Partials series 1-3 (Partials; Fragments; Ruins). Dan Wells

problem, which was that whatever she did with her own breath, she’d have to do the same with the Partial’s breath as well. Both tests needed to be the same, or the results wouldn’t mean anything, and she was pretty sure the Partial wouldn’t blow up a rubber glove. She let the glove deflate. She’d have to think of something else.

      “We were winning the war,” said the Partial softly. Kira still started when it spoke, not expecting to hear anything from it.

      “What?” Kira stared at it, then shoved the glove into her pocket. “Why the hell are you bringing that up?”

      “Because you think we created the virus; that’s why you’re studying me as part of your mission to cure it. You think we engineered it.” It shook its head. “We didn’t.”

      “Obviously I expect you to lie to me,” said Kira, “but I was hoping you’d be a little more creative.”

      “It’s the truth.”

      “It is not true!” she shouted. The Partial didn’t respond, simply watched her from the table. Its eyes were dark and serious. “You attacked us, you killed us, and you released that virus to finish the job.”

      “We were winning the war,” it said again. “We were the largest branch of your military, so there was no effective way for you to fight back; we struck quickly, we took out your communications, we crippled your counterattack. You had no way of stopping us. In another few weeks, maybe as few as two, we would have taken full control of the government, and we would have done it without losing the infrastructure your society had created—electricity, natural gas, shipping and industry and food production—”

      “Was that your plan?” asked Kira bitterly. “To use us as slaves? As labor to maintain your infrastructure?”

      “You mean the same thing you had done to us?”

      Kira stared at it, anger rising up by the second, hot as a welding torch burning through her from inside. She pulled the glove back out of her pocket, stalked to the medicomp, and threw the glove into the hazmat can.

      “We didn’t want to enslave you,” said the Partial. “Even if we did, we didn’t want or need to kill you to do it. There was no purpose, tactical or political or otherwise, in releasing a killer virus.”

      “You expect me to believe that a perfect supervirus, which destroyed humans and left you unscathed, was coincidentally released in the middle of your attack—and that you had nothing at all to do with it?”

      “I admit that it seems far-fetched.”

      “Far-fetched is an understatement.”

      “We’ve been searching for an explanation ever since,” it said, “but we still don’t know where it came from.”

      “I don’t know why I am even talking to you,” said Kira. It was crazy to think she was putting any credence in anything it said—and she was crazy to be listening to it at all. She turned back to the medicomp, staring angrily at the images and data, but she couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the Partial, first once, then again. It knew something. If she could see through its lies, perhaps there was something useful in what it was saying. Everything it said was flat and emotionless, almost as if it didn’t, or couldn’t, care. She swiveled fully toward it, leaning forward in her chair. “All right,” she said, “since you’re in such a talkative mood: Why were you in Manhattan?”

      It said nothing. She waited, staring at him, and asked again in frustration, “What was your mission? Why were you so close to our border?”

      “I can’t tell you.”

      “Why not?”

      The Partial stared at the ceiling. “Because I don’t want them to kill me.”

      

      It was nearly midnight when Kira left the hospital, and she shivered slightly in the cool air—summer or not, night on Long Island could still get chilly. The Partial had refused to say any more, and Kira was half grateful: As desperate as she was to know what he was talking about, she was also scared. If what it knew was so dangerous that even talking about it would get it killed . . . she shivered again, just thinking about it.

      Instead, she’d spent the day buried in the medicomp files, studying the virus: its specific structure, the proteins that made up the walls and receptor nodes, the genetic payload it carried inside. The hospital had some incredibly advanced genetic equipment, some of the same old devices they had once used for genetic modification—everything from curing diseases to changing eye color—but all the people who knew how to use them had died in the Break. It was ironic, in a way, that they had such incredible technology, from a time so recent, that no living person could understand. Sometimes Kira almost thought of them as magic: mystic artifacts from some forgotten civilization. Dr. Skousen and his researchers studied them in darkened rooms, surrounded by the ancient tomes of their craft, but the magic was gone. They could find the genetic coding in RM, but they couldn’t change it or even read it. All they could do was watch, and guess, and hope for a breakthrough.

      Kira had found no breakthroughs. There were four days left.

      She walked slowly through the city, eager to go home and collapse into sleep but still aimless, in a way, as if her brain were too tired of focusing, and wanted simply to meander. She followed it through the darkened city, passing quiet houses and cracked sidewalks and dirty roads beaten smooth by traffic. At night East Meadow seemed almost as empty as the outside world—the omnipresent plant growth was kept in check by the sheer mass of people and animals, but the houses were just as dark, the streets just as empty, the world just as quiet. In the daytime the city was populated but sparse; in the night, it was just another part of the ruin that covered the world.

      Kira rounded a corner and realized where she was—where she’d been walking, subconsciously, since the moment she left the hospital. Marcus’s street. She stood on the corner, unmoving, counting down the houses five, four, three, two, one and then his on the right. He’d lived with an older man for several years, then moved in with another foster parent when the first man died, and when he turned sixteen he moved out into his own place. It was no big deal, moving; all you had to do was find a house in good condition, clean it up, and there you were. The owners were all dead, the banks were all defunct, there were more than enough for everyone to have two, five, even ten houses if you wanted them. Long Island had been home to millions of people. The old world had been consumed with the search for More Stuff. Now there was more stuff than anyone could ever use, and little or none of anything else.

      Kira saw a gleam of yellow light, faint and distant. She paused, squinting, and saw it again. It was definitely Marcus’s house. Why was he up this late? She walked forward, stepping carefully over the tree-root cracks in the buckled sidewalk, keeping her eyes on the flickering light. It was a candle, shining softly through the window. She stopped on the lawn in front, peering in at the room beyond: a candle, a chair, and Marcus, asleep sitting up. The walls were bare, marked with the nails of somebody else’s photos, now pulled down or stored or thrown away. She watched Marcus for an endless moment, and then suddenly he was watching her, his head raised, his eyes open.

      He sat still, watching with wide eyes, waiting for her to move. She stood still and watched back.

      The candle flickered.

      Marcus stood up and disappeared behind the frame of the window, and then the front door opened. Kira was running up the porch steps before she even knew what was happening, and when Marcus appeared in the doorway, she threw her arms around him, sinking her face into his chest. He caught her tightly, holding her close, and she closed her eyes and soaked him in: his strength, his smell, his presence, as recognizable to her as her own. He’d been a part of her life for as long as she could remember; he was more real than anything in the old world. That was the life she’d been born in, but this—East Meadow, Marcus, even RM—was the life she lived. She held