Fragments. Dan Wells

heavy moments later, Tovar finally spoke.

      “So you think we need to defend ourselves.”

      “I think I’m scared to death, and I need to learn how to stop talking when everyone is staring at me.”

      “Defending ourselves is not a viable option,” said Woolf, and the other senators stiffened in surprise. “The Defense Grid is well trained and as well equipped as a human army can possibly be. We have watches on every coast, we have bombs on every remaining bridge, we have ambush sites already mapped and ready to go at every likely invasion point. And yet no matter how well prepared we are, it will barely be a speed bump if a sizeable faction of Partials initiate an invasion. That’s an inescapable fact that cannot possibly be news to anyone in this room. We patrol this island because it’s all we can do, but if the Partials ever actually decide to invade, we will be conquered within days, if not hours.”

      “The only remotely good news,” said Marcus, “is that their society is, if you’ll pardon the comparison, even more fractured than ours. The mainland was practically a war zone when we were over there, which could be the only reason they haven’t attacked us already.”

      “So they kill each other and our problem solves itself,” said Kessler.

      “Except for the RM,” said Hobb.

      “Taking everything Mr. Valencio has said into account,” said Woolf, “we only have one real plan that has any hope of success. Step one, we sneak into that mainland war zone, hope nobody notices us, and grab a couple of Partials for Dr. Skousen to experiment on. Step two, we evacuate the entire island and get as far away as possible.”

      The room was quiet. Marcus sat down. Leaving the island was crazy—it was their home, it was their only safe haven, that was why they’d come here in the first place—but that wasn’t really true anymore, was it? In the wake of the Partial War, this island had been like a sanctuary; they’d escaped from the Partials, they’d found a new life, and they’d started to rebuild. But that safety didn’t really have anything to do with the island, now that Marcus thought about it. They’d been safe because the Partials had ignored them, and now that the Partials were back—now that there were boats in the sound, and Heron hiding in the shadows, and the vicious Dr. Morgan trying to turn them all into experiments—that illusion of safety had melted away. Nobody had to say it out loud, nobody had to make an official decision, but Marcus knew it was done. He could see it in the faces of everyone in the room. The instant evacuation was broached as a possibility, it became a certainty.

      The side door opened, and Marcus caught a glimpse of the Grid soldiers guarding the other side. They stepped aside and a large man stepped in: Duna Mkele, the “intelligence officer.” It occurred to Marcus that he didn’t know who, exactly, Mkele worked for; he seemed to have free access to the Senate, and some measure of authority over the Grid, but as far as Marcus could tell, he didn’t really answer to either group. Regardless of how those relationships worked, Marcus didn’t like the man. His presence was almost always a sign of bad news.

      Mkele walked to Senator Woolf and whispered in his ear; Marcus tried to read their lips, or at least judge the reaction on their faces, but they turned their backs on the crowd. A moment later they walked to Tovar and whispered to him. Tovar listened solemnly, then looked at the crowd of people watching him. He turned back to Woolf and spoke in a loud stage voice obviously intended to carry throughout the room.

      “They already know the first half; you might as well tell them the rest.”

      Marcus saw clearly the stern look that passed over Mkele’s face. Woolf looked back unapologetically, then turned to face the crowd.

      “It appears our timetable has been accelerated,” said Woolf. “The Partials have made ground on Long Island, near Mount Sinai Harbor, approximately five minutes ago.”

      The meeting hall erupted in noisy conversations, and Marcus felt his stomach lurch with a sudden, terrifying fear. What did it mean—was this the end? Was this an invasion force, or a brazen raid to steal human test subjects? Was this Dr. Morgan’s group, Dr. Morgan’s enemies, or some other faction altogether?

      Was Samm with them?

      Did this mean Heron’s plan had failed? They couldn’t find Kira and Nandita through stealth and investigation, so it was time for a full invasion? He felt a moment of horrifying guilt, as if the entire invasion was his fault, personally, for failing to heed Heron’s warning. But he hadn’t seen Kira in months and Nandita in over a year; what could he have done? As the crowd roared in fear and confusion, as the reality of the situation sank into him, Marcus realized that it didn’t matter. He wasn’t ready to sacrifice anyone; he’d rather go down fighting than sell his soul for peace.

      For the second time that day Marcus felt himself standing, heard his voice calling out. “I volunteer for the force that goes out to meet them,” he said. “You need a medic—I volunteer.”

      Senator Tovar looked at him, nodded, then turned back to Mkele and Woolf. The room continued to buzz with fear and speculation. Marcus collapsed back into his chair.

      I really need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

      

ira picked through the ruins of the town house, overwhelmed by the chaos: Walls had fallen in, floors and ceilings had collapsed, shards of furniture had separated and scattered and clustered again in random piles. Wood and books and paper and dishes and twisted chunks of metal filled the crater and spilled far into the street, thrown by the force of the blast.

      The home had definitely been inhabited, and recently. Kira had seen a lot of old-world debris in her life; she had grown up surrounded by it, and it had become familiar: framed photos of long-dead families, little black boxes of media players and game systems, broken vases full of brittle stems. The details varied from house to house, but the feel was the same—forgotten lives of forgotten people. The debris from this home was different, and distinctly modern: stockpiles of canned food, now burst and rotting in the rubble; boarded windows and reinforced doors; guns and ammunition and handmade camouflage. Someone had lived here, long after the world was destroyed, and when someone else—the Partials?—had invaded their privacy, they blew up their own home. The pattern of the destruction was too complete, and too contained, to be an outside attack; an enemy would have used a smaller explosive to breach the wall, or a larger one that would have caught the neighboring houses as well. Whoever had destroyed this home had done their work pragmatically and with devastating thoroughness.

      The crater reminded her, the more she thought about it, of a similar explosion she’d seen last year—before the cure, before Samm, before everything. She’d gone on a salvage run with Marcus and Jayden, somewhere on the North Shore of Long Island, and a building had been rigged to explode. It had been a booby trap, much like this one seemed to be—not designed to kill but to destroy evidence. What was the name of that little town? Asharoken; I remember how Jayden made fun of the name. And why were they looking in that building, anyway? It had been flagged by a preliminary salvage crew, and the soldiers had gone back to investigate; they’ d had specialists with them, like a computer guy or something. Something electronic? Her breath caught in her throat as the memory returned: It was a radio station. Someone had set up a radio station on the North Shore, and then blown it up to keep it secret. And now someone had done the same thing here. Was it the same someone?

      Kira stepped back reflexively, as if the demolished building could somehow contain another bomb. She stared at the wreckage, summoned her courage, and walked in, placing her feet carefully in the unstable ruins. It didn’t take long to find the first body. A soldier dressed in a gray uniform—a Partial—was lodged under a fallen wall, a fractured corpse in the crumpled remains of composite body armor. His rifle lay beside him, and she pulled it from the rubble with surprising ease; the action moved stiffly, but it moved nonetheless, and the chamber still held