Simone’s overriding thought was that she needed to find her father. He might not be her favorite human being, but however he treated the poor fools who took his loans, he’d always been good to her. And whatever else might happen, he was her father.
Below she saw a bizarre scene, a sort of drone camera pan over a battlefield, except that this was not a battle but a cold-blooded massacre. A hundred or more bodies lay in twisted poses, holes dripping urine and stomach contents and blood. The black-clad killers were still finishing off the wounded.
Bang! Bang!
But now a more mundane fear shivered through her, the fear of falling. She was in the air.
In the air!
Visions of Road Runner cartoons flashed, and she imagined being Wile E. Coyote as he looks down to see he’s run past the edge of the cliff. But Simone did not fall. She had no idea how she was doing this. . . . And then Simone looked down at her legs. The jeans were gone, and her legs . . . She stifled a scream. Her legs were covered with what looked like iridescent scales, like a trout—but no, that wasn’t right, either. Because these scales did not lie flat; they moved. They beat like tiny hummingbird wings. And it wasn’t just her legs. Her entire body was covered, every square inch of it, with hundreds, no, thousands of tiny, iridescent bee wings. She raised a hand and looked in fascination at the furiously buzzing things all down the back of her hand, though not on her palms. She touched her face—no wings there, or on her throat, but her head, her shoulders, her sides were all winged, like some weird insectoid bedazzling.
And she was no longer the color of a white girl who lived in the shadow of tall buildings: beneath the iridescent wings was flesh the color of a faded Smurf toy left too long in the sun.
I can fly!
The rock. There was no doubt about that. Nor was there any doubt that the government had feared just this sort of thing and had tried to solve the problem with bullets.
Simone veered away as the searchlight’s shaft swept nearby. She didn’t have to do anything to fly, just think, go there, or go that way, or faster!
Her duty was to find her father, but the killing field below was dark, and all she saw were twisted bodies and armed men. She spotted a column of vehicles approaching, headlights moving slowly, led by an earthmover, along with two heavy dump trucks and three black SUVs.
Coming to bury the dead!
If she reduced altitude far enough to search faces, she would be shot, and while she could fly and had become significantly stronger, she had no reason to imagine that she could survive being shot.
Simone knew she would feel sadness, terrible sadness, and soon, but right now was all about staying alive. In the distance she heard the air-punching sound of military helicopters and suspected that she would be their main target.
Her mother. That’s what she needed to do: get to her mother. Then she could cry for her dead father.
CHAPTER 8
Uncle Sam Wants You
THE PHONE IN the suite rang at 1:20 in the morning. Shade was the only one awake, and picked up the receiver from the set in the dining room where she’d been sitting in the dark, looking out at the flash and sparkle of the Las Vegas Strip at night, and thinking.
“Hello?”
“This is Jody Wilkes. I’m terribly sorry to bother you; we are blocking all calls to you . . .”
Wilkes was the head of casino security at Caesars and their main contact person. Shade knew from Wilkes’s tone that there was a “but” coming, and knew it would be bad news.
“. . . but this call came from Washington.”
“This is Shade, Ms. Wilkes. Given what we’ve seen from those clowns, I don’t think we want to talk to them.”
“It isn’t from the White House or anyone political. It’s from a General Eliopoulos. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs.”
Shade held the phone out and stared at it as if reassuring herself she was actually awake. The country’s highest-ranking soldier wanted to talk to them? Urgently? At one in the morning? Of course it would be nearly dawn on the East Coast.
“Is he holding or what?”
“He asked me to put him through.”
Shade said, “Okay. Give me ten minutes. And have him FaceTime my cell phone.” She recited the number.
She went to the sideboard and began brewing coffee. She needed to wake the others, starting with Dekka and Malik, and she didn’t intend to wake either without some ready caffeine.
Five minutes later, a scowling Dekka, a distracted Malik, and an oddly perky Cruz were assembled in the living room. Shade had made the executive decision to let Armo and Francis sleep.
“The chairman of the Joint Chiefs?” Malik said, frowned, and then winced as he felt renewed interest from the Dark Watchers.
“I figured you should all hear the call,” Shade said.
“You assume we should take the call?” Cruz asked. The days of Cruz passively taking her lead from Shade were over. They were friends, even close friends, but Cruz no longer blindly believed her brilliant friend was always better able to make decisions. Shade was relieved by the change: the fewer people looking to her for solutions, the better.
“I think we should,” Shade said.
“They want something.” Dekka searched for the remote and clicked on MSNBC, the first any of them had heard of the shrapnelized landing of ASO-7. They’d all been avoiding news broadcasts, which still tended to rerun video of horrible events they’d been part of, events none of them wanted to be reminded of. “Aaaaannd that would be it.”
“Jesus,” Cruz whispered. “New York.”
The phone rang.
“I’ll prop the phone here,” Shade said, balancing it against a bowl of fruit. She tapped the button, and a picture formed. The man was in full uniform but looked as if he was wearing a size too large. He was a fiftyish white man with a receding buzzcut and glasses that exaggerated his brown eyes. It was a capable face, a confident face, but one marked with lines of exhaustion that made him seem less impressive than he must have looked on a parade ground.
“Hello. This is Shade Darby.”
The voice was higher than she’d expected, but carried heavy worry in its tone. “This is General Andy Eliopoulos. Thank you for taking my call.”
“I’m here with Dekka Talent, Malik Tenerife, and Cruz.”
The general got right to it. “Have you seen the news out of New York?”
“Just turned it on.” Then, belatedly, added, “General.”
“Ms. Darby, and the rest of you, you have no reason to trust me or the US military.”
“No. We don’t,” Dekka said in a low rumble. “I was at the Ranch.”
“That was not a military operation,” Eliopoulos said.
“The tank column that shot up the Vegas Strip sure as hell was,” Dekka snapped.
“Yes.” Eliopoulos made no effort to offer excuses, nor did he argue about responsibility. “The relevant commanders have been relieved of duty. And may I say on behalf of the US military, and myself personally, how grateful we are that you were able to take down Dillon Poe and save so many lives. Not least being my soldiers, many of whom might have been killed, and many more would have had to live a lifetime of regret.”
That caught Shade by surprise. “We wish we could have done more.”
“Well, more is exactly what I’m going to ask of you, Ms. Darby.”
“I knew this was too good to last,” Dekka said, looking bereft as she gazed around the room whose luxury had made her feel out of place but which she now looked on with great fondness.
“The situation in New York is critical. Some actions have already been taken that . . .” The general looked uncomfortable. “People are scared shitless, I don’t mind telling you, and they’re doing stupid things. Bad, stupid things.” He leaned into the screen. “And there are insistent demands that we take certain actions that . . . that I do not countenance at this time.”
The four of them exchanged looks. The general was leaving it to their ima
ginations, but in a world where the US government had already used drone attacks to take out suspected mutants, a world where military helicopters had been deployed to attack civilian vehicles, where a nuclear device aboard a submarine had somehow blown up in the waters off Georgia, where a full tank column had been sent into Las Vegas, they could imagine all too well.
“ASO-7 was potentially on a course to annihilate New York City, so a decision was made to try to destroy it as it entered the atmosphere. Unfortunately, while the nukes broke up the ASO, tons of the rock still impacted the city. And worse, a number of people have been, for lack of a better word, shot: penetrated by granules of the ASO.”
The four of them all understood what that meant: New York City was about to become ground zero for Rockborn mutants. None of them was naive enough to welcome that—the rock transformed the decent and the bad alike. Some who developed powers used them for good, or at least didn’t cause problems. Others, however . . .
“We have no way of predicting,” the general continued, “how many people will develop powers. Nor how many will choose the path that psychopath in Las Vegas did.”
“It doesn’t take many super-villains to mess up your day,” Malik said. “If Poe had been a little smarter and more mature he could have destroyed civilization as we know it.”
The general nodded. “The thing is, you saw our response. The US military is the most powerful instrument of destruction in the history of the world. But tank battalions and F-35s are not much use in Manhattan. If any of the people from this event turn into . . . well, monsters, no offense intended to you . . . The police and first responders have all they can do to cope with the straight-up destruction in Manhattan right now. They’ve got dozens of burning buildings, people buried under rubble, looting, panic. . . . They are not in a position to cope with the likes of a Tom Peaks, let alone a Dillon Poe.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Shade said, “but why are you calling us?” She had guessed the answer—they all had—but she wanted the general to say it.
Eliopoulos let go a long sigh. “I have no power to deputize you or convey any official status on you. I can’t even pay you. And frankly, if you screw up, the Pentagon will disavow you.”
“Cool. Just like Mission: Impossible,” Malik said under his breath.
But Eliopoulos heard him and nodded. “Exactly. I’m asking for your help, knowing I don’t have the right, and knowing you have no reason to do any more than you’ve already done. And I won’t lie: there are half a dozen local law enforcement agencies and twice that many federal agencies involved, and it’s all a massive cluster—, so I cannot guarantee you won’t get shot at by NYPD or FBI or ICE or even my own people.”
“Gosh,” Cruz said dryly, “it sounds just great when you put it like that.”
The general managed a weary smile. “You’re a bunch of kids who’ve been through hell. Neither I nor anyone else has a right to ask you for more. But I’ve been asking young men and young women in uniform, men and women who mostly earn about what they could make flipping burgers, to do more than any human should be asked to do for my whole career. It’s what these stars on my shoulders are about—sending good young people into harm’s way. So, I’m asking you. Will the Rockborn Gang come to New York? I have a jet waiting at the airport.”
Shade was on the verge of saying yes when Dekka held up a cautioning hand.
“No offense, General, but all of us together on an Air Force jet? That’d make a tempting target. I hate to seem suspicious, but like I said, I was at the Ranch. And I’ve already gone one-on-one with Apache gunships.”
The general bridled and glared thunder at them but then dipped his head and said, “I understand your caution.”
“Here’s what we’ll do,” Shade said, with a grateful glance at Dekka. “We’ll discuss it. We’ll make a decision. If we decide to go, we’ll arrange our own transportation. And we won’t let you know we’re going until we’re there. If we go at all.”
Eliopoulos nodded. “Fair enough. But quickly, please.”
They broke contact with Eliopoulos and woke Armo and Francis. Once those two were fully conscious, Malik laid out the proposition.
“Oh, I’ve always wanted to see New York,” Francis said.
Armo’s reaction was more practical. He looked at Dekka. “We’re bringing our bikes, right?”
“Let’s not be too glib,” Dekka said. “We’d be going into a situation where there could be a whole army of dangerous mutants. We haven’t had time to work out how we act as a team. There’s no front line, there’s no safe space, there’s no knowing in advance what we’re up against. I think we need to take a vote—a secret vote—and it has to be unanimous.”
Dekka expected Shade to argue, but she nodded.
Malik said, “We need to ask ourselves what we are. We need to decide whether we’re a group, or just six fools thrown together temporarily by fate. Not to sound too Stan Lee here, but are we some kind of comic book superheroes or not? Is that our future? Is that what we’re committing to? We have great power; do we also have great responsibility?”
They tore up scraps of hotel stationery, wrote their votes, folded the ballots, and dropped them into an empty ice bucket. Cruz read the votes out, one by one.
“Go. Go. Hell yeah.” Cruz shot a look at Armo, who winked in acknowledgment. “Go. Go. And . . . go.”
Dekka called down to Wilkes, who had to be roused from sleep. “Ms. Wilkes, it looks like we’re checking out. And we need transportation to the East Coast.”
Two hours later, they took off from McCarran International aboard one of the casino company’s private jets, an Embraer Lineage 1000, which came complete with lie-flat seats, a bar, two flight attendants, an onboard chef offering to whip up omelets or stir-fry, and a resourceful loadmaster who’d managed to get Dekka’s and Armo’s big motorcycles aboard. Francis, too, had arrived by motorcycle, but hers had belonged to the leader of the racist meth-dealing biker gang she’d escaped from, and she was not sentimental about it.
Anyway, Francis had other means to get around.
As they crossed the Rockies, Dekka motioned Shade to join her on one of the plush couches, away from Armo, who, to the surprise of no one, had managed to fall asleep within seconds of wheels-up, and the others, who were testing the chef’s skills.
“We have a problem,” Dekka said with no preamble, but keeping her voice low.
Shade sensed the purpose of this conversation, but let Dekka lay it out.
“We’re six people with two different people in charge,” Dekka said. “So far it hasn’t mattered, and maybe it never will. But . . .”
Shade nodded. “But it may matter if we’re in a fight. And we’re not just six random people anymore, we’re the Rockborn Gang; that’s what the vote was about. We’ve chosen the superhero path, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs just lit up the bat signal. Jesus,” she added in an aside, “the superhero path? Sometimes I can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth.”
Dekka nodded in agreement. “I know! I’m arguing with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs! Me. A Safeway cash-register jockey with a decent memory for the produce codes. Red onions: 4082. Honeycrisp apples: 3283. But it is what it is, Shade, so here’s how I see it. Cruz and Malik are loyal to you. You’re smarter than me, and aside from Francis, you’re the one with the most useful power. So, if we’re being logical, you ought to be in charge.”
“But?”
Dekka shook her head. “No ‘but.’ Tag: you’re it.”
“Mmmm . . . No,” Shade said flatly. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, amazed at what she was about to say. “You know I’ve read, like, everything about the FAYZ, right? So the thing is, Dekka, in a way I’ve known you for a long time. Maybe Astrid Ellison’s book was wrong in some details, and maybe the other books and movies are wrong, so maybe I have it wrong, too, but Astrid was always smarter than Sam Temple, right? Yet Sam was the leader. Why? Because he never wanted to be, but he was one of
those people that other people will follow. And trust. And believe in.”
“And you don’t think that’s you?”
Shade made a wry, self-deprecating grin. “Well, Dekka, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not short on ego.”
Dekka lowered her head to conceal a smile.
“But I’ve had humility shoved right down my throat since this all started. I’ve had a master class in my own limitations. Malik and Cruz are only in this because I dragged them into it, and not for any grand purpose, just my own obsession. My own arrogance.” She glanced at Malik and had to wait a moment for a wave of emotion that threatened to choke her speech to pass. “But not you, Dekka. You volunteered; you stepped up. That’s what a leader does. It’s what you do. So, I would be honored if I could be for you what you were for Sam. I’ve learned some humility, but even so, I think I’d be a hell of a strong right arm.”
“No question,” Dekka said, her voice roughened by emotion. “But am I ready to be Sam?”
They sat in silence for a while, each contemplating their own weaknesses and strengths with a realism and focus that only comes to people who’ve really been in what the Vietnam vets dubbed “the shit.” It was a specificity and realism not possible for spectators and armchair heroes.
“We don’t say anything to the others,” Dekka said after a while. “We don’t make a thing of it. But okay, Shade Darby, I will do my best to be Sam.”
“And I am whatever you need me to be.”
Four hours later they ate fresh-baked biscuits and drank excellent coffee as the late morning sun outlined the spires of Manhattan in gold.
From the Purple Moleskine
I STARTED OUT thinking this Moleskine would help me become a fiction writer. Instead I’m becoming a diarist. I guess I shouldn’t fight fate. Anyway, diary writing was good for Virginia Woolf and Anne Frank. Not really very encouraging examples, I guess. One killed herself; the other was murdered by Nazis.
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