He switched frantically between views, like a desperate TV watcher whose cable has gone out, looking for active eyes, and finding fewer and fewer and fewer.
No! No! It doesn’t end like this!
In the end he had only a handful left, just four. Four out of his millions. Four insects whose eyes were on leaves and homes . . . outside the dome.
He was not dead but . . . but his mind was . . . he could not quite . . .
Shrinking, that’s what it was like. Like shrinking, smaller and smaller. Like he was a house and someone was walking through that house systematically turning off lights, so that room by room he went dark.
His focus wavered and fragmented, thoughts becoming random, irrational. He should . . . he could . . . He was . . . Lights going out . . . Confusion . . .
I am Vector . . . I am Markovic!
I know who I . . .
Somewhere a voice was shouting.
De-morph, de-morph, over and over again.
It was irritating. And Shade had other worries. Pain. Confusion. Blindness.
De-morph, de-morph. Shade, de-morph now!
Okay, if it will shut you up.
Watchers in her head. Was it them yelling?
Her mind was on the very edge of a cliff, a cliff a thousand feet high over jagged rocks, and if she slipped . . .
De-morph, goddammit, Shade!
Malik?
Shade formed a thought, a tenuous, slick, impossible-to-hold-on-to thought . . . and slipped over the edge of the cliff and fell and fell and fell.
CHAPTER 40
A Lair of Their Own
FORTY-TWO PEOPLE, INCLUDING seven children, were on the train. Twenty-six died instantly on impact. The rest died from nerve gas, their bodies racked by violent spasms.
There were no survivors.
As ambulances and police cars swarmed the crash site, helpless to penetrate the dome, the helicopter flew the short distance to the Pentagon, the massive, five-sided, seven-story headquarters of the American military in Virginia, just outside of the District of Columbia. It landed on the helipad on the north side of the building and was met by the inevitable dark SUVs, three of them.
As the turbines powered down and the rotors slowed, Malik saw a sort of honor guard waiting, a half dozen older, bemedaled soldiers and dark-suited civilians.
There were also two ambulances parked at a discreet distance, awaiting the badly injured members of the Rockborn Gang. A group that did not include Shade Darby.
Shade had de-morphed, returned to her human form, alive and uninjured—harm suffered in morph was repaired by de-morphing, so long as the human form had not been injured. Malik did not like the look of shock on her face, the closed-down, unresponsive, Shade-running-in-safe-mode expression on her face. Malik knew her near-death experience would leave deep scars on her mind. He’d been there.
We all have scars. Some will be mended with stitches. Others will never be healed.
“There’s a welcome committee,” Dekka observed with a bit of an eye roll.
“At least it’s not a firing squad,” Simone muttered. She stood beside Dekka, and Malik sensed that something had changed between the two women. A connection had been made, perhaps nothing more than the fact that Simone had now become a full member of their strange little tribe.
Simone had lost her father. At least they all hoped she had lost her father, which was a terribly complicated set of emotions to make sense of. They all liked Simone well enough not to wish her the pain of losing a parent. But to Simone, Malik imagined, her father’s death had occurred days earlier when Vector was born.
More business for some future therapist.
Francis would be going straight to the ambulance. She was in pain, her face a bleached white, hair matted with sweat. Francis, without whom their victory, if you could call it that, would not have been possible. Malik leaned forward, put his hand on her shoulder, and said, “You did good, Francis. You’re a hero.”
Armo had de-morphed and—astonishingly—had to be wakened from a nap when they landed, having managed to actually fall asleep on the flight from the train wreck to the Pentagon. Cruz, herself once more, was beside him. Malik was certain something was going on that was not strictly to do with battles or morphs or n-dimensional universes.
Malik felt almost sorry for the big dude. Everyone liked Armo, but at the same time, everyone had the same thought: If you break Cruz’s heart, we will make your life miserable. Any normal person might have been intimidated at having the likes of Dekka, Shade, and Malik watching them like a hawk, but then, Malik admitted with a private smile, Armo was not normal.
Malik was most interested by Sam Temple, about whom he knew the least. Sam had come with a reputation. He’d been called everything from the Winston Churchill of the FAYZ to the Ulysses S. Grant of the FAYZ. But Malik had found him humble and devoid of ego. Sam had managed to remain immune to the lavish praise as well as the uninformed criticisms.
Now Sam sat among the shell-shocked Rockborn Gang, waiting for the door to be opened, drawn into himself, contemplative, and, Malik thought, sad. Sam, Malik suspected, would torture himself over the people on the train, the same way Malik tortured himself over the things he’d done at the Ranch.
You carry a heavy load on your shoulders, surfer dude.
A soldier slid the helicopter door open. Dekka was the first one off, followed by Shade. Armo gently lifted Francis in his arms and climbed down carefully. A gurney appeared, and Armo laid her on it, patted her on the head, and whispered something that earned a weak smile from Francis.
Malik was the last off the chopper, lingering behind for just a moment to collect his thoughts. The others were all de-morphed. He alone remained trapped in the world of the Watchers.
Did you enjoy that, Watchers? Was it all entertaining enough for you?
He planned to deal with them, just as soon as Francis was cared for and ready. The gang had scored a win, but it was a close call, and Vector might still survive in some form. And even if Vector was gone, what horror might rise tomorrow or next week? How many more times could the gang get lucky?
This has to end, Malik thought grimly. This has to end.
“General Eliopoulos, it’s good to meet you in the flesh,” Dekka said, and shook the general’s hand. She was pretty sure that the nation’s top soldier did not make a habit of greeting every arriving helicopter: he was paying them respect.
“Ms. Talent, it is my honor,” Eliopoulos said.
Introductions and handshakes followed, then they boarded the SUVs for the short drive to a side entrance and trooped wearily down long hallways to a conference room. The general’s staff had laid out an impressive buffet, and Armo was already snatching cold shrimp and quaffing cold juice. The mad chase and the sound of helicopter rotors had given way to this quiet, stuffy, banal conference room.
“We have a great deal to discuss,” Eliopoulos said after the gang had massacred much of the food—no one could remember the last time they’d had anything to eat.
“Okay,” Dekka said cautiously.
Eliopoulos sat at the head of a long, oval, dark wood table. Dekka sat at his right hand, feeling out of place and a bit ridiculous. Safeway cashiers did not as a rule sit next to four-star generals in the heart of the Pentagon. She was acutely aware that she and the rest of the gang were indifferently dressed, bloody, sweat-stained, torn, and smeared with oily grease among spotless uniforms. And she was aware as well of how young the gang all were compared to the general and his people.
On the other hand, we did save Washington, DC. For now.
“Let me lay it out in plain English,” Eliopoulos said. “It is a simple fact that you saved this government, and the country as well. If you were soldiers in uniform, we’d be putting in for Medals of Honor. I have never witnessed greater courage.”
“But?” Shade said.
“But,” Eliopoulos said with a disgusted sigh, “there’s reality, and then there’s the law. And you were acting ou
tside the law.”
Malik cleared his throat and said, “General, we were all deputized by the mayor of New York City. She was worried as well about the law.”
“Were you indeed?” Eliopoulos said, nodding. “Excellent. A legal argument could be made that you were in hot pursuit of a criminal. . . . Yes, that is helpful.”
Dekka felt another “but” coming, and it came.
“But,” Eliopoulos said, “we have a problem going forward. The fact is we need you. You exposed the Ranch. You stopped Dillon Poe in Las Vegas, and, well, this entire thing in New York . . . Nevertheless, there is no legal way for you to go on doing what we clearly need you to do.”
Sam said, “Yeah—I mean, yes, General, we went through this after the end of the FAYZ.”
“Indeed. The laws of this country do not allow for superpowered vigilantes, however necessary, however self-sacrificing and heroic. And let me repeat: if you aren’t heroes, the word has no meaning.”
The other officers nodded agreement. Dekka had the startling realization that these senior officers were looking at them with something like awe. Awe and a bit of jealousy.
“So . . . ,” Dekka prompted. Weariness was following the retreat of adrenaline-fueled energy, and she felt as if she could all too easily slide out of her chair and sleep under the table.
“So. I have a proposal. It does not solve the problem of your legal status. It does, however, give you a safe place to operate from. And certain resources could be made available.”
“What if we don’t want to keep doing this?” Shade asked. “What if we’re done? What if we just want to go back to our old lives?”
It was Malik who answered. “Shade, there is no going back. We took down Poe, and we took down Markovic. The next Rockborn lunatic with delusions of godhood will know he has to deal with us. The Rockborn Gang is Target Number One for ambitious bad guys.”
Eliopoulos nodded. “You have every right to expect to be able to return to your old lives. But Mr. Tenerife is correct: you are targets, and anyone near you is likely to end up as collateral damage.”
Dekka expected this, knew this, and yet felt her stomach sink. She hadn’t even liked her old life, but being told she could never go back to it had the unsettling sound of a death sentence.
“Hold up,” Armo said. “Are you telling us we have to go to this place of yours?”
Dekka jumped in quickly. “I’m sure the general is just offering a suggestion.”
“Hmph,” Armo commented, and glared slit-eyed at Eliopoulos.
“There is a secret facility, a leftover from the Cold War. It’s in the Maryland hills, not far from a town named Thurmont. It’s very secure. There are living quarters and even a swimming pool, though it will need some work. The perimeter will be guarded by MPs with high-level security clearances.”
“Dude,” Armo said, “sounds like a nice prison. Kind of sounds like the Ranch, too.”
Dekka’s eyes had gone wide on hearing Eliopoulos addressed as “dude,” but she kept quiet.
Eliopoulos shrugged and nodded and said, “In a way it is a bit like a prison, Mr. . . . um, Armo. But the fences and gates are there to keep people out, not in.”
“We come and go as we choose?” Cruz asked, clarifying for Armo’s benefit.
“Of course. I’ll repeat, because it bears repeating: we need you. And”—he dipped his head in wry acknowledgment—“we’ve seen what you do to government facilities you don’t like.”
“Okay,” Dekka said. “What else, General?”
“You would have a private jet and pilots at your disposal, twenty-four/seven/three sixty-five. If you need funds, we’ll take care of it. The Pentagon budget is large, more than large enough to conceal money spent on you.”
“You’re saying the rest of the government wouldn’t know about this facility?” Shade asked.
“Exactly. We’d be hiding it from Congress, from the Justice Department, from anyone with a, um, different view of things. I have broad powers when it comes to national security.”
Dekka glanced at Shade and saw a resentful acceptance. She looked next to Malik, who nodded slightly. Then she turned to the person she still trusted more than any other.
“Sam?”
“It would leave us vulnerable to the military. No offense, General, but you won’t always have this job.” Sam blew out his cheeks and winced at being reminded by a sharp stab of pain that his face had been barely sewn together. “But as it is, we are not just the targets of bad guys, we’re the targets of paparazzi and hustlers and con men and crazy people. Our faces are everywhere in the media, in social media. The only one of us who could walk down a street right now is Cruz, and that’s only because she can change her appearance.”
“Armo?” Dekka asked.
“If they fix the pool,” Armo said. “Also they better have decent Wi-Fi.”
One of the officers opened a folder, glanced down, and said, “There is a dedicated fiber-optic line that delivers five hundred megabits per second.”
Armo looked to Malik, who said, “Yeah, that’s about as fast as it gets.”
Armo shrugged. “Okay, but free Netflix, too.”
“That can be arranged,” said the most senior military officer in the country. “Free Netflix.”
“One more thing,” Sam said. “I’m married.”
Eliopoulos smiled a little ruefully. “We have already arranged for Ms. Ellison to join us. As a matter of fact, she should be landing at Andrews in just a few minutes. She is . . .” He let it trail off and seemed embarrassed.
“Were you about to say intimidating, even a little scary?” Sam laughed.
“I was going to say impressive and not easily convinced.” Eliopoulos grinned. “But yes, a bit . . .”
“Mmm,” Sam said. “And now she’s not just a genius; she’s got super-strength. I will no longer be throwing my laundry on the floor or leaving dishes in the sink. Or, you know, arguing with her. About anything.” He brightened. “Oh, and I should mention that Astrid has a steel box she would like to have dropped into the Marianas Trench.”
“She mentioned that, yes,” the general said. “That box is currently being loaded aboard a C-17 in California. The box in question will be rolled out of the cargo door and dropped into the deepest spot in the Pacific Ocean.”
“That ought to do it,” Sam said. And thought, Maybe.
The facility was named Site L. It encompassed more than a square mile of forested land with a scattering of uninteresting buildings aboveground. But belowground it was a great deal more, a vast complex of tunnels, empty, echoing chambers, storerooms filled with neatly organized canned food and swimming pool–sized fuel tanks. It had its own water supply, its own power generator, and could in theory survive a direct hit from a nuclear weapon.
We are ten now, Malik thought. Will we be more or fewer a month from now?
Dekka, Shade, Cruz, Armo, Francis, Sam, Astrid, Simone, Edilio, and Malik himself. Ten against how many? How many more Vectors were out there? How many enemies did they have within the government itself? How long would this lair of theirs remain secret?
The Military Police security was all outside, monitoring the cameras and sensors that augmented the razor wire–topped hurricane fence. Within the underground facility lived a small maintenance and housecleaning staff of enlisted men and women who did unglamorous work despite having security clearances higher than the captain of a nuclear submarine.
And at the center of the web of hallways and tunnels, defended by steel vault doors a tank could not dent, was a command center like something out of a movie, with video monitors on the walls and desks and wheeled chairs and the stuffy atmosphere of a place long disused. The monitors were all blank. Dust rings showed where computers had been removed. At the very middle was a ring of chairs around a rectangular table.
Edilio spoke to the lieutenant assigned to escort them through the facility. “I don’t mean to make work for you, but could you please see if you can get u
s a different table? Round, not rectangular.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sam nodded and said, “You’re thinking Knights of the Round Table?”
“Something like that,” Edilio said. “I thought we should sit as equals, at least the nine of you.”
“Good idea,” Dekka said. “But there’s no nine plus, Edilio, there are ten.”
“The Ten Musketeers,” Simone suggested.
Food was carried to them and coffee poured, and at last they sat around the rectangular table, exhausted, drained, and devoid of any ambition but to sleep for a very long time.
“So this is our lair,” Cruz said, looking around at what had once been a very different lair.
“Yep,” Dekka said.
They sat swiveling idly in their chairs and looking around, all feeling lost and disoriented. No one knowing what they should do next.
The end of battle, and the troops sit quietly awaiting the next round.
But Malik had already decided on the next round.
“I have a plan,” Malik said. “We all know how this ends. The ten of us have power, but there are too many possible dangers, not just to us, but to the whole human race.”
Shade sighed. “I had a feeling this was coming.”
“What?” Dekka asked.
“Malik wants to go Over There.”
“If Francis is willing. Maybe, just maybe, I can make contact with the Watchers.”
Edilio spoke up again, and Malik was relieved to see him taking up the role of organizer. Someone had to do it. “I think,” Edilio said, “that when we are in a battle we need one person in charge. But if we’re going to hang together as a group for months, possibly years, I think we should vote on the big things. And this sounds like a big thing.”
The vote was unanimous. Malik had known it would be.
CHAPTER 41
Meet Your Maker
SITE L WAS even stranger seen from the other side. It was fascinating to see the n-dimensional deconstruction of the massive steel doors. Fascinating to see the forest of wire and fiber-optic cable all surging with clouds of photons. Fascinating to see through subterranean walls into the surrounding earth, with tree roots visibly sucking water and nutrients, earthworms eating and excreting, insects crawling on legs that seemed to move apart from the body they were connected to.
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