“Why won’t you at least hear us out?” cried Woolf, stepping forward, and suddenly the Partials swung their weapons up. Woolf was practically seething, and Marcus could tell that he was on the verge of starting a fight and hoping he had enough guys left to look for someone more helpful. Marcus racked his brain for something he could do to defuse the situation; he thought about Samm, and the way he had talked, and the things that did and didn’t work with him. He had been unerringly pragmatic, and almost helplessly loyal to his leaders, even when he disagreed with them. Marcus thought back over everything, and leapt in front of Woolf right as the old man seemed to be about to make a move.

“Wait,” said Marcus nervously, half expecting to get punched—from in front or from behind. “My name’s Marcus Valencio,” he said. “I’m kind of the designated ‘Partials relations consultant’ around here.” He said it as much for Woolf’s benefit as for the Partials, hoping it would slow them down and give him a chance to talk. “If you’ll permit me to ask a politically sensitive question, what do you mean when you say you can’t help us?”

“He means he won’t help us,” said Woolf.

Vinci didn’t answer, but after a moment he nodded.

“See, I don’t think that’s actually the problem,” said Marcus. Vinci was already looking at him, but now he focused in on Marcus with his full, laserlike attention, and Marcus was all too aware of the difference in intensity. He smiled nervously, assuring himself that this predatory look on the man’s face was a sign that Marcus was right: There was indeed a secret here, and Vinci was too loyal to ever admit it.

“You’re dying,” said Marcus. “Not you personally, at least not yet, but your people. Your leaders. Every Partial has a twenty-year expiration date, and you didn’t learn this until the first ones died, and by now you’ve lost a second or third or maybe even a fourth generation of Partials, and if I’m guessing correctly, that includes almost all your generals. Everyone in charge.”

Vinci didn’t agree, but he didn’t deny it. Marcus watched his face for any change of emotion or expression, but they had such emotionless faces he couldn’t tell what the man was thinking. He kept talking.

“I think what you’re saying,” Marcus finished, “is that we can’t broker an alliance because there’s nobody left in their nation with enough authority to broker one.”

The group was silent. Marcus kept his eyes on Vinci’s face, not daring to look behind himself for Woolf’s reaction. The old man let out a breath and spoke softly. “Good heavens, son, if that’s your problem, let us help—”

“We don’t need your help,” said Vinci.