Knowing all and having the necessary tools are two different things. This is hardly a hospital. We make do with what we have, and none of that is Mahlia’s fault. Tani is the victim of many evils, but Mahlia is not the beginning of that chain, nor the end. I am responsible, if anyone is.
Paolo BacigalupiAlejandro saw you looking at them.”
“I’m looking at you,” Mahlia said. “That mean you’re dead, too?
Mahlia just waited. She was good at that. When you were a castoff, it didn’t do any good trying to talk to people, but sometimes, if you just kind of waited them out, people would get uncomfortable and feel like they had to do something.
Paolo BacigalupiA final stand, then. One last battle. At least he could say that he had fought. When he met his brothers and sisters on the far side of death, he would tell them that he had not yielded. He might have betrayed everything that they had been bred for, but he had never yielded.
Paolo BacigalupiThey were hunters. But now, as night closed in on them, and the swamp became black and hot and close, they were becoming prey.
Paolo BacigalupiYou will die.”
“I guess. I don’t know.” She shook her head, trying to pick through her feelings. “I used to think I was alive just because I kept getting away. If someone didn’t put a bullet in my head, I was winning. I was still breathing, right?” She looked at the blackened land around her, feeling tired and sad and alone. “But now I’m thinking it ain’t like that. Now I’m thinking that once you got enough dead looking over your shoulder, you’re dead anyway. Don’t matter if you’re still walking and talking, they weigh you down.
Maggot twitch, some people called it. If you’d seen much of the war, you had it. Some more. Some less. But everybody had it.
Paolo BacigalupiMots clés war
Her face was smeared with mud and blood and ash. Just another bit of debris in the wreckage of war.
Paolo BacigalupiMots clés war
Don’t go off like that,” he said. “Makes me think you’ll just tip right off.
Paolo BacigalupiIf she had been born in another place, during another time, he supposed she might have been the sort of girl who concerned herself with boyfriends and parties and fashionable clothes. If she had lived in a Boston arcology or a Beijing super tower, perhaps. Instead, she carried scars, and her hand was a stump, and her eyes were hard like obsidian, and her smile was hesitant, as if anticipating the suffering that she knew awaited her, just around the corner.
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