Hero. Майкл Грант

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 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.