Partials

Marcus laughed. “I wondered when someone would finally get around to that. It’s been on my to-do list for ages, but you know how things are: Life gets so busy, and saving the human race is such an inconvenience—”

“I’m serious,” said Kira. “I can’t just watch children die anymore. I can’t just stand there and take notes while Madison’s baby dies. I’m not going to do it. It’s been weeks since she told us, and I’ve been racking my brain for anything I can do to help, and I think I finally have a workable starting point.”

“All right, then,” said Marcus, sitting up in the grass. His face was more serious now. “You know that I think you’re brilliant, and you got better grades in virology than . . . anyone. Ever. How do you expect to suddenly solve the biggest medical mystery in history? I mean, there’s an entire research team at the hospital that’s been trying to figure out RM for a decade, and now a medical intern is going to step in and just . . . cure it? Just like that?”

Kira nodded; it really did sound stupid when he said it like that. She glanced over at Nandita, wondering what her opinion would be on the matter, but the old woman was still working in the garden, completely unaware. Kira turned back to Marcus. “I know it sounds like the most arrogant thing in the whole world, but I—” She paused and took a breath, looking him squarely in the eyes. He was watching, waiting; he was taking her seriously. She put her hand on his. “I know I can help, at the very least. There has to be something that’s been overlooked. I joined maternity because I thought that was the nerve center, you know? I thought that was the whole point, the place where it all happened. But now that I’ve been there and I’ve seen what they’re doing, I know it’s not going to work.

“If I can put together something concrete for Skousen, I bet I can transfer to research full-time—it’ll take another month or two, but I can do it.”

“That’s a good move for you,” said Marcus. “It’ll be good for them, too—coming from maternity like that, you’ll have a different perspective from the others. And I know there’s an opening, because we got a transfer from research into surgery last month.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” said Kira, “a new perspective. The maternity team, the research team, everybody’s been studying the infants exclusively. But we don’t need to look for a cure, we need to look for immunity. We’re resistant to the symptoms, so there has to be something in us that fends off the virus. The only ones who aren’t immune are the babies, and yet that’s where we keep looking.”

“That’s why you need my blood,” said Marcus.

Kira nodded, rubbing her fingers over the back of his hand. That was why she loved Marcus: He was funny when she needed to laugh, and serious when she needed to talk. He understood her, plain and simple.

She plucked a blade of grass and slowly peeled it until nothing remained but the soft yellow core. She studied it a moment, then threw it at Marcus; it traveled only a few inches before it caught the air, stopped, and fluttered in erratic circles straight back into her lap.

“Nice shot,” grinned Marcus. He looked up over her shoulder. “Isolde’s coming.”

Kira turned and smiled, waving at her “sister.” Isolde was tall and pale and golden-haired—the lone light-skinned outlier in Nandita’s makeshift foster home. Isolde waved back, grinning, though Kira could see that the smile was forced and tired. Marcus scooted over as she approached, making room beside them on the grass, but Isolde shook her head politely.

“Thanks, but this is my best suit.” She dropped her briefcase and stood next to them wearily, arms folded, staring straight ahead.

“Rough day in the Senate?” Kira asked.

“Is there ever a smooth one?” Isolde glanced around, looking for something to sit on, then sighed and sat down on her briefcase, cross-legged to keep her pale gray pants out of the grass. Kira studied her in concern—Isolde could barely even mention her job without swooning over Senator Hobb. If she wasn’t doing that, she must really be exhausted. Isolde stared blankly, then roused herself to look at Kira and Marcus. “Hey, neither of you do much traveling outside of the city, right?”

“Not really,” said Kira. She looked at Marcus, who shook his head. “When they call us on salvage runs, I guess, but never really on our own. Why?”

“Because they just voted to institute border checks,” said Isolde. “The Voice hit a watchtower last week—knocked the whole thing down and took off with the soldiers who were manning it. Combine that with the raid on the old school depot and you’ve got at least one cell of the Voice working right here in East Meadow, maybe more.” She shrugged. “That’s a little too close to home. The Senate figures the best way to root them out are searches and examinations every time somebody enters or leaves the city.”

“The perimeter of the city is huge,” said Kira. “There’s no way they can patrol the entire thing.”

“That doesn’t mean they shouldn’t try, though,” said Marcus. “It’s better than nothing—”

“Please don’t,” said Isolde, rubbing her temples. “I’ve heard these same arguments a hundred different times today, and I don’t need to hear them again. The vote is done, the checks are official, let’s stop arguing about it.”

“How did Senator Hobb vote?” asked Kira. Isolde was his personal assistant. She opened one eye, peered wearily at Kira, then opened the other and crossed her arms.

“If you must know, he voted for,” said Isolde. “He wasn’t in favor of sacrificing personal rights to privacy, but he didn’t want to stand in the way of stopping another attack.” She shrugged. “I don’t think he’s right, but I don’t have any better suggestions. If the Voice have started kidnapping people now, who knows what they’ll do next?”

“What are the Voice trying to accomplish?” asked Kira. “That’s what I can’t figure out. They don’t need supplies—food and clothes are free for the taking all over the island—and yet they keep raiding East Meadow and the farms. They’re not winning support for their cause, they’re just making everyone angry and jumpy and . . . I don’t get it. The watchtower attack by itself probably took weeks to plan and pull off, and for what? They didn’t get any supplies, they didn’t make any statements, they got maybe two or three clips of ammunition each from the soldiers they kidnapped—they didn’t get anything.”

“They got two soldiers,” said Marcus. “Maybe it was a staged battle to hide a defection.”

Isolde shook her head. “As near as we can tell—or at least the current best guess in the Senate—is that they’re trying to destabilize the government. If they hit enough targets, rouse enough rabble, and shake enough beehives, pretty soon the people in East Meadow are going to get pissed off. That’ll make them harder to control, which will make things harder for the Senate, which will give the Voice a prime chance to swoop in and attempt a coup.”

“Ouch,” said Marcus.

“Back up,” said Kira. “Did you say it’s harder for the Senate to ‘control’ us?”

Isolde grimaced. “That’s not what I meant, that’s just the first word that came out—”

“But that’s the sentiment, right?”

Isolde closed her eyes, trying to think, and Kira felt guilty for pushing her. She didn’t deserve this, and yet Kira’s ire was up. She wanted to know. “Well?”

“Well, come on, Kira, you know what the Senate does.” Isolde shrugged weakly. “The Senate ‘governs,’ and there’s a lot of control inherent in that. It’s not like they’re controlling our minds or anything, they’re just . . . keeping the peace. Making sure people do their jobs. That sort of thing.”

Kira heard hoofbeats and looked behind her; two mounted soldiers were clomping toward them down the street. Their house was near the edge of the settled city, so patrols weren’t exactly rare, but this was an odd time of day for one. Kira felt nervous and comforted at the same time.

Until they started angling toward her.

“Marcus,” said Kira softly. He seemed to sense the worry in her voice and sat up immediately.

“What is it?” He saw the horses and frowned. “Why are they coming here?”

“I don’t know. You recognize them?”

“The uniforms aren’t standard,” said Isolde. “They’re not regular Defense Grid.”

Marcus stared at them, brow furrowed in concern. “Who else wears uniforms? They actually look kinda like Mkele’s guys.” He shook his head, looking back and forth at the two soldiers: one about their age, one in what looked like his forties. “I don’t recognize them; I don’t think they’ve been stationed in East Meadow.”

“Anything we can do for you?” Kira called out, but the soldiers rode past her toward Nandita. The old woman sat up from her digging, watching as they stopped in the yard.

“Nandita Merchant?” asked the younger soldier.

“Yes,” she said calmly. “No relation.”

“What?”

“Ms. Merchant,” said the older soldier, shaking his head and urging his horse forward, “we’ve been informed that you make frequent trips outside the boundaries of East Meadow. Is that correct?”

“Is that a problem?” she asked.

“I didn’t say it was a problem,” said the soldier. “Is it true?”

“She collects herbs,” said Kira, standing and walking toward them. “You see this amazing garden? She collects these from all over the island.”

“I can answer my own questions, Kira,” said Nandita. Kira closed her mouth tightly, feeling nervous.

The lead soldier gripped the reins loosely, using his knees to keep the horse steady. It was nervous too. The man looked at Nandita firmly. “You collect herbs?”

“I collect them out there and I grow them in here,” said Nandita, “and in a hothouse in the backyard. I sell them in the market, they’re the best around.”

The soldier nodded. “Where do you typically travel on these excursions?”

“That’s none of your business,” said Kira. The news from Isolde had made her angry, and she was in the mood to yell at someone. “You think you can just barge into someone’s front yard and ask anything you want? What if she went somewhere you don’t like—are you going to arrest her?”

“Nobody is talking about arrest,” said the soldier. “We’re just asking questions. Calm down.”

“Just asking questions,” said Kira. “Well, what if she refuses to answer?”

“Kira . . . ,” said Nandita.

“In case you didn’t notice,” said the older soldier, angling his horse toward Kira, “we’re in a lot of trouble right now. We’re fighting for our lives against a hidden enemy that wants to destroy our city, and the only weapon we have against that enemy is information. We think your grandmother might have some information we can use to help us stay alive. Now if that offends whatever weirdball ideals you’ve cooked up for yourself, I’m sorry. Consider for a moment that soldiers acquiring the information they need to protect you is more important than five extra minutes of digging a hole in the ground.”

“You arrogant jackass—”

“I travel all over,” said Nandita, stepping in front of Kira. “Out by the farms when I have a ride, nearby when I don’t. I can’t walk as far as I used to, but there are plenty of untended gardens even here in East Meadow, just waiting for someone who knows her botany.”

“We need specific locations,” said the younger soldier. “Is there a reason you’re not providing that information?”

The older soldier sighed. “She’s a scavenger,” he said. “They don’t go to specific locations, they just wander.” He looked back at Nandita. “Could you tell me who you tend to get a ride with, on the occasions you’re able to do so?”

“Traders,” said Nandita, “sometimes farmers going home from market day.” She gave the man a look as hard as steel. “Even drifters now and then, if they look trustworthy.”

The soldier returned her glare. “And what does a trustworthy drifter look like?”

“I saw one last week who looked more or less like you,” she said. “Different shirt, of course, but the same eyes, the same gun, the same self-importance. There’s a lot of you around these days.” She glanced at the younger soldier. “He had a kid with him, too.”

“You need to check your attitude,” said the younger soldier.

“And you need to check yours,” said the older man sharply, and gestured at Kira. “You’re as bad as she is.” Kira bit her tongue, eager to yell at the soldier some more, but acknowledging that it would only make things worse. He turned back to Nandita. “That’s pretty much all the questions we have for you, ma’am. Just doing our jobs, following up on some information. Sorry to be a burden.”

“No harm done,” said Nandita, her demeanor still hard as a rock.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said the soldier. “Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” He pulled the reins and turned the horse, then stopped suddenly and turned back again. “I’m sorry, this isn’t official, just my own curiosity: How did you happen to come to live out here, so close to the edge?”

“I’m not sure I follow you,” said Nandita.

“It’s just that most folks try to live as close to the city center as they can. This neighborhood is mostly just kids, new married couples who chose their house recently enough that none of the center homes were left. You must have chosen ten years ago, like most of the rest of us, but you’re way out here. Just curious.”

Nandita studied him. “If you’re asking as a curious neighbor instead of a soldier, I think I ought to know your name.”

“Sergeant Jamison, ma’am. Alex.”

“My house in the center had water damage, Alex,” said Nandita. “Something got into my foundation and froze a few winters ago, and when it thawed out in the spring, my back wall practically fell in on itself. My girls and I needed a new place, and this one had a plastic hothouse in the backyard. It was the best choice available.”

“I suppose it was,” said the soldier. “Thanks for your help.” He turned again, and the young soldier turned with him, and they rode away back down the street.

Kira watched them go, her stomach tied in knots. “What was that about?”

“The Secret Service,” said Nandita. “They have them at the market now, watching the traders.”

“They’re just trying to do their jobs,” said Isolde. “You didn’t have to jump down their throats.”

“They didn’t have to jump down Nandita’s,” said Kira, and looked back at Isolde. “This is exactly what I was talking about—just because someone’s in charge of something doesn’t mean they’re in charge of everything. They can’t just order us around.”

“They’re the government,” said Marcus. “Ordering people around is their job, and frankly, I think talking to people who travel a lot is a good way to get information. They weren’t trying to antagonize anybody—though I admit that the younger one was kind of being a blowhole about it.”

“Everyone on this island is too paranoid,” said Nandita. “They assumed the worst about me, but Kira assumed the worst about them.” She looked at Kira sharply. “Your attitude was completely uncalled for, and if you don’t change it, it’s going to get you in a lot more trouble than you know how to deal with.”

“I’m sorry,” said Kira, but then she shook her head and blurted out, “If they want me to be calm, they should let me sit on my own front lawn without being interrogated. How about that?”

Nandita looked at her, then turned to watch the horses disappear around the far corner of the street. “It’s only going to get worse,” she said. “Every new border patrol, every new amendment to the Hope Act, it’s all only going to make the people angry.” She glanced at Isolde. “If the Voice are trying to foment a rebellion, they’re doing a brilliant job.”

Kira felt a sudden flush of embarrassment; Nandita had been listening to their entire conversation.

“So what happens now?” asked Marcus. “You run off and join the Voice?”

“I run off and cure RM,” said Kira. “No more RM, no more Hope Act. And I’m starting with an experiment. We’ve got a decade’s worth of data on how the virus works in the infants it infects, but I haven’t seen one study on how it works within those of us who are immune. It’s time to change that.”

Isolde turned to her quizzically. “How?”

“I’m going to take a blood sample from my loving, helpful, noncomplaining boyfriend,” said Kira, “and I’m going to inject the RM into it.”

Marcus whistled. “Your boyfriend sounds dreamy.”

Nandita gave Marcus an appraising look, then stooped to pick up her gardening tools. “She could do better.”

“Ow!”

“Hold still, you big baby.” Kira pulled the pin away from Marcus’s fingertip and placed a narrow glass tube against the wound. It filled quickly, and she pulled it away and filled another one. She capped them both, set them in a tray, and pressed a small ball of cotton against his finger. “All done.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” said Marcus, “but my fingertip feels almost as good as if you’d pricked it correctly on the first try. I bow to your skills.”

“I’m a natural,” said Kira. “Move the cotton.” He lifted the cotton ball, and Kira clamped down with a bandage, wrapping it tightly around his finger. “You are now officially the oldest person I have ever drawn blood from in the maternity clinic. Now, just take two of these and you’ll feel better in no time.” She leaned in and gave him two quick kisses.

“Mmmm,” said Marcus, grabbing her by the waist, “how many of those did you say to take?”

“Just two,” said Kira, “but I suppose it couldn’t hurt to take more.” She leaned in again, licking her lips, but he stopped her with his hand.

“No,” he said firmly, “as a medic I just don’t feel comfortable with it. Medication is nothing to play around with—what if I overdose?” He pushed her gently away. “What if I become addicted?”

Kira pushed back toward him. “You are such a geek.”

“What if I build up a tolerance?” he asked, his face a rictus of mock horror. “Two now and two later and suddenly two won’t be enough—I’ll need four or eight or twenty just to take the edge off! Do you think I can handle that many kisses?”

Kira moved in again, turning on her most sultry voice. “I think you could find a way.”

He froze, watching her come closer, their faces almost touching, then stopped her at the last moment with a finger on her lips. “You know, the best way to prevent an overdose is to vary the active ingredient. That blond nurse at the south clinic is great at drawing blood; I could get two from you, two from her.”

Kira snarled playfully, grabbing his collar. “Oh no, you don’t.”

“Medically speaking, it would be perfectly safe,” said Marcus. “I could even get two from you and two from her at the same time. I might get a little dizzy, but—ow!”

“I still have the finger poker,” said Kira, pressing the sharp pin against his side just hard enough to let him know it was there. “You are a one-phlebotomist man, Marcus Valencio. You got that?”

“I got it,” said Marcus. “Speaking of which, I think my meds are wearing off.”

“No more today,” she said, pushing him back to his chair and picking up the tubes of blood. “It’s time to find out what kind of man you really are.” She took his blood to a medicomp in the corner, switched it on, and started preparing a sample while it booted up. Marcus followed, handing her glass slides and plastic pipettes and other little tools exactly when she needed them. She liked working with Marcus; it reminded her of the easy, unspoken rhythm they had sorting medicine on salvage runs.

She finished the slide, popped it into the medicomp bay, and slid her fingers across the screen; the computer detected the blood and offered the basic information.

“Type O positive,” said Marcus, reading over her shoulder, “good cholesterol, good glucose; hmm, a very high hotness count, that’s interesting.”

“Yes,” Kira murmured, fingers flying across the screen, “but look at all those arrogance particles.” Marcus started to protest, and she laughed, tapping out instructions for a deeper scan. An option popped up for a “Full Blood Analysis,” and she tapped yes; she’d never asked for this much information before, and apparently there was a simple “everything on the menu” option. It made her wonder how life had been different in the old world, when computers were used for every aspect of life, and not just in the hospitals where they could generate enough electricity to use them.

Mere seconds later the computer offered a list of various electrolytes and glucose molecules and other little bits in the blood; it would take longer for a full analysis, calculating what, for example, the glucose density suggested about his liver health, but the computer would update those details as it went. The next set of notes to appear were genetic modifications; they had been so common before the Break that almost everyone on the island had at least a few. Marcus had the genetic markers for in vitro gene correction, meaning his parents had scrubbed his DNA for congenital diseases before he was even born. He had another marker in his red blood cells, signifying some sort of bone marrow modification, but neither Kira nor the computer could tell exactly what it was without a full bone sample. It didn’t matter either way; Skousen and the other researchers had already examined the gene mods as a possible source of RM immunity, but it was a dead end—if anything, it seemed to make the subjects more vulnerable to the virus, not less. Kira moved on and started taking 3-D photos of the blood, examining individual portions of it for anomalies, when the computer chirped a small alert, and a glowing blue rhombus appeared in the corner of the screen. She frowned, glancing at Marcus, but he only shrugged and shook his head. She looked back at the screen and tapped the alert.

A new section expanded across the screen, one brief sentence with a handful of pictures attached: 27 Instances of RM Virus.

“What?” Kira whispered. The number blinked, updating to twenty-eight. She tapped one of the pictures, and it flew up into a corner of the screen, enlarging to a 3-D representation of RM. It was a rough, fat sphere, highlighted in yellow to stand out from the background image. It looked putrid and menacing.

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