowed out from up above. Exel. He reached down, and I took hold, letting him help me from the water. I sat on the side of the roof, pulling my legs up. No reason to give the sharks—which I was sure were down there—anything to chew on.

“Well, it works!” Exel said.

“Let me check the flow rates,” Mizzy said, kneeling beside me. Today with her jeans she wore a shirt that had frills cut along the hem. Behind the two of them Prof stood with crossed arms, his expression dark.

“Sir?” I called to him.

“Carry on with the practice,” he said, turning away. “I have things to take care of. Exel and Mizzy, you can handle this?”

“Sure can,” Exel said. “I coached Sam his first few times. Never did try it myself though.”

Made sense. I figured it would take some serious jets to lift Exel.

Prof stepped onto our boat tied up alongsid

e the rooftop, then took out a paddle. “Contact Val via mobile when you want to be picked up,” he said. Then he rowed away toward where we’d hidden the submarine.

“What’s up with him lately?” Exel asked.

“Up?” Mizzy asked from behind me as she fiddled with the device on my back. “He’s always like that, so far as I can tell. Brooding. Dark. Mysterious.” I sensed a blush to her voice, and she ducked down a little farther.

“True,” Exel said. “But lately the mystery comes with extra brood.” He shook his head and settled down beside me. “David, when manipulating the spyril you have to keep the streambeam pointed at water. The moment it isn’t, you’ll lose access to your propellant, and that will send you crashing down.”

“Well,” I said, “at least the landing will be soft, right?” I nodded toward the water.

“You’ve never belly flopped, have you?” Exel asked.

“Belly what?”