Thomas closed the book and placed it back on the shelf above his head. Then he lay down on his side, legs curled up to his body, head on forearm. And he stared at the wet fields of ocean that stretched to every limit of thought and sight. Beneath that rough, wavy, sketched-icing surface, he knew that billions of creatures lived, oblivious to things like Cranks and deserts and mazes. They swam and they ate, their world probably hurt by the sun flares that had ravaged the lands above, but just as likely healing all the faster. Someday, surely, the order of things in the natural world would do just fine.

But what about us? he thought. What about the humans?

And then, despite his eyes being wide open, staring at the fathomless reach of the ocean, all he could see were images of people. Newt. Teresa. Alby. Chuck. So many lives, lost.

Man, you’re depressing, he chided himself. Somehow—for today, at least—he had to stop thinking about all this crap. He got up, grabbed Newt’s journal, and headed down the path that wound its way along the cliff and through the sandy grasses, finally leading to the new Glade. It wasn’t much as of yet, but someday it might be. Give the humans a chance, right?

“Hey!” someone shouted from up ahead. Frypan. “I figured out a new way to cook these damn fish!”

Thomas could already smell it.

PART ONE

73 Years Later

It’s a funny thing, losing what you love. When able, I think often about loss. If I could go back in time, to my earliest youth, and some godly, magical being had shown me the future and given me a choice, what would I have chosen? If this god had revealed to me the two major losses of my life, and allowed me to prevent only one, which would I have selected?

Newt, this heavenly creature might have said. Your mind, or your friends?

I now know my answer:

What’s the difference?

—The Book of Newt

CHAPTER ONE

Trinity of Terror

In a place called Alaska, Alexandra Romanov stood on the balcony of her home and gazed upon the city, shrouded in darkness, sprinkled with the bright yellow winks of gas flames in windows and on street corners. Not a cloud blotted the stars in the sky, which shone down with perfect clarity, each one an almost perfect spear tip of light. The clean air hugged her like invisible fog, warm and moist, dampening her hair, her clothes, her skin. She breathed in, deeply, relishing this bird’s-eye view of the quiet world below.

Her world. Alaska. There were others out there, other . . . worlds. The Remnant Nation, somewhere in the plains of Nebraska. There were the mad doctors down in California, doing things no sane people should. But they were far as things go and went. Alaska was hers.