Fragments (40 page)

Afa was still screaming, sobbing hysterically, but at least he was still alive. She
cast her eyes around the kitchen, searching for anything she could use—towels to wipe
them dry or food to calm them down—and saw that the sink had two faucets, a normal
one and a strange, industrial hand pump. She stared at it, caught by the incongruity,
and then it dawned on her.

“This is a farmhouse!” she shouted, rushing toward the cupboards. “They have a well!”

“What?” asked Heron.

“They’re too far out of town for the normal water system, so they have well water—their
own aquifer deep underground, and their own pump to work it.” She clattered in the
cupboards, finding the biggest bucket she could and rushing it to the sink. “There
are a couple of these on farms back home, and they’re the only running water on the
island. These pumps are completely self-contained, so they should still work.” She
worked the handle, but it was stiff and dry; she threw open the refrigerator, found
a jar of rancid pickles, and poured the pungent juice down the pump to prime it. She
worked it again, up and down, up and down; Heron joined her, and suddenly the water
came gushing out into the pot. Kira filled it while Heron grabbed another, and when
it was filled they picked it up together and threw the water at the horses, washing
some of the acid away. They pumped again, repeating the process, throwing bucket after
bucket at the horses until Kira was sure the well would run dry. Little by little
the horses calmed, the acid washed off their backs, and the two girls ran in to cut
Afa loose and drag him, still sobbing, to the kitchen. His clothes, still on him,
were nearly eaten away, and his back was a mass of welts and burns and blisters. Heron
pumped another bucket of water, and Kira went back to the horses to unbuckle the saddles
and bags and pull out the medicine. Afa was too hoarse now to scream, and only rocked
back and forth on the floor; Samm looked unconscious, or deep in meditation to control
the pain, and Kira wondered how damaged his eyes really were. She paused, exhausted,
and looked at Heron.

Heron looked back, just as drained, and shook her head. “You still think we made the
right decision, Kira?”

No,
thought Kira, but she forced herself to say “Yes.”

“You’d better hope so,” said Heron. “We’re only about twenty miles into this toxic
wasteland. We’ve got another seven hundred to go.”

M
arcus and the soldiers traveled north, through the ruins of Jersey City and Hoboken
and the vast metropolitan cityscape west of the Hudson River. Their plan was to swing
wide around any hostile Partial lookouts hiding in Manhattan or the Bronx, and this
required them to go much farther north than they strictly needed to, just to find
a way back across the Hudson River. North of Manhattan it widened significantly, becoming
more of a bay than a river, and the bridge they finally found crossed it at nearly
its longest point: a white needle through the sky called the Tappan Zee Bridge. It
was newer than any bridge Marcus had seen before, and he guessed it had been recently
rebuilt sometime just before the Break. It was miles long, and took nearly a full
day’s march to cross. That it had survived at all was amazing; that it had survived
in nearly perfect condition was a testament to the glories of the old world. It made
him wonder if future generations, assuming they ever had any, would look at this impossible
architectural feat with the same awe and reverence as the pyramids, or the Great Wall
of China. A pathway through the sky.
They’ll probably come up with some ridiculous religious explanation for it,
he thought,
like we built it as a road to get to heaven, and each pillar represents some aspect
of our belief, and the length of the bridge times the height is the sign of the vernal
equinox.
The bridge was covered with cars, many of them crashed or sideways or strewn together
into arcane patterns, and they had to move slowly through the mess, stopping and starting
and climbing over the hot metal relics as they baked in the sun.

The city on the far side of the river was called Tarrytown, and as they followed the
bridge down toward the surface streets a loud voice rang out through the ruins.

“Stop!”

The soldiers raised their rifles, but Commander Woolf gestured for them to put them
back down. “We mean no harm!” he said loudly, answering back. “We’re here to talk!”

“You’re humans,” said the voice, and Woolf nodded, gripping his rifle by the barrel
and holding it up in the air, demonstrating as clearly as possible that he was not
holding it near the trigger.

“Our guns are for defense only,” he said. “We’re not looking for a fight. We want
to talk to whoever’s in charge.”

There was a long silence, and when the voice shouted back, Marcus thought it sounded
. . . hesitant.

“State your purpose.”

“A Partial by the name of Morgan has attacked our settlement and taken our people
hostage, and we know she’s your enemy as much as she is ours. We have an old human
saying: ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ We’re kind of hoping that makes us friendly
enough to talk for a minute.”

There was another long pause, and then the voice said, “Put your weapons on the ground
and step away from them.”

“Do as he says,” said Woolf, bending down to place his rifle on the ground. Marcus
did the same, and all around him the other soldiers followed suit, some more reluctantly
than others. There were ten of them, plus Woolf and Marcus, but the three Partials
who emerged and walked up the bridge to meet them seemed confident that they were
more than a match for twelve humans. Marcus agreed with them. The lead Partial was
a young man, Samm’s age, though Marcus realized that this was only natural: The Partial
infantry were all the same age, frozen at eighteen years old.
I guess we’ll meet the generals once we get into White Plains.

“My name is Vinci,” said the Partial, and Marcus recognized the voice as the man who’d
been shouting to them a few minutes ago.

“We want to talk about a treaty,” said Woolf. “An alliance between our people and
yours.”

If Vinci was surprised he didn’t show it, though Marcus had always found the Partials
hard to read. The man glanced over their group, then looked back at Woolf. “I’m afraid
we can’t help you.”

Marcus started in surprise.

“Just like that?” asked Woolf. “You’ll hear us, but you won’t even think about what
we say?”

“It’s not my place to think about it,” said Vinci. “I’m a rearguard watchman, not
a general or a diplomat.”

“Then take us to the generals and diplomats,” said Woolf. “Take us to someone who
can hear us out.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that either,” said Vinci.

“Are you not allowed to let us into your territory?” asked Woolf. “Then send a messenger—we’ll
camp here, we’ll camp on the bridge if that’s better for you—but tell someone in charge
that we’re here, and what we’re offering. At least do that much.”

Vinci paused again, thinking, though Marcus couldn’t tell if he was thinking about
agreeing or just trying to come up with another way of saying no.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, “it’s simply too dangerous right now. The war with Morgan’s
forces is . . .” He paused, as if looking for the right words. “Spiraling out of control.”

“We’re willing to risk it,” said Marcus.

“We’re not,” said Vinci.

“Why won’t you at least hear us out?” cried Woolf, stepping forward, and suddenly
the Partials swung their weapons up. Woolf was practically seething, and Marcus could
tell that he was on the verge of starting a fight and hoping he had enough guys left
to look for someone more helpful. Marcus racked his brain for something he could do
to defuse the situation; he thought about Samm, and the way he had talked, and the
things that did and didn’t work with him. He had been unerringly pragmatic, and almost
helplessly loyal to his leaders, even when he disagreed with them. Marcus thought
back over everything, and leapt in front of Woolf right as the old man seemed to be
about to make a move.

“Wait,” said Marcus nervously, half expecting to get punched—from in front or from
behind. “My name’s Marcus Valencio,” he said. “I’m kind of the designated ‘Partials
relations consultant’ around here.” He said it as much for Woolf’s benefit as for
the Partials, hoping it would slow them down and give him a chance to talk. “If you’ll
permit me to ask a politically sensitive question, what do you mean when you say you
can’t help us?”

“He means he
won’t
help us,” said Woolf.

Vinci didn’t answer, but after a moment he nodded.

“See, I don’t think that’s actually the problem,” said Marcus. Vinci was already looking
at him, but now he focused in on Marcus with his full, laserlike attention, and Marcus
was all too aware of the difference in intensity. He smiled nervously, assuring himself
that this predatory look on the man’s face was a sign that Marcus was right: There
was indeed a secret here, and Vinci was too loyal to ever admit it.

“You’re dying,” said Marcus. “Not you personally, at least not yet, but your people.
Your leaders. Every Partial has a twenty-year expiration date, and you didn’t learn
this until the first ones died, and by now you’ve lost a second or third or maybe
even a fourth generation of Partials, and if I’m guessing correctly, that includes
almost all your generals. Everyone in charge.”

Vinci didn’t agree, but he didn’t deny it. Marcus watched his face for any change
of emotion or expression, but they had such emotionless faces he couldn’t tell what
the man was thinking. He kept talking.

“I think what you’re saying,” Marcus finished, “is that we can’t broker an alliance
because there’s nobody left in their nation with enough authority to broker one.”

The group was silent. Marcus kept his eyes on Vinci’s face, not daring to look behind
himself for Woolf’s reaction. The old man let out a breath and spoke softly. “Good
heavens, son, if that’s your problem, let us help—”

“We don’t need your help,” said Vinci.

“You’re a nation without a leader,” said Woolf, “a nation of young men—”

“Young men who defeated you,” said Vinci hotly, “and who will do it again if you give
us any reason to.”

“This is not what I was trying to do,” said Marcus, stepping back in between them.
He knew he was cringing, preemptively flinching from an attack he was certain would
come from one side or the other, but he stood there anyway, grimacing and hoping they’d
stay calm. “Vinci, my commanding officer here did not mean to imply that you were
incapable of making your own decisions, and that you need an old human dude to step
in and run things for you.” He looked pointedly at Woolf. “He knows exactly how offensive
that would be, and he would never say it or imply it. Right?”

Woolf nodded, somewhat sheepishly, but Marcus could hear his teeth grinding as he
spoke. “Absolutely. I did not mean to offend you.”

“Sweet,” said Marcus, and glanced at Vinci before looking back at Woolf. “Next, and
furthermore: Commander Woolf, Vinci here did not mean to imply that help was out of
the question entirely, or that he would sooner start another genocidal war than form
an alliance with you.”

“You don’t speak for him,” said Woolf.

Marcus turned to Vinci. “Am I wrong? You didn’t actually mean to imply anything even
remotely like that, did you? I mean, you know how similarly offensive that would be,
right?”

Vinci took a deep breath, the first social clue Marcus had seen from him yet, and
shook his head. “We don’t want another war with the humans.”

“Sweet baby James,” said Marcus. “Now do you think you two can carry on a civil conversation,
or do I have to mediate the entire thing? Because I’m seriously on the verge of peeing
myself here.”

Vinci looked at Woolf. “This is your Partials relations consultant?”

“He’s unorthodox but effective,” said Woolf. He rubbed his chin. “Is what he said
right, though? That your commanding officers are all dead?”

“Not all,” said Vinci, and Marcus could tell from his pause that he didn’t want to
say the next part: “But most of them, yes. We have one left. As you likely gleaned
from our operations on Long Island, we’re locked in a small-scale war with Morgan’s
faction; we’re trying to cure this expiration date, as you call it, just like she
is. But her methods have become too extreme.”

“But time is running out,” said Marcus. “We think that we can help you—we have some
of the best medical minds on Earth, literally, slaving over the cure to our own extinction-level
disease. With your help we can solve the RM problem in a matter of weeks, or at least
we think we can, and then all that medical mind power can point straight at your expiration
date. We can save each other.”

“But we need to talk to this leader you spoke about,” said Woolf. “Can you take us
to him or her?”

“I can take you to her,” said Vinci, “but I can’t guarantee it will do any good.”

Woolf frowned. “Is she dying, too? Is it”—he struggled for words—“her time?”

“She’s a member of the Trust,” said Vinci. “They’re our leaders, and as far as we
can tell, they don’t expire. But General Trimble is . . . well, you’ll see. Follow
me, but leave your weapons. And it’s dangerous, like I said: No offense, but a group
of humans are nothing but dead weight on a Partial battlefield. If you see or hear
anything remotely like gunfire, hide.”

Woolf frowned. “Just hide? That’s it?”

Vinci shrugged. “Well, hide and pray.”

White Plains was like nothing Marcus had ever seen before, though the ride in should
have prepared him: They didn’t hike in or ride on a wagon, they rode in the back of
a truck. A real truck, with an engine. The driver was a Partial named Mandy, presumably
one of the pilots Samm had told them about, and she eyed them suspiciously all the
way into town, despite the fact that they’d been disarmed and searched and even stripped
of most of their gear. Marcus had seen self-propelled vehicles in action before, of
course, but to see them used so casually was astonishing. In East Meadow they used
them for emergencies only, when speed was paramount. Here they just drove around like
it was nothing.