Ruins

Shon only grunted. He accepted the aide’s written report and sent him away, closing the door behind him. The final outpost of the human army had been entrenched in an old army reserve compound called Fort Tilden, at the base of the Marine Parkway Bridge, and Shon had taken the main building for his army’s temporary headquarters. The building was dilapidated and broken, like every other building on this forsaken island—the fence sagging, the windows broken, the few doors still on their hinges swollen from moisture and sticking in the frames—but it was clean, and it was dry, and, most of all, it was familiar. He had been born in a warehouse, dumped out of a vat by masked technicians, one of thousands in his batch, but he had been raised on a military base, so much like this one that he could close his eyes and almost hear the sounds of home: Jeeps in the street outside, shouts in the yard as a troop ran drills, the distant call of cadence as a sergeant marched his unit home to barracks. There was a baseball field outside, covered in snow and weeds and discernible only by the crumbling wooden bleachers that surrounded it. There was a part of him, a bigger part than he wanted to admit, that wanted nothing more than to go out there in the darkness and sit down in the middle of that field until he froze.

How can I fight when more are still dying? Fight or not, win or lose, five thousand of my soldiers will die tomorrow, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t even have orders to follow. Just my own objective. The only thing left.

Revenge.

He sat down heavily in his chair, staring at the reports in his hand, wondering what to do next. He was shaken from his reverie almost immediately by the sound of pounding feet in the hallway, and the bitter link data of surprise and anger. He opened his door before the messenger even had time to knock on it.

“What’s happened?”

The messenger saluted. “A prisoner, sir. A refugee from the camp.” The guard’s link was laced with hatred. “He’s a Partial, sir.”

Shon looked over the man’s shoulder to see the two guards behind him, walking slowly toward him with a bound, solemn soldier between them. He was dressed in worn, filthy clothes—practically rags—but his bearing was proud, and his link carried no hint of fear. He stopped in front of Shon and bowed his head, unable to salute with his arms cuffed behind him.

“My name is Samm,” said the prisoner. “I need to talk to you.” The man’s resolution was so strong across the link Shon felt himself waking up.

Shon looked at the messenger. “You’ve frisked him?”

“No weapons,” said the soldier. “All he had were the clothes on his back, and this.” He held up a bottle of bourbon.

Shon looked at Samm. “Is that why you’re here? You’re drunk?”

“It’s still sealed,” said Samm. “Call it a peace offering.”

“Are you joking?”

“It’s a sign of goodwill.”

“You’re not really going to talk to him,” said the messenger.

“No, I’m not,” said Shon, staring at the prisoner. “After everything that’s happened, I don’t think I have anything to say to a traitor that a bullet couldn’t say a whole hell of a lot more efficiently. But.” He took a slow breath, sizing him up. Samm’s link data carried the basics of his entire dossier—his rank, his unit, his history, his place in Partial society. He was an infantryman, like Shon; just like Shon, he’d fought in Zuoquan City in the final days of the Isolation War. He’d helped to take Atlanta, and he’d served under Dr. Morgan. This was a man who’d been through hell, who’d done his duty; this was a man who knew exactly what it meant to abandon your army, fight for the other side, and then turn yourself in. Shon shook his head. “No, but I have to admit I’m curious as to what could be important enough to make him throw away his life like this. So even if I don’t talk, I do admit that I am willing to listen.”

The messenger linked his surprise and couldn’t help but link a tiny bit of disapproval, but Shon ignored him and stepped aside, inviting the prisoner into his office. The guards tried to follow, but Shon held up his hand. “Stay out here and put guards outside. They have at least one assassin in their group as well, and I don’t want her climbing through that window halfway through this conversation with a dagger in her teeth.” He plucked the bourbon from the messenger’s hand and closed the door.

Samm stood in the center of the room, shivering slightly in his wet, snowy clothes. Shon held up the bottle. “You realize this is a fairly hollow gesture.”

“I was only trying to be polite.”

“I suppose I can’t fault you for that,” said Shon, and walked to his desk chair. He didn’t offer one to Samm. The old wood creaked when he sat, but it held him well enough. “Is it still good?”