Hero. Майкл Грант
it as she rubbed a bedsheet between thumb and forefinger. “It’s all so smooth and soft.”
“Beats my old sleeping bag,” Francis Specter said, yawning, ruffling her red hair, and throwing back the covers of her own bed. “Do you mind if I . . .” She gestured toward the bathroom.
“It’s your bathroom as much as mine, kid.”
They’d shared the bedroom, each with her own queen-sized bed, night-light, side table, bottle of spring water, TV remote, and pillow mints. Dekka was the elder of the two, of voting if not yet drinking age, and had about her a seriousness and physical presence that made her seem older.
Francis Specter was a new person in Dekka’s life, and in the life of the rest of their group as well, an underfed white girl of fourteen, with wary, suspicious eyes.
Both girls had pasts full of pain and trauma. Dekka had survived the FAYZ, usually called the Perdido Beach Anomaly or PBA, the bizarre twenty-mile-in-diameter, impenetrable, opaque dome that had imprisoned 332 kids under the age of fifteen. 332 kids at the start . . . far fewer by the end.
Following the collapse of the FAYZ dome, Dekka had had four years of relative normalcy, doing her best to sink back into obscurity as a cashier at a Bay Area Safeway. That obscurity had ended when it was learned that more of the rock—the same alien mutagenic virus-infected celestial debris that had caused the FAYZ—was heading for Earth.
A secret government group, Homeland Security Task Force 66, had brought Dekka to the Ranch and there had tried to use the rock to give her some of the powers she’d had in the FAYZ. HSTF-66’s plan had worked, partially. Dekka had gained powers, but not the powers she’d once held in the FAYZ. Things had changed. Outside the confines of the dome, rock mutations yielded more terrifying powers that were accompanied by physical changes, often quite extreme. In Dekka’s case, the rock had grabbed a bit of cat DNA and some imagery from Dekka’s own mind, played its inscrutable game, and yielded a morph with poisonous snakes where her dreads were, and a body covered in fur.
And Dekka’s old power of canceling gravity had been replaced by an ability to shred anything—or anyone—in her path. Like she was a human blender, a human chain saw. She’d learned to focus this power, but it was still horrifically destructive. In the course of too many battles, Dekka had turned walls and floors and ceilings to mulch. And human beings—bad guys, to be sure, but still human beings—had been reduced to bloody gobbets. By Dekka. By her will.
Dekka was not happy about the soft sheets because Dekka had zero reason to believe that life would continue to allow her to survive, let alone survive in luxury. She was also not happy about the four and a half bathrooms, each a wonder of marble and mirrors and glass, with deep tubs and showers that could have been used to hose off a whole rugby team, outfitted with towels so thick and soft Dekka could have slept comfortably on one of them, let alone the bed.
Luxury, in Dekka’s opinion, made you soft. And the future did not feel soft.
But the sheets sure do.
Also, she admitted privately, it was a bit intimidating. She was not a rich kid like her sidekick, Armo, who took it all in his stride. Armo’s path to the Rockborn Gang had started when he wrecked his 600-horsepower, $90,000 Viper in Malibu. Dekka could not have afforded to pay a month’s insurance on such a vehicle.
As for Francis Specter, Dekka knew that she had endured a very different sort of hardship, living with her mother as her mother descended into drug addiction and a depraved life with a racist biker gang at a bare-bones compound in the Mojave desert.
Francis was also Rockborn, but while Dekka had a straight-forwardly destructive power, Francis had a stranger, deeper, harder-to-understand ability. Francis could pass through solid objects. Or at least that’s how it looked to people. In reality, Francis moved into a fourth spatial dimension, and rather than go through, she went . . . around.
If Francis was “the kid” of the Rockborn Gang, then Dekka was what passed for a responsible adult, not a role Dekka relished. In addition to Dekka and Francis, the Rockborn Gang consisted of Shade Darby, Malik Tenerife, Cruz (neé Hugo Cruz Rojas), and Armo, who no longer used his birth name of Aristotle Adamo because it was too long and too open to mockery. Armo was not, perhaps, the guy to go through life wearing a great philosopher’s name.
Armo was a white boy—a very large, strong, very handsome, rather sweet, not overly bright boy with Oppositional Defiant Disorder (ODD), which made it very, very hard for him to ever do as he was told.
Armo also had a morph, a creature not unlike a polar bear with various disturbing human features. In that morph, Armo—as long as you asked him politely and did not attempt to order him around—would happily charge a tank.
The Rockborn Gang currently occupied a three-bedroom, four-and-a-half bath suite in Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. The suite would have cost $10,000 a day had it not been offered to them by the grateful management of Caesars Palace with the enthusiastic support of the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority. The powers that be in Las Vegas knew how to show gratitude, and the Rockborn Gang had been given the lion’s share of the credit for saving Las Vegas from the mindcontrolling Rockborn psycho named Dillon Poe, the self-styled Charmer, and then from the army’s brutal overreaction. Had the Rockborn Gang not stopped Poe, it was very likely that Las Vegas would have been utterly destroyed.
Of course Las Vegas also knew the advantage for tourism in having the most Facebooked, Instagrammed, tweeted, YouTubed, reported, loved, hated, praised, reviled group of people on Planet Earth in residence. Just two days after what was being called the #CasinoWar, #MadMaxVegas, and #Vegapocalypse, among many other names, flights and room reservations were already coming back strong after having been shut down entirely.
The Rockborn Gang had saved Las Vegas billions of dollars, and now their presence was bringing the gamblers back. There was already serious talk of erecting a statue, which was fine, Dekka supposed, and certainly better than being hated and hunted, but it all made her nervous. A black, lesbian FAYZ survivor would never be able to relax as completely as Armo who, upon exiting the bedroom, Dekka found sprawled across a couch and a coffee table wearing pajama bottoms, with a bagel resting on his bare left pectoral and a little tub of cream cheese balanced on the right side.
“Unh,” Dekka said to Armo, the limits of her pre-coffee small talk.
“There’s coffee in that carafe,” Armo said, pointing with his cream cheese–smeared knife.
Cruz sat off to one side of the fabulously luxurious room with her battered purple Moleskine open on her lap, a pen in her hand, making notes and casting subtle glances at the ever-oblivious Armo.
Dekka poured. Dekka drank.
“Holy Communion in the Church of Caffeine?” Cruz teased.
Dekka nodded. “Damn right.” There was an expectant air that made Dekka frown. “What? What are you two waiting for?”
“We’re kind of . . .” Cruz tilted her head, hearing something, and held up a hand. “Never mind, you’ll see.”
Shade Darby, a white girl with blunt-cut dark hair—she’d hacked away at it herself—and the kind of eyes that drilled holes into you, opened the door to her bedroom, stepped through wearing a Caesars bathrobe, closed the door casually behind her, and said, “Any coffee left?”
“See, Dekka, what we’re doing,” Cruz said as though continuing a conversation, “is waiting to see how much time Shade and Malik have decided to allow before he comes out.”
“Out?” Dekka looked at Armo, who shrugged, causing his cream cheese to tumble down his chest.
Cruz answered with a significant nod toward the door Shade had just closed.
“Huh? Oh. Ahhh,” Dekka said. “I assumed you and Shade would share a room.”
“She got a better offer,” Cruz said.
“No, no, no. Just stop, right now,” Shade warned.
Dekka