Reaper's Legacy

“Where shall we talk, Dad?”

From the moment Reaper led him away from the war room, Jack felt a confidence that belied everything that had happened. Following the man who had been his father, he plunged into that tumultuous, ever-expanding universe of abilities and closed on one without even thinking, feeling its heat, sensing its incredible gravity. He smiled as it filled his consciousness, and he was suddenly awash in a sea of beautiful memories. These times with his family warmed and calmed him, and made him feel that everything really was going to be all right.

But they were not for him.

That’s the first time I’ve used it without real effort, he thought. Nomad’s scent touched his nostrils, her taste flooded his mouth. It was something amazing.

This was certainly no James Bond–style secret base. The subterranean rooms must have been flooded in the past, and a layer of moss covered the walls up to waist height. The place smelled musty and unused. Whatever the Superiors were doing here—and Jack was going to get to that—they were not concerned about comfort.

Reaper shoved a door open with his knee and entered a small room, beckoning Jack to follow. Inside were several folding chairs and a table covered with bottles of water, spirits, and tinned food.

“Drink?” Reaper asked. He snatched up a whiskey bottle and spun the top off, tipping it to his mouth and taking several deep glugs. He watched Jack sidelong as he did so, perhaps expecting or hoping for some reaction.

Jack smiled and pushed a memory…

The four of them on holiday in Center Parcs. Emily is only a baby in a pushchair, but already she has a laugh that consumes everyone around her. Jack’s mother is sitting on a bench feeding Emily an ice cream, and he and his father are paddling a double kayak on the lake. Jack is in front, and with each stroke he deliberately flicks water back at his dad. There is shouting and splashing, and laughter, and as they steer away from the shore Jack feels something pulling him back. He’s enjoying this so much, but he wants the four of them to be close together, within touching distance. They all feel like that. It’s one of those perfect moments.

Reaper blinked a few times, frowning. Then he slammed the bottle down on the table. “So?”

“Just water,” Jack said. Reaper lobbed him a bottle and he caught it one-handed.

“I’m not surprised you came back,” Reaper said. “I’m trouble. You seem to be drawn to it like a moth to a flame.”

“Fleeter been reporting back to you?”

Reaper nodded.

“Worried about me?”

“No. You interest Miller, and he interests me.”

“He’s not dead?”

Reaper smiled, and it was horrible. “Oh, I didn’t kill him. He won’t forget me in a hurry, though.”

“So this is a war room,” Jack said.

“Just somewhere to hide away,” Reaper said. He took another drink of whiskey, and when Jack blinked he lived another memory. But he did not want to push just yet. Reaper was canny, and he might suspect Jack of doing something.

“But the map, the flags. Chopper locations?”

Reaper regarded him for a while, looking him up and down as if he’d never seen him before. It made Jack uncomfortable; a father should know his son so well. “It’s a guerrilla war,” he said. “Good to keep track of things.”

“So if you know where all the Choppers are, why not kill them all?” Jack asked. The idea of it was reprehensible, but he was trying to understand the man his father had become. Or the thing.

“Wendy’s talent only goes so far,” he said.

“Wendy’s the woman working the table out there,” Jack said. “She doesn’t look like the rest of you. Fleeter. Puppeteer. That shadow guy was out in the tunnels, and I’ll bet Scryer isn’t that far away.”

Reaper gave nothing away.

“Wendy’s not a Superior like you, is she? She doesn’t think of herself as one anyway.”

“She does, actually,” Reaper said, leaning back against the table and smiling. “She quickly tired of wandering London, aimless and alone. Sometimes the Irregulars get together in pairs or small groups, but mostly they’re just surviving. Not moving on. Evolving.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” Jack waved one hand at their  surroundings.

“We’re making plans,” Reaper said.

“For what?”

“And why would you need to know that?” Reaper took another drink. This was not the man Jack had expected to find. His father had enjoyed a drink, yes, but Reaper had seemed to be someone different, projecting a disinterest in normal human things. He called himself Superior, yet here he was taking to the bottle.

“Because I need your help,” Jack said. “They have Emily and Mum at Camp H.”

“Or so Miller told you.”

“You think they’re somewhere else?”

Reaper barked a loud, mocking laugh. “I don’t give a damn where they are, boy! But you can trust Miller as far as you can throw him.”

That might be a very long way, Jack thought, because there was a universe inside he had yet to explore. But for now he was enveloped with one power, and he felt it haunting his memory like a name on the tip of his tongue. Soon he would push it to the fore again.

“Here’s why I really came back,” Jack said. He sat down on one of the folding chairs and stared at his father, trying to see the man he loved. Even his physical features seemed to have changed—hardening, growing grimmer. “The Choppers have Mum and Emily prisoner. They’re at Camp H. I have to rescue them, and for that I need your help.”

Reaper did not even respond. He snorted a soft laugh and took another drink.

“While we’re there, we release everyone else they’re holding. And they’ve got the girl. The Irregular who works for them, spotting any large groups moving around London.”

Reaper hid his surprise well at how much Jack knew. He snorted a laugh again, but Jack saw through the facade, and for a flicker his father was there before him. His eyes opened a little wider, and he scratched at one ear.

“You could stop her,” Jack said. “That’d give you London.”

“I have London,” Reaper said. His voice was quiet, but loaded with the awful potential of his murderous power. One growl and he’ll crush me and this chair into a bloody metal mass, Jack thought.

“Surely that’s not all you want,” he said.

Reaper looked into the whiskey bottle, acting casual but considering what Jack had said. Now, Jack thought, but just a little. He took a drink of water to hide his eyes and pushed a memory Reaper’s way.

Jack is playing with Emily on Christmas morning. His train set lies half-finished, and he will return to it very soon. But Emily has a new wooden checkers set, and she’s been bugging him for a game. So the two of them sit amongst the detritus of Christmas—rolled-up wrapping paper, scattered presents, plastic ties, the remains of popped crackers—and play a game of checkers. Emily is concentrating so hard that her tongue sticks from one corner of her mouth, and Jack has already made one mistake towards helping her win. Delicious smells come from the kitchen. Soft music plays. Jack glances up, and through the half-open kitchen door he sees his parents embracing, leaning against the work surface and spying on him and Emily. He pretends not to have seen them, but their warm, gentle smiles make him smile. Emily takes two of his pieces and whoops in triumph, and Jack knows it is going to be a day to remember.

He lowered the water bottle and wiped his lips. “Whatever it is you want, I want my Mum and Emily back. And we can help each other.”

Reaper was silent for a moment, still looking into his bottle. His confident smiled had dropped. For a long moment, not moving or talking, he was Jack’s father once more.

“I don’t need anyone’s help,” Reaper said. “A normal child’s least of all.”