Burn (14 page)
Partridge is on the other side of the room, engrossed in newspaper articles about his father. Lyda picks up the folder quickly.
Reason for referral: Lyda Mertz is believed to have suffered an emotional trauma due to an event in which she participated in a theft and the disappearance of a classmate, Partridge Willux…
Under
SOURCES OF INFORMATION
, there’s a list of all those they interviewed and deposed—her teachers, Miss Pearl and Mr. Glassings; a few of her classmates; her mother; her pediatrician. There are summaries of their accounts and then a list of psychological tests—all waived. Why? Because she would have passed them. She wasn’t crazy.
The team who interviewed her when she was brought into the rehab center describe Lyda in her interview.
Ms. Mertz was agitated and nervous…easily distracted by the window image and often rubbed her hands on her knees. She was self-conscious about her shaved head and kept it covered. She did not make consistent eye contact…a reluctant interviewee… She found it painful to talk about her father and his death. She didn’t want to discuss the difficulties of being raised by a single mother. She talked only briefly about her life in the academy, saying it was “good” and that she’d been “happy, you know, more or less.”
She had been happy, more or less, but only because she didn’t know what happiness was. She didn’t understand it because she hadn’t ever had the freedom to make her own decisions, to choose a life. Freedom and happiness are entwined—one can’t truly exist without the other.
She sees herself in her mind’s eye—that girl in the rehabilitation center who was scared and quiet, embarrassed and ashamed. She never wants to feel that way again.
Lyda reads some dense medical language about her diagnosis, none of which sounds at all accurate.
And then the conclusions.
Short-Term Prognosis:
We believe that due to Ms. Mertz’s delusional thinking, willful disobedience, disregard for rules and laws, new history of criminal activity, and deep level of denial, she is a threat to herself and others…
She shakes her head. No, not true. Not at all.
Long-Term Prognosis:
We believe that Ms. Mertz will likely never be able to transition back into normal society. Her prospects of finding a mate—in light of her psychological deficiencies—are remote. We do not believe she will ever return to the level of a fully participating and contributing member of the community. We will suggest—subject to later review—that she be rendered unfit for partnership. We strongly urge that she not be given the right to procreate, as we see her psychological weaknesses as possibly stemming from a genetic source on her paternal side.
Final Determination:
Lifelong institutionalization.
Lyda puts the folder down, steps back from the desk. She feels trapped again, like she did in the rehabilitation center. She remembers the shadows of fake birds flitting across the square of light that was supposed to make patients remember the sun. She wants to call to Partridge, to show him the folder, but she can’t. There’s some old shame inside of her. Professionals thought these things about her—
unfit for partnership
,
not be given the right to procreate
… She wants to hide this from Partridge. Why announce that this was once a determination, her deadened future?
Why is this on Foresteed’s desk?
She whispers, “
Ms. Mertz will likely never be able to transition back into normal society.
” And she wonders if this is the truest thing she’s ever read. Now that she’s been out in the wilds, could she ever survive here—even with Partridge at her side?
She walks toward Partridge. Does she need him in here in a way she didn’t out there? She used to be so fearless, bold, and strong. She misses her spears. She misses the mothers and the smell of the forest and the way the ash spun through the air. “Partridge,” she says.
He turns and looks at her, his face both anxious and weary. “What is it?”
And then the door swings open and Foresteed—lean and tan—strides into the room. “Sit down! Make yourselves comfortable.”
“Not really possible,” Partridge says. “We need the new count on suicides. Still rising?”
Foresteed sits at his desk. He looks at the folder as if he knows that it’s not exactly in the same spot he left it. He glances at Lyda.
She looks away, takes a seat in one of the leather chairs.
“The numbers have only gotten worse,” Foresteed says. “And we’re overloaded in all facilities, trying to care for those who’ve just botched the whole thing.” He almost laughs.
“I’ll do anything I can to help the situation,” Partridge says. “Except, well, you know where I stand on taking it all back. I can’t do that.”
“Of course not,” Foresteed says. “Damage done. Right?”
Partridge looks down at his hands. He’s been racked with guilt. Lyda’s tried to tell him that there’s no way he could have known that people would start killing themselves, that it’s not his fault. But nothing has helped.
Foresteed knocks on the desk, his knuckles like a gavel. “I think there are things we can do.”
Partridge sits down and leans forward. “What’s the plan?”
“You have to offer them some part of the truth, Partridge. You have to let them feel like there’s something that’s going to happen that they were promised, something they recognize. And it’d be great if it was also something that could distract them, give them a little something to celebrate.” Foresteed picks up the folder holding Lyda’s psychological evaluation, tapping it on his desk. “Purdy and Hoppes have a great suggestion, and they want me to ask you to consider—”
“Purdy and Hoppes? They’re supposed to be reworking the story so that Lyda and I can be together.”
“As you can imagine, all of that’s on hold.” Foresteed looks at Lyda. “Now is not the time.”
Lyda feels a flush of shame. She’s the unwed mother again, an embarrassment for her family, her school. She reminds herself quickly that she’s proud of who she is and how strong she’s become, but shame doesn’t listen to logic. Where does it come from? Why is it so uncontrollable and sudden? Foresteed seems to know just what to say to trigger it. “It’s okay,” Lyda says, trying to sound confident. “We’re in no rush. The first priority here is to save lives.”
Foresteed barely acknowledges her. “Things are serious, Partridge. Purdy and Hoppes want me to ask you if you’d be willing to reverse course a little. There’s much to be gained from a public persona that’s more in line with what was promised to the people. Romantically speaking—”
Partridge seems to know exactly what Foresteed is suggesting. “No,” he says.
“No to what?” Lyda asks Partridge. It’s like he’s cutting her out of the conversation. “He hasn’t even asked you anything yet.”
“I know what he’s going to ask and the answer is no.”
“Partridge,” Lyda says. “People are killing themselves. They’re
dying
. Children are finding their parents in blood-filled tubs. If you can do something without going back on the truth, you should. You have to.” She grabs his hand.
“Lyda,” Partridge says. “Don’t you know what he’s going to suggest?”
“No, I don’t.”
“The people were told a fairy tale,” Foresteed says. “They want a happily ever after. They want something that seems like things will go back—even if they don’t.”
“A fairy tale?” Lyda says. “Happily ever after?”
“Purdy and Hoppes told me to ask you. It wasn’t my idea,” Foresteed says, tapping his fingers across her folder. “But it’s not a bad one, considering we don’t really have any others. Why not give them a wedding? The one they were promised.”
Lyda looks at Partridge. She lets go of his hand. She laces her fingers together and stares down at them. “Iralene.” She wants to be sure she understands.
“Iralene,” Foresteed says.
“A wedding. Partridge and Iralene,” she says, her voice now a whisper. She presses her hand to her forehead. Her skin is cold and damp.
Foresteed speaks quickly. “We can put out a press release within the hour. We feel that it will distract them, at the very least, and put a stop to the explosion of deaths. We have to do something.” And then he takes a deep breath and sighs. “Do you want your very own child to be born in a world with this much instability, violence, death?”
Lyda hates that Foresteed has even mentioned her child. She feels suddenly protective. “This isn’t about my child,” she says.
“Well, think of other people’s children, then,” Foresteed says. “The ones who will grow up without one of their parents—like you did, losing your father so young.”
She knows that Foresteed is trying to manipulate her, and she hates him for it, but she misses her father and wants these unnecessary deaths to end. He smiles at her grotesquely.
“It’s just a fairy tale,” Lyda says. “They want a fairy tale. A happily ever after. It can be a temporary marriage until things are stable again?”
“Exactly,” Foresteed says.
Then why does she feel such a deep well of sadness open up inside of her?
“We don’t have to do this,” Partridge says to her. “We really don’t.”
“People have jumped off roofs. There are gunshots going off in bedrooms.” She looks at Partridge. There’s nothing else. He takes a breath but doesn’t say anything. She turns back to Foresteed. “Do it,” she says. “Tell them what they want. See if it works.”
It’s silent and then Lyda whispers to Partridge, “No more blood on your hands. No more.”
T
he air is stagnant, the engines loud. The airship buffets in the wind. The entire trip will take over fifty hours. She’s checked the metal box a few times, touching the vial and the formula—both intact, thankfully; it’s become a nervous habit. Much of that time has passed, but still the remaining hours—how many exactly?—stretch out before Pressia restlessly. On the one hand, there’s only the view out the porthole down at the glinting sea; on the other, the airship is dangerous. El Capitan is a novice pilot, and he was angry when he realized they’d be heading back without his guns. He looked lost and desperate. “How the hell does Kelly expect us to get anywhere without guns?” He settled down enough to take off, and occasionally he sends out a laser-reflecting tracking buoy. The noise is deafening as it blasts from the airship, lighting up the portholes, rattling the airship itself. They could die out here—plummet, crash, and then sink, soundlessly, to the ocean floor. This scares her, but she’s been scared of death for so long that it doesn’t hold as much power over her as it once did.
Instead, the sinking feeling she has in her chest—relentless and awful—is because of Bradwell. He sits just across the aisle from her, and even though he saved her life, they still haven’t spoken. How does it feel to be trapped in a small space with someone who hates her? It makes her want to be smaller and smaller until she disappears.
She’s hoping there will be a moment when Bradwell lets his guard slip a little, when he’ll let himself soften, open up some. But even when he sleeps, he looks angry. His brow furrows in dreams, maybe nightmares. He kicks restlessly. It’s hard for him to simply sit in the seat. Stiff and awkward, his wings seem to jut his shoulders forward, forcing him to slouch.
El Capitan and Helmud are in the cockpit, Fignan at their side. El Capitan is singing old songs—nothing about love, though. She assumes he’s being careful now.
But there’s no time to be careful with each other. They have to talk about their next move.
“Bradwell!” Pressia says.
He doesn’t stir.
“Bradwell!”
Again, nothing.
She unfastens her seatbelt, crosses the aisle, and shoves his shoulder. “Bradwell, wake up!”
He wakes from a dream the way he used to in the mossy cottage where he recuperated after they almost froze to death on the forest floor—his arms and legs jerk, he gasps for air. “What? What is it?”
“We need to talk.”
He looks around, wide-eyed, then out the porthole—most likely startled to find himself on the airship careening over the ocean. “I don’t want to talk about us,” he says. “I can’t.”
“Not about us,” she says, but she wishes they could talk about what they mean to each other. Will they ever? “We need a plan. We need to talk to El Capitan and Helmud too.”
He rubs his eyes and nods. “You’re right.”
Bradwell follows Pressia to the cockpit. El Capitan is singing, and Helmud seems to be humming harmony. It’s beautiful. Fignan appears to be in sleep mode, as if the singing lulled him. She hates to interrupt.
The door is open, but she knocks anyway.
He stops midnote. “I thought you two were asleep.”
“I was,” Bradwell says. He and Pressia step into the cockpit. He barely fits in the space. His ribs and chest and shoulders have broadened. His wings are bulky and arched on his back.
“We have to check on Hastings,” Pressia says, gripping the back of the empty copilot’s seat.
“We’d have to touch down at Crazy John-Johns then lift off and land again,” El Capitan says nervously.
“We can’t leave him there,” Bradwell says.
“I wasn’t saying I’d abandon him. It’s just a risk—that’s all. If we crash-land like we did last time, we won’t have anyone to help us. We’d have to make it back home on foot through a territory we barely survived the first time.”
“We have no choice,” Pressia says. “He needs us, and we might need him too.”
“Need him for what?” El Capitan asks.
Pressia sighs. “I’m going into the Dome. I’ve got to talk to Partridge. I’ve got to get the cure to the right people on the inside.” She keeps the backpack on at all times.
“You’re assuming there are
right people on the inside
,” Bradwell says.
“Right people,” Helmud says optimistically.
“They can’t all be bad. And now that Partridge is in charge, I’m sure he’s—”
“I’m not sure of anything,” Bradwell says. “Kelly knew that Willux was dead, that Partridge was in charge, so why hasn’t he heard about a new order in the Dome?”
