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Okay, enough, Markovic thought as he reached the relative cover of some pine woods. Time to change back.
He focused his thoughts on his true body, his true self.
Nothing happened.
He tried again, adding urgency to the attempt. By now everyone knew the Rockborn could morph and de-morph at will, but nothing was happening. He had a mental image of himself running into a wall, a tall cinder-block wall. This was not in any of the accounts he’d read or seen on TV. The Rockborn could change back at will. Everyone said so!
Now the fear came at full throttle, irresistible. He tried again, and once again it was like hitting a wall, a wall beyond which there was nothingness.
Death.
He remembered the machine-gun bullets, the ones that had ripped his then-flesh-and-blood body. He remembered thinking he had to be dead, could not possibly be alive and yet . . .
The truth was there, easy to see, yet so awful, so impossibly horrific. . . . Bob Markovic, who always accepted reality and made the most of it, could not bring himself to believe what with dawning terror he knew to be true: he could not change back. His old body, the original Bob Markovic, was dead.
CHAPTER 10
New York, New York
THE ROCKBORN GANG, in their borrowed jet, landed at Teterboro Airport, across the Hudson River from New York City, in New Jersey. The sun was out, though a weak, pale thing compared to the Las Vegas sun, and it was distinctly chilly, just cold enough to turn breath to steam.
“So much for sunbathing by the pool,” Armo muttered as they stepped out onto the stairs. “I’ll miss my cabana.”
Half a dozen photographers and reporters were waiting for them, despite the secrecy they’d hoped to maintain. The shouted questions began the instant the cabin door opened.
“Has the president summoned you?”
“Are you here to save New York?”
“Can you please spell the names of everyone in the Rockborn Gang?”
“I’m just the flight attendant,” Armo said to the assembled media. He moved nimbly aside at the bottom of the stairs, allowing Dekka to step out from behind him.
Better her than me, Armo thought. She has more words.
Dekka stopped on the bottom step and cast a sour look at the assembled media. “Long flight, bad mood, leave us alone.” Then she marched on, aiming for the stretch SUV that was to pick them up, pushing through the crowd like an ocean liner plowing through a wave. The reporters shifted attention to the next person off the plane.
“Cruz! Smile! Look here, smile!”
“You’re being called the hero of Las Vegas. Can you comment?”
“Can you clear up your gender issue for us?”
Cruz froze halfway down the stairs, but Shade squeezed past, grabbed Cruz’s hand, and urged her along. Armo admired the smooth way Shade drew the reporters and cameras around herself. Very smart girl, that Shade. She and Malik, both, way too smart for him, which was a good thing. He knew he was not “academic smart”; he was not the person to be making decisions for other people. Just for himself.
“Shade Darby! How fast can you go?”
“Why have you come to New York?”
“Shade! Shade! Do you have a comment on the accusation that you started all this?”
“I’ll take three questions,” Shade said. “Go.”
It was a high step up into the SUV, and Armo gave Cruz a hand. Francis, Malik, and Dekka all piled in, while Armo waited behind just in case Shade needed some support.
Which, when he considered it, brought a wry smile to his lips. On the power scale, Shade was way more dangerous than he was.
A woman with a pile of blond hair, who Armo vaguely thought he might recognize from TV, thrust a microphone at Shade. “Why are you here?”
