Peaks said, “The plane did not simply break up. It was sliced open, opened up on one end by someone armed with a blade capable of cutting through aluminum like a can opener on a can of cat food.”
“That’s no one I ever saw or heard about in the FAYZ,” Dekka said.
“No. It’s a young art student, believe it or not. We are almost certain that he traveled to Iowa and managed to take what we were calling ASO-Three. But we don’t believe he was the only one. There are four distinct sets of footprints, though an effort was made to obscure them. So someone else, right here in America, may also have pieces of the meteorite. And that’s not even getting into foreign locations.”
Dekka had nothing to say. Her mouth was dry. Her heart felt as if it was trying to pump molasses through her veins.
“And worse, far worse is to come. Most of the ASOs are small, like the one that’s been stolen but that we will soon recover. But there’s one rock coming—we call it the Mother Rock—which, if it were captured by some enemy force, might be enough to build a massive mutant army. We need to understand this phenomenon, Dekka. We need to know how this happens, how it can be controlled. Sixty-one people died on that flight. Most were burned to death, which is a very bad way to die. We’ve done the best we can to cover up the cause, spreading all kinds of wild rumors to discredit the truthful accounts, but it’s only a matter of time before people see the truth.”
“So you want to test the rock, the ASO rock, on me, see if I develop powers.”
Peaks leaned forward, eyes burning behind his spectacles. “In this world there are very, very few people who can be trusted with that kind of power, Dekka. Power corrupts. Power distorts. It can bring out the best in people, but it is much more likely to bring out the worst. If this rock, this ASO can create that”—he pointed at the freeze-frame of the bladed monster—“we could be on the verge of a massive change that would upset every institution of government, business, society in general. Drake. Taylor. This art student. It is our duty to stop these people.”
“You want me to turn into that? No thanks!”
“Ah, but our young art student was able to revert, to turn back into himself. It seems as if the power and the morph are inextricably linked. This makes it worse, you see, because people with powers can change back, disappear into the population. Dekka: they must be stopped.”
“You stop them,” Dekka said. “I’ve had my war.”
“I know that,” Peaks said. “We aren’t looking for that. We aren’t looking for soldiers, Dekka, we need to understand the effects of the ASO. We need to test it on you, see whether you—uniquely qualified you—regain your power. And then, Dekka?”
“Yeah?”
“Then we need to find a way to take that power away. Because only then can society be safe from the Drakes and the Justins.”
He was very convincing, and Dekka knew she had no choice but to help. But at the same time, there was a lie buried in that nice speech. Dekka sensed it, but couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
“All right,” Dekka said. “You can stick more needles in me.”
CHAPTER 8
Daddy Issues
“I WANT SOME.”
They were in Malik’s room, the day after the cemetery. Cruz had thought Shade’s house was posh, the very symbol of upper-middle-class Evanston. But Malik’s home made Shade’s look like a shack. His mother was something important at a bank in Chicago, and his father was an author of best-selling mystery novels. (A fact that Cruz filed away for future use: a published author might be very helpful someday to an aspiring young writer like herself.) Their house fronted Lake Michigan and was filled with abstract art on the walls and African sculpture resting in lit alcoves or atop marble stands in the spacious formal rooms.
Malik’s own room was nearly the size of Cruz’s entire apartment. Cruz knew there were people who lived like this, but she’d always somehow assumed those were TV people, celebrities, not regular humans.
Malik had a small collection of classic electric guitars hanging on one wall, framed posters of Jimi Hendrix, Chuck Berry, Slash, Prince, and various other presumably great guitar players who Cruz did not recognize.
They sat, the three of them, Shade in an easy chair, Cruz in a cool, hanging swing chair that made her desperately jealous, and Malik on his bed.
“Want some what?” Malik asked.
“Rock,” Cruz said. “I want some of the rock.”
“You know the Law of Holes, Cruz?” Malik asked. “It goes like this: when you’re in a hole, stop digging.”
“Mmmm,” Shade said, “and why are you so sure we’re in a hole?”
“Really?” Malik asked with a skeptical tone. “You think, what, you’re good? All set? Shade, you committed a federal crime; you acquired a power. You think the whole government of the United States of America is just going to let that happen? Some girl can turn into some creepy, plasticky, half-flea-looking thing and outrun the speed of sound, and the government is just going to shrug and say, Whatever? Have you thought through what this power means, Shade?”
Shade didn’t answer, just gave a little hand flourish and eye roll that meant, You’re going to tell me anyway, so go for it.
“A person with sup
er-speed,” Malik said, reminding Cruz of WikiShade, “can go anywhere, steal literally anything: money, secrets. You could zoom into a bank and clean them out. You could go to the Louvre and take the Mona Lisa. You could run into an investment bank, harvest every password. You could do the same at the CIA or the NSA. And not to get too grim about it, but you could run right past the Secret Service and kill the president of the United States. It’s better than super strength, or firing energy beams, or telekinesis, or invisibility; it’s better than just about anything but teleportation or mind control.”