Ruins

  Kira nodded, thinking. “Do you have any idea what they want to talk about?”

  “Our terms of surrender,” said Haru.

  “Maybe,” said Mkele. “He said he’d meet us in an hour, minus the time it took me to cross.”

  “About forty minutes left, then,” said Phan. “Enough time to get some scouts out into that forest and make sure this isn’t a trap.”

  “We’ll send you and Heron,” said Kira, turning to look for her, but the girl had already disappeared. “I guess she’s already out there.”

  “Go carefully,” said Marcus, stopping Phan with a hand on his arm. “Keep your eye open for any signs of a double-cross, but assume they’re doing the same, and don’t make any suspicious moves.” Phan nodded and left.

  “I guess this means we’re going?” asked Haru.

  “I am,” said Kira. She looked at Mkele. “Did they say how many people we could send?”

  Mkele shook his head. “They don’t seem concerned about it. Obviously I’m coming with you as well.”

  “What about weapons?” asked Calix.

  “They didn’t seem concerned about that either,” said Mkele.

  Haru growled. “Arrogant sons of—”

  “We’re not taking any weapons,” said Kira. Haru started to protest, and Mkele with him, but Kira silenced them both. “No weapons. This is our first real chance for diplomacy, and it could be our last. If it turns into a fight we’re as good as dead anyway, so let’s try to look as peaceful as possible.”

  Haru grumbled but pulled out his handgun and set it on a table. The others piled their weapons in the same place, bundled themselves tightly, and set off down the road, careful of the slick ice hidden beneath the soft layer of snow. It was snowing again, gently at the moment, coating the empty forest in a fresh layer of white and gray. They saw a group of people walk into the far end of the road, coming to meet them; as the Partials neared, Kira saw one of them in chains, and tears sprang into her eyes when she recognized Samm.

  We still don’t know what this is about, she reminded herself. Maybe they’ll execute him right in front of us.

  The two groups stopped in a small T-intersection, where a third road ran south toward the ocean. Kira, Marcus, Calix, Ritter, Haru, and Mkele stood silently, facing off against five Partial soldiers and the manacled Samm. They stopped at opposite edges of the intersection, waiting.

  “You okay, Samm?” Kira called out.

  “Yes,” said Samm, and Kira felt a surge of relief to hear his voice—followed almost immediately by frustration. Why does he always have to be so taciturn?

  The Partial in the center of the line walked forward, his feet crunching in the snow, and stopped in the middle of the icy road. Kira hesitated a moment, then walked forward to meet him.

  “My name is Shon,” said the Partial. “Acting general of the Partial army.”

  Kira looked him in the eye. “Kira Walker. I suppose you could say that I’m the closest thing the human race has to a leader right now.”

  “I was told I could trust you.”

  Kira nodded. “Do you?”

  “Samm told me some very interesting things about you and your . . . theories.”

  Kira couldn’t help but notice that it wasn’t an answer. She humored him and followed the new line of discussion. “If we work together, we can save both species. See that man behind me, second from the end? His name is Ritter, and he’s from the Third Division.”

  “I’ve linked him, yes,” said Shon.

  “He’s twenty-two years old,” said Kira. “You can cure us, and we can cure you. Regular contact between the species will propagate a biological particle that—”

  “Samm explained it all,” said Shon. “On the other hand, he also introduced me to one of the AWOL Partials we’d already captured, a man named Green. It’s hard to believe your theory when the man with the most human contact is lying on his deathbed.”

  Kira felt a pang of despair. “Is he already—?”

  “He might as well be,” said Shon. “Some of his batch already expired in the night. When I left Green this morning he could barely breathe, let alone speak or keep his eyes open.”

  “I’d like to see him again,” said Kira. “Even if it’s only . . . after.”

  “Friendships like yours with Green,” said Shon, “or with Samm, or this other Partial behind you, are inspiring in their way, but that’s not enough. You have to see that.”

  “I do.”

  “The seeds for the hatred between my people and yours were sown years ago,” said Shon. “Before either of us were born. We tried living together once before, and it failed—my best friend was beaten to death by human supremacists in Chicago, five months before the revolution even started, for having the temerity to take a human girl to see a movie.”

  Kira was silent.

  “You want peace,” said Shon. “You want it, and I want it, but the two of us can’t speak for everyone. For the tens of thousands of scared, flawed, fallible people who are going to be down there every day, living and working and arguing and being . . . people. They’re going to fight, because that’s our natural state of being, Partials and humans. It’s how we were built.”

  “That doesn’t mean we can’t try,” said Kira. “Things are different than they were before the Break.”

  “You don’t know what it took just to get these other soldiers to agree to this meeting,” said Shon, gesturing behind him. His link data was growing more and more exasperated. “The slightest sign of treachery from you could destroy this peace in seconds, and that’s just us. That’s the people I trust. What if we make an alliance and join together, and then one of your humans cracks a joke about Partial labor, or the old work programs that helped spark the revolution in the first place?”

  “Don’t assume the humans will be the ones to ruin this,” Kira insisted, feeling her anger rise. “What happens when one of your Partials calls it the revolution, or says something about winning your freedom, standing next to a human who lost his wife and his children and his parents and everything else he ever loved—” She froze, listening. “Wait.”

  “I hear it too,” said Shon, and looked up. The entire Partial line had gone tense, listening intently to the deep, rhythmic hum. Kira didn’t dare to look behind her, too worried Shon would see it as a signal to her companions. The general’s link data flooded out in frustrated confusion.

  “That’s a rotor,” said Kira, turning south to scan the sky. The snow had come in more thickly, and she could barely see more than half a mile.

  “It’s not ours,” said Shon, and then jabbed a finger toward the clouds. “There!” He backed away, shouting to his men. “Fall back!”

  “It’s an ambush!” shouted another Partial, and Kira surged forward, trying to warn them.

  “Take cover!” she shouted. She heard Marcus shouting for everyone to get back, to find safe positions, but she knew it was too late for that. She was out in the open, weaponless and defenseless, and there was nothing she could do to stop Armin from killing her. Her only priority was to save the treaty, to keep this from destroying the already-too-fragile peace between the humans and the Partials. Shon and his men were taking cover in the trees, but Samm ran toward her, his chained ankles shuffling painfully across the iced road. Kira shouted to Shon, trying to explain what was happening, when suddenly the rotor burst out of the clouds in front of her, snow swirling through the massive blades in the wings. It banked toward her, swooping low over her head and knocking her and Samm to the ground with the force of its downdraft; it tilted back and dove toward her other friends, sending them sprawling. The craft set down in front of them, cutting off Kira’s retreat, and the side door hissed open. Ivies poured out, rifles up and ready, and behind them came Armin: his carving knife in one hand, an empty jar in the other.

  “Kira,” said Armin.

  “You can have my blood,” Kira shouted, “but nobody else’s.” She pointed behind her at Shon and his sergeants, wat
ching the scene with obvious shock. “We’re making peace here, Armin. This is the end of the war, and I’m not going to let you ruin it.”

  Ritter ran out from behind the rotor, a branch in his fist, ripped from one of the snowy trees on the side of the road, but the Ivies had sensed him coming on the link and turned to fire before he’d even cleared the corner of the aircraft. Kira screamed, incensed by his empty sacrifice, but a moment later she saw the sense behind it: Marcus and the other humans had flanked them, charging around the other side of the rotor, surprising the Ivies from behind and tackling two of them to the frozen ground. The remaining Ivies spun again to meet the new threat, and Kira screamed again as her friends went down, as Marcus went down, blood erupting from their ragged coats in bright red clouds. She ran toward them, still screaming incoherently, Samm struggling to hold her back, when the Partials rose up behind her, drawing weapons of their own and charging toward the fight, firing at the Ivies. The Ivies fired back, and Kira screamed as Samm stepped in front of her, taking a bullet in his arm. Armin stood in the middle of the battle, seemingly unafraid, and stopped the world with a thought.

  NO

  The command rolled out across the link, freezing Shon and his Partials midstep, binding Samm like a man of stone, stopping even the Ivies. Kira stumbled, overwhelmed by the order, by the word, by the entire concept of NO. It seemed to fill her link, her mind, her entire body. She gritted her teeth and put her hands to her head, as if she could somehow shut it out.

  “That’s better,” said Armin. He looked at Kira, walking toward her slowly. “You were right about one thing,” he said. “This is the end. Maybe not of your war—they look to still have some fight left in them—but of the war’s importance. I have all the DNA I need now. The humans and Partials, so desperate to end each other’s existence, can now do so without harming our future.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way,” said Kira, forcing the words out. “It’s your plan—the one you made all those years ago. It can still happen.”

  “For the moment, perhaps,” said Armin. “But eventually they’ll start fighting again. They’ll blame each other for your death, for not saving you or killing me. They might even try to work together to leave this island before it irradiates them all beyond recovery, but it won’t last. Their differences are too great, and the biological peace I tried to force with RM and the Partial DNA wasn’t enough.”

  With a herculean effort Samm moved his foot, planting himself in Armin’s path. He stared at the man with clenched teeth, too rigid to speak, but determined to defend her.

  Armin stopped in surprise. “Impressive. But it doesn’t matter. Jerry has reset the planet, and I’ll start over with a new species, built as one from the beginning instead of this ham-fisted attempt to make two coexist. They will inherit the Earth, and you will be their mother, and they will go on to greater and more glorious things than any of us could imagine. You don’t understand this yet, and I suppose you never will, but that’s the greatest goal of any parent: to be surpassed by his children.”

  “So let me live to surpass you,” said Kira. “It can’t be that hard—I’m already not a psychopath.” She forced her legs backward—first one, then the other, draining every ounce of her will. She didn’t know if she could take another step.

  “Shortsighted comments like that are the surest sign that you’re already not worthy of the new world.” He stepped around Samm, holding up his knife, but with a guttural roar the Partial moved again, barring the Blood Man’s way. “Don’t make me kill you, too,” said Armin calmly. “I don’t wish to harm anyone, but I will have her DNA at any cost.”

  “If you want a new world, a world that can live in peace, you have to let go,” said Kira. “From the beginning of this whole thing, the creation of the Partials and the formation of the Trust, you’ve been trying to control it, to manage every step of every process. That’s what failed, Armin. Not the biology, but your attempt to control it. We have to be able to choose. We have fallen, and we have to rise up again.”

  “Humans have had their chance,” said Armin. “They failed, and they nearly took the entire planet with them. That isn’t going to happen again.”

  “Damn straight it won’t,” said a voice. Armin turned in surprise, and Kira forced her head sideways.

  Heron was walking slowly out of the trees, playing idly with a handgun.

  STOP

  Kira felt Armin’s new link data batter at her will, at her very sense of self, but Heron simply smiled and kept coming.

  “I see,” said Armin. “One of the Thetas.” He set his glass jar carefully on the ground and straightened up with knife in hand. “This is just what I was talking about, Kira. The Thetas have free will—the others told me I was crazy to make a Partial model that couldn’t be controlled through the link, but I was an idealist. I believed then, as you believe now, that the element of choice was too important to completely cut out of the species. Now I know better. I gave them choice, and all they used it for was disobedience.” He tilted his head, looking at Heron with cold, calculating eyes. “I thought I’d hunted all of you down.”

  “You were the one who killed the other spy models?” asked Heron. “Every word out of your mouth is another reason to kick your ass.”

  Armin shook his head. “I might not be able to control you, but I have gene mods you can’t imagine. Attacking me would be folly.”

  “More and more,” said Heron, reaching a distance about ten feet away from him, and slowly circling to the side. “Kira, sweetie, I’m going to murder your dad.”

  Kira tried to answer, but the link still held her locked in place.

  “I designed you to be an evolution of the Partial template, Theta, but now I know you’re exactly why we need to start over,” said Armin, and Kira could hear the impatience rising in his voice. “We need a species that dreams of the stars, not one that lurks in the shadows and kills for sport.”

  “You want a species without me in it?” asked Heron. “Bite me.” She dashed forward in a blur, firing her pistol; Armin sidestepped the first shot easily, and she sent the next one to his right, missing on purpose, driving him to the left where her other hand was ready with a knife. He saw the feint coming, deflected the knife in a single swift movement, and spun back the other way, leaving her line of fire just as she was bringing the barrel of her gun back toward him; he stepped between the bullets so precisely it looked rehearsed.

  “You can’t be controlled through the link, but you still broadcast tactically,” he said. “I know everything you’re going to do before you do it.” She looked unfazed, ignoring him and focusing on the fight. He danced lightly through her next several gunshots, moving so calmly he never looked like he was straining. Heron worked her way closer, sometimes leading him with bullets, sometimes trying for a hit, all the time working her way back into knife range. Kira tried to keep track of the number of shots, wondering when she would run out, when suddenly Heron slashed with her knife, dropping her gun hand and ejecting the ammo clip from the pistol; it slid across the ice, and when Armin stepped back to dodge the blade, his foot landed on the sliding metal clip and he lost his balance, throwing out his arm to keep from falling. Heron took the opening with a vicious grin, leaping forward to slash at the man’s throat, but he turned his pinwheel into a parry, taking her blade on the bone of his arm and slashing back with his own knife. Heron backed up, reassessing the situation.

  “That was a good trick,” said Armin, “but you can’t beat me.”

  “Probably not,” said Heron. “Doesn’t mean I can’t win.” She paused. “Kira?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me you’re sure about this,” said Heron. “Tell me it’ll work, and everyone will live, and I’m not just wasting my time.”

  Kira set her jaw. “I promise.”

  “Well then,” said Heron, drawing another knife from her belt. “Let’s end this.”

  She dashed forward, a blade in each hand, slashing and stabbing li
ke a tornado of steel. Armin struck at her, a clear feint to drive her to the side, but Heron screamed and took the blade in her chest, catching the weapon with her own body and bearing him backward with the force of her charge. His eyes widened in shock as he tried to draw back his knife, but it was too late; Heron had her opening.

  Six lightning-fast slashes from her knives, and she had cut him to ribbons.

  Armin teetered on his feet, bleeding from a dozen deep slashes in his neck and chest, and collapsed into the snow.

  Heron started to pivot but collapsed beside him, his knife still deep in her heart.

  DEATH

  Kira felt the tears on her face, hot and freezing at the same time. She forced her foot forward, first one inch, then two. Armin’s overpowering command data faded from the air, and she took another step, then another. Heron’s blood steamed in the frozen road, melting dark red holes in the snow below her.

  Two more steps. Three.

  Kira uncurled her fingers with a groan, stiff from the cold and the iron grip of Armin’s link. She reached Heron and sank to her knees, checking the girl’s throat. Heron’s pulse was faint and erratic. She put her hands over the wound, but it was a bloody mess, and she knew it was too late.

  Heron’s hand reached up and found Kira’s, feebly grasping it with useless fingers. Her voice was a whisper. “If my life had no meaning, there was no reason not to end it.”

  Kira gripped the girl’s hand tightly, her heart breaking. “So you ended it?”

  “So I gave it meaning.”

  Heron’s eyes fluttered and rolled back. Her hand went limp. Kira sobbed and held her, feeling the last of her life fade away.

  DEATH

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  General Shon walked slowly up behind her and knelt in the snow at Kira’s side.

  “I promised her I’d make this work,” said Kira. “I know it’s not going to be perfect, or easy, and for all I know it’s going to fail, but . . .” She clenched Heron’s hand in her own. “We have to try.”