Calamity (The Reckoners 3)

He thought about that for a moment, then sighed. “Cell cultures.”

“Cell…what?”

“Cell cultures,” he said. “You know, when you take a sample of cells and keep them growing in a lab? That’s the answer. Grab an Epic’s cells, stick them in a test tube with some nutrients, and run power through them. Boom. You can emulate that Epic’s powers.”

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“Nope.”

“It can’t be that easy.”

“It’s not easy at all,” Knighthawk said. “The voltage of the electricity determines which power you get out. You have to be ready to channel it properly, or you could blow yourself—hell, the entire state—to the moon. Most of our experimentation, all of this equipment, is based on harnessing the abilities that come off the cells.”

“Huh,” I said. “So you’re saying that Calamity can’t distinguish between an actual person and a pile of cells?” That was a strange mistake for an intelligent being to make.

“Eh,” Knighthawk said. “More like they just don’t care. If Calamity is an Epic, I mean. Besides, maybe there’s some kind of interaction with motivators we don’t understand. Truth is, those things can be touchy, even in the best of cases. Once in a while, a power simply won’t work for someone. Everyone else can use it fine, but one person can’t operate the device.

“It happens more often to Epics. Jonathan proved that Epics could use motivators, but occasionally we’d run into one that he couldn’t operate. Same goes for two different motivators being used by the same person. Sometimes they interfere and one craps out.”

I sat back on the stool, thoughtful. “Cell cultures. Huh. Makes sense, I suppose, but it seems…so simple.”

“The best secrets usually are,” he said. “But it’s simple only in retrospect. Do you know how long it took scientists in pre-Calamity days to figure out how to make cultures of normal human cells? It was a strikingly difficult process. Well, same with motivators. We slaved to create the first ones. What you call a motivator is really a little incubator. The motivator feeds the cells, regulates temperature, expels waste. A good motivator will last decades, if built right.”

“Regalia knew your secret,” I said. “She took Obliteration and used his cells to create a bomb.”

Knighthawk was silent. When I looked at him, his mannequin had settled against the wall, hands behind its back, head down as if uncertain.

“What?” I asked.

“Making motivators from Epics who are still alive is dangerous.”

“For the Epic?”

“Sparks, no, for you. They can feel it when their powers are used by someone else. It’s terribly painful, and they get a sense for where it’s happening. Naturally, they seek out the source of the pain and destroy it.”

“That’s where the twins come in,” I said. “You said…”

“One almost always kills the other,” he said. “One would be in pain whenever the other used their powers. It’s why I don’t make motivators out of living Epics. It’s a bad, bad idea.”

“Yeah, well, from what I know of Obliteration, he probably enjoyed the pain. He’s like a cat.”

“A…cat?”

“Yeah. A freaky, messed-up, scripture-quoting cat who loves to be hurt.” I cocked my head. “What? You think he’s more like a ferret? I could see that. But Regalia. She performed surgery on Obliteration. Wouldn’t she just need a blood sample?”

Knighthawk’s mannequin waved dismissively. “Old trick. Used it myself before I decided to stop making motivators from living Epics; helps keep them from realizing how simple it all is. Either way, you have the secret. Maybe it will help; I don’t know. But can you leave me to my grief now?”

I climbed to my feet, suddenly very tired. Lingering effects of my healing earlier, perhaps. “Do you know Prof’s weakness?”

Knighthawk shook his head. “No idea.”

“Are you lying?”

Knighthawk snorted. “No, I’m not. He never let me know what it was, and every guess I had turned out to be wrong. Ask Tia. He might have told her.”

“I think Tia’s dead.”

“Damn.” Knighthawk grew quiet, and his gaze seemed distant. I’d hoped that the secret of the motivators would shed light on Prof and what he did by gifting his powers to others. I still didn’t have an answer to why some Epics could avoid the darkness that way.

Unless they actually can’t, I thought. I needed to talk to Edmund, the one called Conflux.

I walked toward the door, passing the dead Epic in the coffin. I quietly hoped Knighthawk never found a way to bring this woman back; I doubted he’d get what he wanted from the reunion.

“Steelslayer,” he called after me.

I turned, and the mannequin approached, carrying a small device on one palm. It looked like a cylindrical battery, of the old bulky style I’d seen in toy commercials during recordings shown after dinner in the Factory. We kids had loved the commercials. They’d somehow seemed more real—more a picture of life in the world before Epics—than the action shows they’d interrupted.

Oh, to live in a world where children ate colorful breakfast cereals and begged their parents for toys.

“What is it?” I asked, taking the device from the mannequin.

“Tissue sample incubator,” he said. “It will keep cells fresh long enough for you to send them to me. When you fail, and have to kill Jonathan, get me a sample of his DNA.”

“So you can make some kind of device, enslaving his cells to enrich you?”

“Jonathan Phaedrus has the most powerful healing abilities of any Epic I’ve ever known,” Knighthawk said as the mannequin made a rude gesture at me. “He’ll create a harmsway far more capable than any I’ve ever tested. It might…it might work on Amala. I haven’t tried anything on her for well over a year. But maybe…I don’t know. Either way, you should let Jonathan keep healing people after he dies. You know it’s what he’d want.”

I made no promises, but I did take the incubator.

You never knew what might come in handy.

I was somewhere cold and dark.

My world was only sounds. Each one horrible, an assault, a scream. I curled up before the barrage, but then the lights attacked. Garish, terrible. Violent. I hated them, though that did nothing. I wept, but this too terrified me; my own body betraying me with an assault from within, to pair with all of those from without.

It built to a climax of booms, and flashes, and burning, and crashes, and screeches, and terrible explosions until—

I woke.

I had curled up awkwardly in the back seat of one of the jeeps. We were traveling on a broken highway through the night. The vehicle thumped and jostled as we sped toward Atlanta.

I blinked drowsy eyes, trying to make sense of the dream. A nightmare? My heart was certainly racing. I could remember being absolutely terrified of the noise and confusion, but it hadn’t been like any other nightmare I’d experienced.

No water. I vaguely remembered a few nightmares from my time in Babilar, and they’d always involved drowning. I sat back, contemplating. After what we’d discovered about Epics, I couldn’t ignore any bad dreams. But where did that leave me? People were still going to have nightmares. How could you tell if one was important, or no more than a random dream?

Well, I wasn’t an Epic. So it probably didn’t matter.

I stretched and yawned. “How are we doing?”

“Good progress tonight,” Abraham said from the front passenger seat. “Less rubble on the roads out here.”

We traveled at night when possible, spread across two jeeps, with lights off, navigating by night-vision goggles. We changed around who was riding where every few hours at Abraham’s suggestion; he said that it helped keep conversation fresh and drivers alert. Everyone took a turn driving except me. Which was completely unfair. Just because of that one time. Well, and that other time. And the one with the mailbox, but seriously, who remembered that anymore?

/> Right now, Mizzy and Abraham were in my jeep, while Megan and Cody drove in the other. I pulled out my rifle, which I’d stashed at my feet. A touch collapsed the stock, and I could use the night vision and thermal scope to get a look outside.

Abraham was right. This highway, though broken up in places, was in generally better shape than the one we’d taken from Newcago to Babilar, and way better than the one we’d taken to Knighthawk’s place. We passed derelict cars on the side of the road, and none of the towns in the area were lit—either because they were abandoned, or any inhabitants didn’t want to draw the attention of Epics. I figured the former was more likely. People would gravitate toward one of the larger cities, where they would have to be ruled by Epics but also have some access to the necessities of life.

Terrible as Newcago had been, it had still provided a relatively stable life. Packaged foods out of one of the operating factories, clean water, electricity. It wasn’t colored fruit cereal, but it beat living in a wasteland. Plus, when it came to Epics, in the city you were like a school of fish—too insignificant to be singled out, you simply hoped not to get killed in a random act of anger.

I eventually caught sight of an old green roadway sign proclaiming that we weren’t far from Kansas City. We’d go around that, as Epics reigned there, most notably Hardcore. Atlanta’s current position wasn’t far beyond it, fortunately. Riding in the backs of these cars was none too comfortable. Sparks, this country had been big before everything fell apart.

I got out my mobile. It sure felt good to be using one of these again, though I’d needed to dial the screen brightness way down so it didn’t illuminate our car. I typed in a message to Megan.

Kiss.

A second later the mobile blinked, and I checked the response.

Gag.

I frowned until I noticed the text wasn’t from Megan, but from a number I didn’t know.

Knighthawk? I texted back, guessing.

Well, technically it’s Manny, my mannequin, came the reply. But yes—and also, yes, I’m monitoring your communications. Deal with it.

You realize everyone claims your mobiles are completely secure, I wrote.

Then everyone is an idiot, he replied. Of course I can read what you send.

And if Prof kills me and takes this phone? I asked. Aren’t you worried he’ll notice you texted me?