He hated the thought, but could not shake it. Fleeter had killed those Choppers to protect him. And these scenes now had been initiated by him. He looked at the Choppers huddled in the smashed storefront and tried to convey a sense of calm, but those who looked at him saw nothing of the sort. Fires still burned amongst the crashed motorbikes, and death hung heavy across the street.
“Scryer,” Reaper said. “She's all yours.” Puppeteer was standing close by, one hand raised slightly, and a female Chopper hung suspended with her feet a metre above the road surface. Her helmet had been ripped off, her blue uniform torn by the impact from when her motorbike had crashed into a pile of café tables and chairs, and an ugly gravel burn covered her left cheek and jawline. Her fear was obvious, but so were her efforts to hide it. Jack thought she couldn't have been much older than him.
Scryer stepped forward, glancing at Jack and smirking. But he could also sense her uncertainty. They had surely tried this before, and no Chopper had yet revealed the location of Camp H.
“What's your name?” Scryer asked.
“Kerri.”
“Where do you come from, Kerri?”
“Ottery, in Devon.”
“How many Irregulars have you killed since Doomsday?”
The woman frowned, lips pressed tight as she tried to fight the urges to speak and tell the truth. She released her breath with a heavy sigh, and then said, “Two. A man and a…a girl…” She looked away from Scryer, across to Breezer and the other three Irregulars waiting by the café. “I didn't mean…” she said.
“Where is Camp H?” Scryer asked. Her tone had not changed at all—calm, mildly inquisitive, almost friendly—but the atmosphere thickened as soon as she asked the question. Behind him, Jack heard Jenna whisper something to Sparky, so quiet that he could not make it out. Reaper shifted position slightly, taking a half step forward.
“I don't know,” Kerri said.
“You do know,” Scryer said. “And all you have to do is say.”
“Puppeteer,” Reaper said.
Kerri twitched in the air and screamed as both arms were tugged above her head. Jack heard a sickening stretching sound, and the rip of what he hoped was clothing. He grabbed his father's arm and squeezed.
Reaper looked down at his hand as he might a smear of bird shit across his coat. But Jack did not let go.
“No more killing,” Jack said. “No more torture. Haven't you tried all this before?”
“Do you think you can tell me—” Reaper began, but Jack delved down, grasped a star, and cut him off with a thought.
I used to love you. It was a silent shout, screamed from his mind into Reaper's. His father's eyes went wide, and for a moment Jack saw the man he used to know. It almost broke his heart.
“Do that again,” Reaper said, shaking Jack's hand from his arm. “Just do.” The threat was obvious, his voice heavy with potential. One little whisper, Jack knew, and his father could smash him to atoms.
“Breezer,” Jack said. “Who did you bring?”
“This is Rika.” Breezer touched a woman on the shoulder and muttered something to her. She nodded and then walked across to them, nervous and birdlike in her movements. When she looked at Jack, he had the feeling that she was seeing deep inside him, and she glanced away as if unsettled at what she saw.
“Jack,” Jenna said. He turned to his friends, smiled.
“I know,” he said.
“Next time they'll send everything.” She nodded up at the sky and he looked, already knowing that he'd see the drone again. He stared at it for a while and wondered whose eyes he was looking into at the other end of its reach. Miller's, perhaps. He cruised through the star-scape of his potential, but found nothing that might let him view through the drone's systems. He found that comforting. Having limits made him feel human.
Jack glanced at his father, the Superiors, and the other Irregulars, and knew that he need not mention the urgency here. The air thrummed with it.
The small woman, Rika, reached Scryer and the Chopper woman suspended above the road.