“We need to slay the dragons.”
Trank shakes his head. “You know that’s the wrong idea. The dragons will preserve this city.”
“Look, I know you had some weird dream in the hospital, but you were on drugs. There’s no evidence you’re right.”
“Yes, there is.” Trank holds up the logbook. “In here.”
“What are you talking about? You just said that was ‘notes.’?”
“Duncan, have you ever noticed a pattern in the dragons’ fires?”
“Like how they’re tagging?”
“What?” Trank sounds surprised and mad and excited all at the same time.
“The fires, they look like graffiti.” Ripple shrugs. “Like the dragons are writing all over the city. I saw it from my HowFly.”
“What exactly did it say?” Now Trank isn’t just listening—he’s riveted. Ripple shrugs again.
“Just random letters. They’re not spelling out words or anything. They’re stupid sky lizards. Why do you care?”
Trank carefully puts his logbook back in the hot-dog cart. “Never mind.”
“No. You just said it was ‘evidence.’ Evidence of what?”
Trank hesitates a long time—duking it out with himself about what to say next, maybe? When he finally speaks, he leans forward conspiratorially, as if the volume on his gas mask has been turned way down.
“During my term as fire chief, I moved in the highest circles of city gov. For years, behind closed doors, I heard rumors about some kind of operations transmitter—a command console that could give orders to the dragons. I was never privy to the details. Only that there had been one, but it was lost, and the materials were too volatile to risk building it again.”
“A command console?” Ripple double-takes. “But wait, what does this have to do with the fires?”
“When I was in the burn ward, there was another man in there too. A herpetologist.”
“Yuck, I hope you didn’t catch it.”
“He studied reptiles, Duncan. Before he died, he told me the city had hired him to observe the movements of the dragons. To read the fires they left behind. The city believed any patterns he found might lead them to the tool they lost. And I thought to myself—well, I’ve been following the dragons my entire adult life. If anyone can figure this out, it’s me. So, ever since, I’ve been watching.” Through the viewholes of the Tarnhelm, Trank’s glass eyes take on an uncommonly human sheen. “I’m close now. Very close. I can’t disclose the details yet. But I can say it’s only a matter of time.”
All along, Ripple felt like Trank was holding back, and now he understands why. If this is legit—and it sounds legit—it changes everything.
“We’re going to have dragon slaves?”
“I’ll rule them the way I ran my fire department—with a firm but just hand. The dragons will protect this city. Restore order.”
Ripple pictures Trank at a high-tech control panel, DJing the movements of the dragons from afar. The thought would make him jealous, except that’s not even the coolest part.
“Fuck yeah! You steer. I want to ride them!” Ripple can feel the wind in his hair already, hear his own triumphal whoops. Which one is bosser, the yellow or the green? A whole new Toob series is brewing in his imagination, an epic saga of dominance achieved. “Maybe that art pro can redo my portrait.”
“This will be a huge responsibility, and it’s mine alone to shoulder.”
“Right, yeah, I totally get that. I just want one ride. Per day.”
“But I will need a plan for succession. A trusted lieutenant. A second-in-command. Someone to back me up, and to take over when I’m gone.” Trank straightens up, distant and authoritative once more. “If there’s anything I learned from what happened with the fire department, it’s that you can’t let the mob decide what’s right. Stick with me, follow in my footsteps, tell me everything you know, and it’ll pay off for you in the end.”
The fire chief folds his arms, like he’s striking a hard bargain. But this is a no-brainer. Trank isn’t just telling Ripple about a top-secret mission—he’s letting him in on the ground floor of a monster-powered dynasty. The old pro respects him after all.
“For serious?” Ripple says. “You’re going to make me a princeling? Because I am on board all the way with that.”
It’s distorted through the mask, but Trank sounds pleased. Relieved, even. “I thought you would be.”
* * *
They get the next dispatch over the radio from the Metropolitan Fire Department. It’s uptown from their location and to the east, which means they have to hup to if they want to reach it in time.
“MPD needs to spring for a vehicle,” Ripple says, shoving the hot-dog cart. He’s recommitted to their mission, sure, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still complain. A glittering future makes the present even shittier by comparison. “All this marching gives me blisters.”
“We’re independent extinguishment contractors.” Trank scans the sky, hunting, tracking, detecting thin vital tendrils of new smoke from the constant, lifeless smog. “That means we supply our own equipment.”
“I don’t get why we even have to fight the fires. We’re reading them for clues, right? So can’t we just observe, like the Herpes Guy did?”
“The police provide us valuable intel and a stipend.”
“Beer money can suck it. I’m a dragon prince.”
“Besides, the more of this city we preserve now, the more it will be worth later on.”
“I guess.” They turn the corner onto a broad avenue; a broken traffic light lies prone in the intersection, its crunched-up bulbs like piles of emeralds, gold, rubies. “My family owns a bunch of real estate here, you know.”
“Down the line, this whole city will be owned by whoever controls the dragons.”
“But that’ll be us. Right?”
“You have nothing to worry about.”
It does worry Ripple, though, or bug him anyway. As much as he likes the idea of gliding up to his parents’ roof on the newly tamed Scales O’Drakerson and yelling, “Yo, Dad, guess you’re reporting to me now,” being a Ripple should still mean something. It should still come with a legacy attached. Trank can run this place, no problem—somebody’s gotta do it—but that doesn’t make it his.
Besides, what if Ripple gets tired of being Trank’s second-in-command? He should be able to change back into Late Capitalism’s Royalty if he doesn’t dig the whole Dragon Prince lifestyle.
Whatever. Ripple will cross that bridge when he can fly over it.
Ripple nicknames the next burning building the Witch Church the minute he sees it. It’s a weird conglomeration of gargoyles and stained glass, with a pointed, twisty spire that pierces skyward and a congregation of hell demons licking the walls inside. He and Trank don’t have to bust in doors this time. This entrance is open, and the long tongue of a red carpet lolls out through it, down the cold stone outside stairs.