Ruins

Shon stared at him, feeling as if the ground were slipping away beneath his feet, disappearing into an inky black depth desperate to suck him down and drown him. He wasn’t made for this either—he was an infantryman, not an officer; he wasn’t ready for this kind of decision. Certainly not for the impossible task of supporting it after he made it. “Do you realize what will happen if I go out there and tell the army we’re making peace with the humans? The same people who attacked us with a bioweapon? Who destroyed White Plains? You said it yourself: We’re soldiers. We were bred for war; we were designed to fight and to kill. You talk about peace as if it were natural, as if all we had to do was stop fighting and our problems would be solved, but fighting is why we exist. War is our nature, and that makes peace the most . . . unnatural act we could perform. We even fought ourselves when we couldn’t find anyone else. Sometimes I think no matter what I do we’ll be fighting till the last Partial draws breath.”

“I understand that,” said Samm. “I’ve felt the same thing. But I have to believe there’s more to us than that.”

“They built us for war,” Shon repeated.

“They built us to love.”

Shon sat in silence, staring at his desk. He traced the cracks in the wood, dry and brittle under his fingertip. He stopped, tapped the desk, and spoke quietly. “I want to believe you.”

“Then believe me.”

“It’s hard to believe when they keep shooting at us.”

“So be the bigger man and stop first.”

Shon thought about the army waiting outside, the rage that still fueled them from the loss of their home. From the bioweapon. From the years of hatred and slavery and war that dated back decades. Every memory he had of humans was drenched in hate and death and oppression.

He shook his head. That’s a coward’s excuse, he thought. We didn’t rebel so they’d treat us better, we rebelled so we could live our own lives. So we could make our choices.

If this is the best choice, then it doesn’t matter what the humans do.

“What will they do if we offer a truce?” asked Shon. “Will they accept it?”

“I can’t speak for them any more than you can speak for your soldiers,” said Samm. “Less, actually. I’m still an outsider in their camp.”

Shon raised his eyebrow. “Then why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t,” said Samm. “You should trust Kira Walker.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

Kira hadn’t slept, and she couldn’t imagine anyone else had, either, the entire refugee camp terrified about Armin, about the Partial army, about—

About Samm. No one had seen or heard from him since last night. She couldn’t bear to think of what might have happened.

“Of course I’m coming with you,” said Marcus, bundling up in as many jackets and blankets as he could find—though Kira noticed he had given the warmest ones to her, and pulled them on gratefully. The first light was peeking through the curtain of another nascent snowstorm, and they were preparing for the long walk to the Partial army. An old man from the boat lines had built them snowshoes to ease the journey, and Kira stooped to lace them tightly to her feet. If Samm already proposed peace, and the Partials already ignored him, they’re not going to listen to me. She finished the knot on the first shoe and slowly started lacing up the next. But I have to try. Even if I die, I have to—

“Man on the road!” said Phan, breathless in the doorway of the command center. Kira looked up sharply, her heart in her throat, but it was Heron who spoke first.

“Can you see who it is?” she asked.

“Middle-aged,” said Phan, “maybe midforties. Dark-skinned. Probably a human prisoner. He’s too old to be a Partial, but none of the East Meadow guards recognize him.”

“Not Samm,” said Marcus.

“He’s not from the group I came here with,” said Kira. “Maybe one of the guerrillas the Partials captured?”

“He’s probably delivering a message,” said Calix.

Haru nodded. “Let’s go.” He sent runners throughout the camp, warning everyone to be on their guard, and led the group to Rockaway Point Boulevard: a long, straight stretch of road from one town to the other. Human guards watched the road from makeshift bunkers, bundled against the snow in mismatched layers and armed with a loose collection of hunting rifles; the best weapons the refugees had left. Kira watched the distant man approach, and after a moment she recognized him.

“That’s Duna Mkele,” said Kira. “The Senate’s old head of security.”

“I thought it might be him,” said Haru. “I guess his resistance force was finally captured.”

“If he’s a resistance leader, this is a prisoner release,” said Heron. She looked at Kira. “Interesting.”