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by Scott Westerfield
p.27 So Shay was the Boss, and obeying wasn’t really that bad. It was icier than thinking, which could get you all tangled up.
p.60 Usually, she loved bonfires, the way they made the shadows jump like living things, the real wickedness of burning trees. That was the whole point of being special: You existed to make sure everyone else behaved, but that didn’t mean you had to.
p.81 “Your new face is about a mega-Helen, Tally-wa,” Zane said, his gaze traveling the web of flash tattoos on her face and arms. “It could launch a billion ships. But pirate ships, probably.”
p.110 Biological warfare had been one of the Rusties’ more brilliant ideas: engineering bacteria and viruses to kill each other. It was about the stupidest kind of weapon you could make, because once the bugs were finished with your enemies, they usually came for you. In fact, the whole Rusty culture had been undone by one artificial oil-eating bacterium.
“What was that?” Tally shouted, crouching down.
“An old grenade. I just hope it still--”
A flash of light and a deafening roar came through the hole.
“...works. Come on!”
p.130 Tally followed her down, taking a slow breath. That Shay in possession of hand grenades was a comforting thought showed what kind of a night this had turned into.
p.154 His name was Andrew Simpson Smith, and Tally had met him before.
When she’d escaped the city back in her pretty days, she’d stumbled across a sort of reservation, an experiment maintained by the city’s scientists. The people inside the reservation lived like pre-Rusties, wearing skins and using only Stone Age tools--clubs and sticks and fire. They inhabited small villages that were constantly at war with each other, an endless cycle of revenge killings for the scientists to study, like a purified layer of human violence squeezed between the halves of a petri dish.
p.221 A couple of new pretties glided by, and Tally noticed that they were wearing costume surge. One had skin much paler than any Pretty Committee would ever allow, with red hair and a smattering of freckles across her face, like one of those littlies that always had to worry about sunburn. The other’s skin was so dark it was almost black, and his muscles were way too obvious.
p.224 “Well, welcome to Diego,” the young pretty called, and stepped into a high-speed lane, waving good-bye with the vague embarrassment of ditching a loser at a party.
p.291 The next room was also empty, strewn with the remains of a late meal interrupted by the evacuation. The windows were decorated with curtains stirring in the wind from the distant helicopter. They had been shredded by flying glass, and now they were like tattered white flags waving in surrender.