LITMIR.BIZ

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he said. “I used to do everything—they couldn’t do anything without me.” He smiled broadly, gesturing at the computers arrayed around the room. “See? I know everything about computers. I know everything.”

      “That’s amazing,” said Kira, barely containing her grin. Finally she was getting somewhere. She scooted forward. “Tell me about it—about I-T.”

      “You have to know how everything works,” he said. “You have to know where everything is; some’s in the cloud, and some’s in the drives, but if it’s the wrong kind of drive, then it won’t work without power. That’s why I have the Zobles on the roof.”

      “The solar panels,” said Kira, and Afa nodded.

      “Zobles and Hufongs, though those are a lot harder to find, and they break a lot. I turned the generators in room C into capacitors to hold extra electricity from the Hufongs, and they can hold on to it for a while, but you have to keep them cycling or they run down. Now,” he said, leaning forward and gesturing with his hands, “with the right kind of electricity you can access any drive you need. Most of what I have here is solid state, but the big ones, the ones in that corner, are disc-based servers— they use a lot more electricity, but you can store a lot more data, and that’s where most of the sequences are.”

      He kept going, more rapidly and with more animation than anything he’d done or said before. Kira reeled at the sudden burst of information, understanding most of the words but only about half the concepts; he was obviously talking about the digital records, and the different ways they were stored and powered and accessed, but he spoke so quickly, and Kira had such a poor background in the subject, that most of his meaning flew right over her head.

      What stood out to her more than anything was the sudden, almost shocking proficiency he had with the topic. She’d assumed he was slow, too childlike to do more than fetch water on somebody else’s instructions, but she saw now that her first impression had been wildly wrong. Afa had his quirks, certainly, and she didn’t doubt that there was something off about him, but on at least one subject the man was brilliant.

      “Stop,” she said, holding up her hands, “wait, you’re going too fast. Start at the beginning: What does I-T mean?”

      “Information technology,” said Afa. “I was an IT director. I kept everyone’s computers running, and I set up the servers, and I maintained cloud security, and I saw everything on the network.” He leaned forward, staring at her intently, stabbing the floor with his finger. “I saw everything. I watched it all happen.” He leaned back and spread his arms, as if to encompass the entire room, maybe the entire building, in his gesture. “I have it all here, almost all of it, and I’m going to show everyone, and they’re going to know the whole story. They’re going to know exactly how it happened.”

      “How what happened?”

      “The end of the world,” said Afa. He swallowed, his face turning red as he raced to speak without pausing for breath. “The Partials, the war, the rebellion, the virus. Everything.”

      Kira nodded, so excited her fingers started to tingle. “And who are you going to tell?”

      Afa’s face fell, and his arms dropped to his sides. “No one,” he said. “I’m the last human being left alive.”

      “No, you’re not,” said Kira firmly. “There’s an entire community on Long Island—there are nearly thirty-six thousand humans left there, and goodness knows how many more on other continents. There have to be more. What about me?”

      “You’re a Partial.”

      The accusation, again, made her uncomfortable, especially since she couldn’t counter it with a flat refusal. She tried a misdirection instead. “How do you know I’m a Partial?”

      “Humans don’t come to Manhattan.”

      “You’re here.”

      “I was here before; that’s different.”

      Kira ground her teeth, caught again in Afa’s circular, selfreferential arguments. “Then why did you let me into you house?” she asked. “If the Partials are so bad, why trust me?”

      “Partials aren’t bad.”

      “But—” Kira frowned, exasperated by his simple, matter-offact answers, which seemed to make no sense. “You’re out here alone,” she said. “You hide, you protect yourself like crazy, you blow up your radio stations anytime anyone gets too close to them. You’ve got a huge community to the east, and a huge community on the north, and you don’t join either of them. If the Partials aren’t bad, why keep yourself separate?” It occurred to her, as she said it, that the question applied equally well to her. She’d been out here alone for months, avoiding Partials and humans alike.

      Not avoiding them, she told herself, saving them. Saving both of them. But the thought still bothered her.

      Afa scraped the last bits of fruit from his can. “I stay here because I like the quiet.”

      “You like the quiet.” Kira laughed, more helpless than amused, and stood up from the floor, stretching and rubbing her eyes. “I don’t understand you, Afa. You collect information that you do and don’t want to show anyone; you live in a giant radio tower and yet you don’t like talking to people. Why do you have the radios, by the way? Is it just part of the information gathering? Are you just trying to know everything?”

      “Yes.”

      “And you didn’t think that maybe somebody else could benefit from all this information you’re putting together?”

      Afa stood up. “I have to go to sleep now.”

      “Wait,” said Kira, abashed by his discomfort. She’d been arguing with the brilliant IT director, almost yelling at him in her frustration, but here she was confronted with the child again, awkward and slow, a tiny mind in a giant body. She sighed, and realized how tired she was, as well. “I’m sorry, Afa. I’m sorry I got upset.” She reached toward his hand, hesitating as she watched his eyes. They had never touched, Afa always keeping his shy distance, and she realized with a rush of emotion that she hadn’t touched anyone—not a single human contact—in weeks. Afa, if she understood his situation correctly, hadn’t touched anyone in years. Her hand hovered over his, and she saw in his eyes the same mixture of fear and longing that she felt in herself. She lowered her palm, resting it on his knuckles, and he flinched but didn’t move away. She felt the pressure of his bones, the softness of his flesh, the leathery texture of his skin, the warm beat of his pulse.

      She felt a tear in the corner of her eye and blinked it away. Afa began to cry, more like a lost child than anyone she’d met in ten years, and Kira drew him into an embrace. He hugged her back tightly, sobbing like a baby, nearly crushing her with his massive arms, and Kira let her own tears run freely. She patted him softly on the back, soothing him gently, luxuriating in the sheer presence of another person, real and warm and alive.

      

arcus ran as fast as he could through the forest, trying to keep his feet under him and his head from cracking into low-hanging branches and vine-crusted poles. The soldier beside him fell abruptly, red blood blossoming on his back as a bullet brought him down. Marcus faltered, instinctively turning to help the fallen soldier, but Haru grabbed him and dragged him forward, crashing headlong through the trees.

      “He’s gone,” Haru shouted. “Keep running!”

      More shots flew past them, whistling through the leaves and exploding against trunks and old boards. This part of Long Island had been heavily wooded even before the Break, and in the twelve years since then, nature had reclaimed the neighborhood, tearing down rotten fences and collapsing old roofs and walls, filling the lawns

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