He continued writing. I could have argued further, but I found my heart wasn’t in it. If this was what motivated him to fight the Epics, then so be it. We each had our reasons.
Instead I let my attention be drawn by a page of notes relating to a specific topic: Dawnslight, the mythical Epic who supposedly made the plants grow and the spraypaint shine. Exel’s page was filled with references to people discussing him, praying to him, cursing by his name.
I could see why people were so interested in Dawnslight. Babilar could not exist without him, whoever he was. But reports placed him in the city long before Regalia had arrived. Dared I hope it was true, that an Epic existed who was this benevolent? An Epic who didn’t kill, or didn’t even dominate, but who instead made food grow and light appear? Who was this person who created paradise in the buildings of old Manhattan?
“Exel,” I said, looking up from the paper, “you’ve lived here for a while.”
“Ever since Prof ordered us to embed,” the large man replied.
“Do you think Dawnslight is a real person?”
He tapped his pencil on his pad for a moment, then set it down and reached beside his seat for a pouch of orange soda. You could get it shipped out of Charlotte, like the cola, if you had connections. There was an Epic there who really loved soda and paid to have the machinery maintained.
“You’ve seen my notes,” Exel said, nodding to the sheet I was looking at. “That page is one of many. I’ve been keeping an ear out for mentions of Dawnslight since I arrived. He’s real. Too many people talk about him for him to not be.”
“A lot of people talk about God,” I said. “Or they used to.”
“Because he’s real too. You don’t believe, I assume?”
I wasn’t certain. I fished under my shirt, bringing out Abraham’s gift. The stylized S shape that was the symbol of the Faithful. What did I believe? For years my “religion” had been Steelheart’s death. I’d worshipped that goal as fervently as any old-time monk in a monkplace.
“Well, I’ve never been the missionary type,” Exel said, “and I think that God might be a topic for another day. But as for Dawnslight, I’m reasonably certain he’s real.”
“The people here worship him as a god.”
“Well, they may be a screwy bunch,” Exel said, raising his pouch. “But they’re a peaceful lot, right? So good for them.”
“And their Epic? Is Dawnslight peaceful?”
“Seems so.”
I was dancing around it. I needed to just say what I meant. I leaned forward. “Exel, do you think it’s possible for Epics to be good?”
“Of course they can be. We all have free will. It’s a divine right.”
I sat back, thoughtful.
“You don’t agree, I see.”
“Actually I do,” I said. I had to believe Epics could be good—for Megan’s sake. “I want to find a way to bring some Epics to our side, but Prof thinks I’m a fool.” I ran my hand through my hair. “Half the time, I think he’s right.”
“Well, Jonathan Phaedrus is a great man. A wise man. But I once saw him lose to a bluff in poker, so we have empirical evidence that he doesn’t know everything.”
I smiled.
“I think your goal is a worthy one, Steelslayer.” Exel sat up straighter and looked me in the eye. “I don’t think we can ever beat the Epics on our own. We’d need a lot more firepower. Perhaps all the world needs is for a few Epics to step up and openly oppose the others. Nothing so dramatic as the Faithful believe, no mystical coming of blessed, angelic Epics. Just one or two who are willing to say, ‘Hey, this isn’t right.’ If everyone including the Epics knew that there was another option, perhaps it would change everything.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
“Thanks for what? For blabbing my random opinions at you?”
“Pretty much. I needed someone to talk to. Tia was too busy, and Val seems to hate me.”
“Nah, you just remind her of Sam. The spyril was his baby, you know.”
Well, I guess that made a kind of sense then. Unfair though it was.
“I—”
“Wait a sec,” Exel said, holding up a hand. “Listen.”
I turned my attention to the radio, focusing on making out the words. The static had been constant as we were talking, but I hadn’t realized there were faint voices in the background.
“… yeah, I see him,” a voice said. “He’s just sitting there, on the rooftop in Turtle Bay.”
“Is he doing anything?” another voice said, the frequency crackling with static.
“Nah.” First voice. “His eyes are closed. His face is turned toward the sky.”
“Get out of there, Miles.” Second voice. Frightened. “He’s dangerous. Murdered a lot of people a couple weeks back.”
“Yeah.” First voice. “Why’s he just sitting there, though?”
Exel looked up and met my eyes. “Obliteration?” he asked.
I nodded, feeling sick.
“You guessed he’d be doing this,” Exel said. “Nice call.”
“I wish I hadn’t been right,” I said, throwing back my chair and standing. “I need to go find Prof.”