But even that, Marcus told himself, wasn’t quite true. The Partials were an army, and this was a city at war, without a civilian in sight. Except me, he thought. I’m the first noncombatant this city’s seen in twelve years.

I hope I can stay a noncombatant long enough to finish this job and get out of here.

Mandy drove them to a large building in the center of town, ringed with sandbag barricades and topped with searchlights and snipers. The mood was dark, and every Partial soldier seemed to be watching for something—an attack, most likely, though Marcus couldn’t help but worry about what could make even the Partials look so nervous. Vinci led them in, explaining to each new layer of security—and there were several—that he was bringing an envoy from the humans to talk with General Trimble, and that he had already confiscated their weapons. Marcus felt, inversely, less safe with each new level of guards and protocols, as if they were walking into a prison instead of a government building. Running lights glowed softly in the walls and ceiling, giving the place an unearthly feel that only heightened his anxiety. Vinci brought them to a large room on the top floor, a kind of plaza with benches and low tables, ringed with apartments and topped by a wide, latticed skylight. A guard behind them locked the door to the outer hall.

“This is where you’ll stay,” said Vinci. “It’s not the best accommodations, but on reflection, probably better than what you’re used to.”

“No question about that,” said Marcus. “Where’s the chocolate fountain? I’m honestly going to be a little disappointed if it’s not strapped to the back of an enchanted polar bear.”

“We’re not here to stay,” said Woolf. “We’re here to meet with Trimble. Is she here?”

Vinci shook his head. “She’s busy,” said Vinci. “Just wait here.”

“Wait how long?” asked Marcus. “An hour? Two hours?”

One of the outer doors opened, revealing a small but tidy apartment beyond, and a woman stepped out eagerly. Her face fell when she saw them. “You’re not Trimble’s men?”

“You’re not Trimble?” Woolf asked her. He looked at Vinci. “What’s going on here?”

“I’ve been waiting since yesterday,” said the woman. She walked toward them, and Marcus guessed that she was somewhere in her late fifties—still fit and attractive, as all Partials apparently were, but not one of the young-looking pilots like Mandy, or the supermodel serial killers or whatever Heron was. That meant, as far as Marcus knew, that this woman was a doctor, and he stuck out his hand to shake.

“Hello, Doctor.”

She didn’t take his hand, only looked at them sternly. “You’re humans.”