THE LAST BALLERINA Jemma Burton hid in the wooded fringes of Philadelphia, grateful for the rain. She hid, and she waited. Her orders had been clear. But the precautions were unusual, to say the least. Five separate couriers, each with a separate piece of intel. Four sets of coded dummy transfer points with overlapping patterns to reveal the true locations. An ETA for pickup with descriptions of the two women she’d been assigned to smuggle across the city into the hands of yet another Runner, who would then shuttle them to the safety of their final destination. There was nothing unusual about the description of the first woman. “Female, fiftyfive,” the courier said. “Caucasian descent. Pale complexion. White shoulderlength hair.” But the second woman. The tremor in his voice as he described her. The hope in his eyes. Jem made him repeat the words. Then once more. And still, she didn’t believe. There weren’t any children on the streets of Philadelphia. Weren’t any children at all. Here. New York. Los Angeles. Moscow. Beijing. Anywhere. The world had ended when Jemma was a child herself. And with the end came the plague. And with the plague went the young. The old. The weak. Synthetic deities had found humanity lacking. And with the scattered dusting of a disease Jem had once heard a dying pathologist describe as elegant, the Synth had given them a death sentence—delayed by decades, but final nonetheless. Jem, at twelve, had been among the youngest of the survivors. Now, thirteen years later, she and every other surviving human remained infertile. The virus thrived in all of them, actively inhibiting their ability to procreate, and had thus far adapted to thwart every attempt at treatment or cure. So humanity dwindled, fading away under the gentle tyranny of synthetic life. “Female, twentyfive,” the courier had repeated twice. “Indian descent. Medium complexion. Black chinlength hair, shaved on the side. Visibly pregnant.” It was possible, of course. But even as fragile petals of hope bloomed within her, she crushed it. Maybe someone had found a cure. Or maybe this woman was just some genetic rarity unheard of until now who’d developed an immunity. Either way, Jem knew better than to think it would make a difference. Knew better than to think anything she
did could ever do more than slow the gradual extinction of terrestrial humans. Raindrops clung to Jem’s closecropped curls like dew. She shivered, fingers caressing the shielded holsters of the weapons hidden at her side. They would have her description as well, their current Runner scouting ahead to make sure Jem hadn’t been replaced by some Synth spy. She tapped her fingers against the damp denim of her jeans, impatient. She hated staying in one place this long, out in the open. There—finally. A stirring in the shadows. Three figures framed by an outcropping of duskyleafed maple trees. Jem whistled, stepping out into moonlight dimmed by ashen autumn clouds. The Runner was a short, grizzled Asian man. He pulled back the cowl of his stealth cloak, which masked them from the infrared scanners of the watchful drones that patrolled the skies over the Pennsylvania wilderness as they traveled by night. He whispered something to the others, gesturing urgently for them to remove their cloaks. He nodded to Jem, scratching his beard as he eyed the silent city—twitchy and impatient to slink back into the velvety darkness of the brownleafed forest. Jem could tell that he was the type who preferred wilderness runs to urban. Jem watched with eager curiosity as the women revealed their faces. The older woman was tall and bony, her thinlipped face heavily creased in equal measure by laugh lines and worry. The younger woman’s dark, tatsleeved arms lifted from the gauzy cloak to pull back her hood. She was curvaceous and softfeatured, her face and ears crowded with piercings. As the cloak fell from her shoulders, Jem’s gaze traced the woman’s figure to the gentle swell of her stomach, only barely visible through the baggy fatigues. “Here.” Jem tossed the women two vacuumsealed packs of clean clothing, hoping they’d be loose enough for the pregnant woman. The Runner clasped Jem’s hand, back turned to the women as they removed dull camo uniforms, wellsoiled from the journey, and changed into the new outfits. “Precious cargo,” he whispered. “For the love of God, be careful.” “I’ll keep them safe,” Jem assured him, and he nodded, confident in her ability. Though
few in the Resistance knew one another by name or face, Jem’s reputation preceded her. The Runner with the mind of a Synth. The girl with uniquely highend cybernetic enhancement mods. So far as Jem knew, she was the last human with such sophisticated enhancements. The other girl had probably been dead for a long time now. “This is Jem,” he said, introducing her to the women. “She’ll get you where you need to go. Jem, this is Dr. Blackwell. And—” “Blue,” the pregnant woman said, shaking the surprised Jem’s hand. Jem’s breath caught in her chest as their fingers touched. Christ, she was beautiful. “You’re in good hands,” the man said, hugging the doctor, and then Blue. He broke off the embrace, and reached down to touch her stomach. Thinking better of it, he stopped short. Pulled away. Eyes wet with tears. “Bless you. God bless you.”