chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
The ruins of the JFK airport were surrounded by a wide ring of flat, featureless runway, forcing any attackers to approach through the open. A dedicated assault with armored vehicles could take it easily, but there were few of those left in the world, and Dr. Morgan’s guerrilla army had none of them. The Voice had held it against the Grid with just a handful of spotters and snipers, and now the outlaws and the Grid together were prepared to hold it against the Partials. Marcus crossed the open runways uneasily, praying that the defenders recognized him as a human. And that they bothered trying to recognize him at all.
The JFK expressway leading into the airport had been bombed out, along with most of Terminal 8, to give an advancing force less cover to hide behind. Marcus headed instead to Terminal 7, and as he drew close he saw snipers in the shadows, tracking him slowly with their rifles. “Stop there,” a voice called out. Marcus stopped. “Drop your weapons.”
“I don’t have any.”
“Then drop everything else.”
Marcus wasn’t carrying much, just a backpack full of rock-hard candy and a couple of liters of water. He set it down on the ground and stepped away, stretching out his arms to show that there was nothing in them.
“Turn around,” said the voice, and Marcus did as he was told.
“Just a skinny little Mexican kid,” said Marcus. “Oh wait! I forgot.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a folded paper and stubby pencil. He held them up for inspection, then set them carefully on the ground.
“Are you making fun of us?” asked the voice.
“Yes.”
There was a long silence, until at last he saw a man in a doorway wave him in. He jogged to the open door to find Grid soldiers waiting with machine guns. He looked at them nervously. “You guys are human, right?”
“Every Partial-killing cell of me,” said the soldier. “You one of Delarosa’s?”
“What?”
“Senator Delarosa,” said the soldier. “Are you working for her? Do you have a message?”
Marcus frowned. “Wait, is she still . . .” He remembered meeting Delarosa in the forest, when he and Haru were retreating from the first Partial attack. She’d been hiding in the woods and attacking patrols. “Is she still fighting Partials?”
“With the full support of the Grid,” said the soldier. “She’s damn good at it, too.”
Marcus pondered this, remembering her more as a terrorist than a freedom fighter. I guess you hit a point where they all blend together, he thought. When things get desperate enough, anything goes—
No, it doesn’t, he thought firmly. At the end of the war, we have to be as good as we were when we started it.
“I’m just a guy,” said Marcus. “No message or special delivery or anything.”
“Refugee area is downstairs,” said the first soldier. “Try not to eat much; we don’t have a lot left.”
“Don’t worry,” said Marcus, “I won’t be staying long. I don’t suppose I could talk to Senator Tovar?”
The soldiers looked at one another, then the first looked back at Marcus. “Mr. Mkele likes to debrief anyone new anyway. You can talk to him first.” They led Marcus down through the airport, leaving the surface almost immediately in favor of the vast subterranean tunnels crisscrossing the entire complex. Marcus was surprised to find an entire refugee camp in the basements; he was apparently not the first person to think of retreating here.
“Do the Partials not know you’re here?” asked Marcus. “They’d kill to get their hands on this place.”
“They’ve sent a couple of patrols,” said the soldier. “So far we’ve been able to make ourselves more trouble than we’re worth.”
“That’s not going to last long,” said Marcus.
“They’re getting attacked on the flanks by Delarosa,” he said, “and by another Partial faction. That’s keeping their main force too busy to bother with us.”
Marcus nodded. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”
The soldier led him to a small office and knocked on the door. Marcus recognized Mkele’s voice when he told them to come in. The soldier pushed the door open. “New refugee. He says he wants to talk to the Senate.”
Mkele looked up, and Marcus felt a twang of mischievous pride at the surprise in the security expert’s eyes. “Marcus Valencio?” Surprising a man who prided himself on knowing things was an impressive feat indeed.
The pride was followed almost instantly by a wave of despair. Seeing Mkele not in control was somehow the most disturbing sign of just how much things had fallen apart.
“Hi,” said Marcus, stepping in. “I’ve got a . . . request. A proposal, I suppose.”
Mkele glanced at the soldier, his eyes uncertain, then looked back at Marcus and gestured to a chair. “Have a seat.” The soldier left, closing the door, and Marcus took a deep breath to calm his nerves.
“We need to go to the mainland,” said Marcus.
Mkele’s eyes widened, and Marcus had the same feeling of uncomfortable triumph knowing that he’d surprised the man again. After a quick moment Mkele nodded, as if he understood. “You want to look for Kira Walker.”
“I wouldn’t mind finding her,” said Marcus, “but she’s not the goal. We need to send a group north to a city called White Plains, to talk to the Partials who are attacking Dr. Morgan.”
Mkele didn’t respond.
“I don’t know for sure which faction is there,” said Marcus, “but I know that they oppose Dr. Morgan’s. A group of them raided the hospital Kira was trapped in a few months back, which is how we were able to get her out while they killed each other. Now they’re attacking Morgan’s forces again—they followed them all the way across the sound, which is a good indication they’re trying to stop this invasion.”
“And you think that will make them our friends.”
“A equals B equals . . . look, Ariel had a much better idiom for it, I don’t remember. But yes, we have a common enemy, so we might be able to get some help.”
Mkele watched him a moment longer, then spoke slowly. “I admit that we have had similar thoughts, but we didn’t know how or where to contact them. Are you sure about White Plains?”
“Very sure,” said Marcus. “Samm told us all about it—they have a nuclear reactor that powers the whole region, so they stay there to maintain it. If we can make it up there, which is an admittedly difficult proposition, they might be willing to work with us to end the occupation and perhaps find some of the answers we’re looking for before it’s too late. It’s worth a shot.”
“Shots are exactly what you’ll end up with,” said Mkele. “This is a blind mission into hostile territory with no guarantee of safety. If you go, you’ll be killed.”
“That’s why I’m coming to you,” said Marcus. “I’m not Kira—I’m not ready to lead something like this, I just came up with the idea.”
“So that when someone inevitably dies, it will be me instead of you,” said Mkele.
“Ideally no one will die at all,” said Marcus, “but you can plan your missions how you like. I recommend you live at least long enough to succeed.”
Mkele tapped his fingers on the desk, a surprisingly mundane gesture that seemed to humanize the severe man in Marcus’s eyes. “A year ago I would have chastised you for recklessness,” said Mkele. “Today, as it happens, we’re willing to try almost anything. I had a unit of soldiers already preparing for a mission on the mainland, and now that you’ve given us a clear goal, we can pull the trigger. It also happens that we have need of a medic, and of someone with experience behind Partial lines.”
“And I suppose you’re looking for a man to volunteer.”
“This is the Defense Grid,” said Mkele. “We don’t wait for volunteers. You leave in the morning.”