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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.
