“Exactly,” I said.
Prof’s plan made sense, though, at least with the limited information he had. If the point was to draw Regalia, then hitting two of her Epics—instead of one—would be that much more likely to get her attention.
“If Prof is down in Chinatown,” I said, “then who’s watching Obliteration?”
“Nobody. Prof said it was unlikely he’d be charged enough to release his power today. And we have the camera, so Tia can watch him.”
I felt cold. Everything we’d done could have been part of Regalia’s plan, camera included. “How quickly do you think you can get there to check on Obliteration?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes, running. Why?”
“Let’s just say I have a really, really bad feeling about all of this.”
“Okaaaay …” She stood back, the spyril strapped into place on me. “You looked far more dashing with the wetsuit, you know. It gave you a kind of crazy-Navy-SEAL-special-ops-dude feel. Without it, you have more of a crazy-homeless-guy-who-strapped-a-toaster-to-his-back vibe.”
“Great. Maybe it will make people underestimate me.”
“Prof’s an Epic, isn’t he?” she asked softly.
I glanced at her, then nodded, fitting my hands into the gloves one at a time. “When did you figure it out?”
“I’m not sure. It just kind of makes sense, you know? The way you’ve all been acting around him, the secrets, the way Tia wouldn’t explain how you rescued those people in the building. I probably should have put it together earlier.”
“You’re smarter than I am. He had to put a forcefield in front of my face before I realized what he was.”
“So this isn’t about us getting revenge or putting down Epics or even punishing criminals,” Mizzy said, sounding exhausted. “It’s a power struggle. A turf war.”
“No,” I said firmly. “It’s about making Prof be the man I know he can be … the Epic I know he can be.”
“I don’t get it,” Mizzy said. “Why isn’t he those things already?”
“Because,” I said, pulling the second glove tight, “sometimes you have to help the heroes along.”
“All riiight,” she said.
“Here,” I said, handing her one of the walkie-talkies I’d stolen. “We can keep in contact with these.”
She shrugged, taking the hand radio. She fished a plastic baggie out of her pocket and put it in. “In case it falls in the water,” she noted, shaking it.
“Good idea,” I said, taking one of the baggies.
Mizzy hesitated, then handed over her gun as well. It was dark, but I thought she was blushing. “Here,” she said. “Since I’m obviously not cut out for using one of these.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Ammo?”
She only had one extra magazine. Well, it was better than nothing. I slipped the magazine into my pocket and the handgun into my waistband.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s go.”
45
I burst up out of the stairwell, spyril humming on my back, and emerged to a nauseating scene. Newton’s people had found the malcontents who had thrown the fruit, it appeared, for two men hung dead from tent poles near where I emerged. A glowing piece of fruit had been stuffed into each of their mouths; iridescent juice ran down the sides of their faces and dripped from their chins.
I saluted them as I ran past. They’d acted foolishly, but they’d fought back. That was better than most in this city. As I ran, merchants looked up from stalls where they packed away wares. Some people knelt praying to Dawnslight, and they called to me, inviting me to join. I ignored everyone, making my way straight to the edge of the rooftop, then leaped. A moment later I shot into the air on jets of water.
I leaned forward, the buildings blurring past as the spyril powered me down the street. I had to cut the jets to quarter power to drop below a swinging bridge, but I popped back up on the other side, smiling as I caught sight of a dozen or so children lined up, pointing toward me.
My hand radio crackled. “This thing working?” Mizzy asked.
“Yup,” I said back.
No reply.
Right. Stupid thing. I pointedly pushed down the broadcast button. “It’s working, Mizzy,” I said, raising the walkie-talkie to my lips.
“Great.” Her voice was staticky. Sparks! These things were only about one step up from two cans with a string between them.
“I might not always be able to reply,” I said back to her. “When I’m using the spyril, I need both hands to turn.”
“Just try to keep the radio from getting too wet,” Mizzy said. “Old technology doesn’t mix well with water.”
“Understood,” I said back. “I’ll treat it like a giant, angry, man-eating dragon.”
“And … what does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, would you throw water on a giant, angry, man-eating dragon?” Buildings full of neon light whooshed past me on either side. At this rate, I’d reach Prof’s location in minutes.
“No sign of the submarine or the others up here, David,” Mizzy said. I had to hold the thing right up to my ear to hear over the sound of the wind. “They should have sent someone to investigate why I went silent. Something must have stopped them.”
“Continue on to Obliteration,” I said. “We don’t have time to waste. Tell me what he’s doing.”
“Gotcha,” Mizzy said.
I just had to—
A spurt of water rose up beside me from below and formed into Regalia. She hung in the air next to me, moving at my same speed, a small line of water connecting her to the ocean’s surface.
“You have upset my plans,” she noted. “I’m not fond of people who do that. Calamity won’t respond to my questions of why you didn’t gain powers.”
I continued jetting along. Maybe she’d keep talking and give me a chance to get closer to Prof.
“What did you do?” she asked. “To reject the boon? I hadn’t thought it possible.”
I gave no reply.
“Very well then,” Regalia said with a sigh. “You realize I can’t let you reach Jonathan. Good night, David Charleston, Steelslayer.”
The water spraying from my jets below suddenly split, blowing out to the sides instead of striking the ocean surface. But I didn’t fall, at least not by much, as the water wasn’t holding me aloft—the force of it jetting out did that. Regalia, it appeared, didn’t quite understand the physics of the spyril. I wasn’t surprised. Epics rarely have to pay attention to physics.
I jetted to the side and ignored her interference, dodging around a building by using the handjet to maneuver. Regalia appeared beside me a moment later, and large columns of water rose from the street below to grab me.
I took a deep breath, tucked my radio in the baggie in my pocket, then threw myself to the side, dodging down another street. Dozens of tendrils from the deep below snaked upward, reaching for me. I had to turn my jets downward and shoot straight up in order to avoid being snared. Unfortunately, Regalia’s tendrils followed, twisting and writhing just beneath me. My jets started to lose power as I got too high—the streambeam could only reach so far.
I had no choice but to twist in the air and jet back downward. I crashed through the side of a tendril, a wash of crisp coldness enveloping me, but exited the other side in a spray. The tendril tried to wrap around me, but it was a hair too slow. They relied on Regalia’s direction to work, and seemed to only be as fast as she could give them orders.
Feeling a boost of confidence, I wove between the other tendrils of water as I fell, wind buffeting my face, before finally twisting and slowing my fall when I was near to the surface. I shot down another street, weaving from side to side as enormous waves of water formed beneath, seeking to crash down upon me. I managed to get out of the way of each one.
“You,” Regalia said, appearing beside me, “are as annoying a rat as Jonathan himself.”
I grinned, spraying downward with the handjet and bobbing myself upward over a
nother growing tendril. I twisted to the side and slashed between two others. I was now thoroughly soaked—hopefully that radio’s baggie would hold.
This was the most thrilling thing I’d ever done, jetting through this city of dark velvety blacks and vibrant colors, passing amazed locals, open-mouthed, on rocking boats. In Newcago there had been a rule to never let me drive, just because of a few unfortunate incidents with cars and … um … walls. With the spyril, though, I could move with freedom and power. I didn’t need a car. I was a car.
As I came to another batch of tendrils, I jetted to the side, leaning into the turn like a surfer, then shot down a side road. I almost smashed right into an enormous wall of water, as tall as the rooftops on either side, rising to tower over me. It immediately began to crash downward.
In a panic I screamed and jetted sideways through a window and into one of the buildings. I hit the floor in a roll, my jets cutting off. Water smashed into the wall outside, washing into the windows and across me. Various office paraphernalia surged upward, banging against tree trunks, but the water quickly rushed out the other direction.
Wet, frantic, I scrambled deeper into the office jungle. Tendrils of water broke in through the windows at my back, snaking after me. Sparks! I instinctively scrambled deeper into the structure, farther from the water outside—and the source of Regalia’s power. But that also put me far from the source of the spyril’s power. Without it, I was just a wet guy with a handgun facing down one of the most powerful Epics who had ever lived.