“Scranton,” said Fet, passing a sign for Interstate 81 North. “I didn’t think it would be this easy.”
“Long way to go,” said Eph, looking out the window at the darkness rushing past. “How’s our fuel?”
“Okay for now. I don’t want to stop anywhere near a city.”
“No way,” agreed Eph.
“I’d like to get over the border into New York State first.”
Eph looked out at Scranton as they navigated the increasingly cluttered overpasses to the north. He noticed a section of one block burning in the distance and wondered if there were other rebels such as themselves, smaller-scale fighters in smaller urban centers. Occasional electric lights shining in windows drew his eye and made him wonder at all the desperation going on there in Scranton and in similar small cities all across the country and the world. He wondered also where the nearest blood camp was.
“There must be a list of Stoneheart Corporation meatpacking plants somewhere, a master list that would clue us in to the blood camp locations,” said Eph. “Once we get this done, there’s going to be a lot of liberating to do.”
“And how,” said Fet. “If it’s like it was with the other Ancients, then the Master’s clan will die out with him. Vanish. People in the camps won’t know what hit them.”
“Trick will be getting the word out. Without mass media, I mean. We’ll have all these little duchies and fiefdoms popping up across the country. People trying to take control. I’m not so sure democracy will automatically bloom.”
“No,” said Fet. “It’s going to be tricky. Lots of work. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Eph looked at Mr. Quinlan sitting next to him. He noticed the leather sack between his boots. “Do you die with all the others when the Master is destroyed?”
When the Master is obliterated, his bloodline is no more.
Eph nodded, feeling the heat of the half-breed’s supercharged metabolism. “Nothing in your nature prevents you from working toward something that will ultimately result in your own demise?”
You’ve never worked toward something that went against your own self-interest?
Eph said, “No, I don’t think I have. Nothing that could kill me, that’s for sure.”
There is a greater good at stake. And vengeance is a uniquely compelling motivation. Revenge trumps self-preservation.
“What is it you’re carrying in that leather pack?”
I am sure you already know.
Eph remembered the Ancients’ chamber beneath Central Park, their ashes set inside receptacles of white oak. “Why are you bringing along the Ancients’ remains?”
You did not see that in the Lumen?
Eph had not. “Are you … intending on bringing them back? Resurrecting them somehow?”
No. What is done cannot be undone.
“Why, then?”
Because it is foretold.
Eph puzzled over that one. “Is something going to happen?”
Are you not concerned about the ramifications of success? You said yourself that you are uncertain democracy will spontaneously bloom. Humans have never truly had self-rule. It has been that way for centuries. Do you think you will be able to manage on your own?
Eph had no answer for him. He knew that the Born was right. The Ancients had been pulling strings since near the beginning of human history. What would the world look like without their intervention?
Eph watched out his window as the distant blaze, which was substantial, faded from view. How to put it all back together again? Recovery seemed like an impossibly daunting task. The world was already irretrievably broken. For a moment he even wondered if it was worth it.
Of course, that was just fatigue talking. But what had once seemed like the end of their troubles—destroying the Master and retaking stewardship of the planet—would in reality be the beginning of a brand-new struggle.
Zachary and the Master