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.