Calamity (Reckoners, #3)(82)

Well, this harmsway had worked, but she still hadn’t woken up. Abraham told me not to be concerned; he said it wasn’t uncommon for someone to spend a day or two in bed following something so traumatic. He was trying to comfort me. How could anyone know what was or wasn’t normal when it came to an Epic overextending their powers?

Mizzy’s head popped out of the storage room. “Hey, slontze. Knighthawk is ticked at you. Check your phone.”

I dug out my mobile, which had been muffled from being in the bottom of my bag. Forty-seven messages. Calamity! What had gone wrong? I scrambled to open the messenger. Maybe the cells hadn’t taken. Or the drone had been shot down by a wandering Epic. Or Knighthawk had decided to switch sides on us.

Instead, I was treated to the sight of forty-seven messages of Knighthawk saying things like Hey or Yo or Hey, you. Idiot.

I quickly messaged him. Is something wrong?

Your didgeridooing face, the message came back.

The cells, I sent. They’re broken?

Exactly how does one BREAK cells, kid?

I don’t know, I sent back. You’re the one sending emergency texts to me!

Emergency? Knighthawk sent. I’m just bored.

I blinked, holding my phone and rereading that text.

Bored? I sent. You’re literally spying on the entire world, Knighthawk. You can read anyone’s mail, listen to anyone’s phone calls.

First, it’s not the whole world, he wrote. Only large chunks of North and Central America. Second, do you have any idea how mind-numbingly DULL most people are?

I started a reply, but a flurry of messages came at me, interrupting what I was going to say.

Oh! Knighthawk wrote. Look at this pretty flower!

Hey. I want to know if you like me, but I can’t say that, so here’s an awkward flirtation instead.

Where are you?

I’m here.

Where?

Here.

There?

No, here.

Oh.

Look at my kid.

Look at my dog.

Look at me.

Look at me holding my kid and dog.

Hey, everyone. I took a huge koala this morning.

Barf. The world is ruled by deific beings who can do stuff like melt buildings into puddles of acid, and all people can think of to do with their phones is take pictures of their pets and try to figure out how to get laid.

Well…I wrote to test if his diatribe was done yet. The people who can afford your mobiles are the privileged rich. You shouldn’t be surprised they’re shallow.

Nah, he wrote back. There are more than a few cities like Newcago, where the ruling Epics are clever enough to realize that a population with mobiles is a population they can propagandize and control. I can tell you, the poor are just as bad. Except their pets are mangier.

Is there a point to this? I asked.

Yeah. Entertaining me. Say something stupid. I’ve got popcorn and everything.

I sighed, tucking away the mobile and returning to my work—going over the list of Epics who, according to rumors in the city today, had died as a result of Prof’s tantrum at Sharp Tower. There had been dozens of them at the party, and very few of them had flight powers or prime invincibilities. He’d killed off half of Ildithia’s upper class.

My mobile buzzed again. I groaned, but glanced at it.

Hey, Knighthawk said. My drones did a flyby on your city. You want the pictures or what?

Pictures? I wrote back.

Yeah. For the imager. You’ve got one, right?

You know about the imager?

Kid, I MADE that thing.

It’s Epic technology?

Of course it is, he said. What, you think projectors that magically render near-three-dimensional images on irregular surfaces, without causing shadows from the people inside, are NATURAL?

I honestly had no idea. But if he was offering a scan of the city, I’d take it.

It’s one of the few I managed to mass-produce, like the technology for your mobiles, Knighthawk added. Most tech like this, it degrades significantly if you make more than one or two motivators from the cells. Not imagers though. Sparks—mobiles don’t even NEED motivators, except the ones I keep here in the hub. Anyway, you want this imager file or not?

I do, thanks, I wrote. What’s the progress on the motivators from Prof’s cells?

I’ve got to grow the culture a little first, he said. Will take at least a day before we know if it all worked, and if I’ve made Jonathan into my motivator dingo or not.

Great, I said. Keep me up to date.

Sure. So long as you promise to record yourself the next time you say something stupid. Damn, I miss the internet. You could always find people doing stupid stuff on the internet.

I sighed, pocketing the mobile. It, of course, beeped at me again a short time later. I grabbed it, annoyed and ready to tell off Knighthawk, but it was a notification saying my mobile had received a large data package. The scan of the city.

I didn’t know much about technology, but I was able to tether the phone to the imager in the storage room, then transfer the file. When I turned on the machine, I found myself hovering above Ildithia. The grandeur of this was spoiled by the piles of supplies in the room, which also hovered in the sky, like I was some kind of magical space hobo who flew about with my possessions in tow.

I did a quick sweep through the city, using my hands to adjust the perspective, reacquainting myself with the controls. The imager faithfully reproduced Ildithia, and for a moment I let the illusion of it run away with me. I swooped past a skyscraper, the windows a blur on my right, then pulled up to soar down a street, passing saltstone trees. I wove between them in rapid succession, then shot through a park past our hideout.