Fragments. Dan Wells

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      “Were there others before? Other people with you, here in the safe house?”

      “Just you.” His voice changed when he said it, and Kira was struck by the thought that he might very well have been completely alone—that she might be the first person he’d spoken to in years. Whoever had saved him and taught him to survive, whoever had set up this and the other radio stations—whoever had rigged them with explosives—was probably long dead, lost to Partials or wild animals or illness or accident, leaving this fifty-year-old child all alone in the ruins. That’s why he says he’s the last one, she thought. He watched the last ones die.

      Kira spoke softly, her voice tender. “Do you miss them?”

      “The other humans?” He shrugged, his head bouncing on his shoulders. “It’s quieter now. I like the quiet.”

      Kira sat back, frowning. Everything he said confused her more, and she felt as if she was even further now than before from understanding his situation. Most confusing of all was the name on the door at ParaGen—Afa Demoux had had an office, an office with his name on it, and ParaGen didn’t strike her as the kind of place that let a mentally handicapped man have an office just to keep him entertained. He had to have worked there; he had to have done something, or been something, important.

      What had it said on his door? She struggled to remember, then nodded as the word came back: IT. Was it just a cruel joke? Call the weirdo “it”? That could explain why he didn’t want to talk about ParaGen. But no; it didn’t make sense. Nothing she knew about the old world suggested that kind of behavior, at least not so officially in a major corporation. The letters on the door had to mean something else. She watched his face as he finished the can of fruit, trying to guess his emotional state. Could she bring up ParaGen again, or would he just go silent like before? Maybe if she didn’t mention ParaGen, and just asked about the letters.

      “You seem to know a lot about . . . I-T.” She winced, hoping that wasn’t a stupid question—or worse, an insulting one. Afa’s eyes lit up, and Kira felt a thrill of success.

      “I was an IT director,” 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 СКАЧАТЬ