Fuse (Pure Trilogy 2) (46 page)

Lyda is confined to cot number nine, a prison-like confinement, which is fine with her. She feels sick with guilt. She can’t stop thinking of Our Good Mother telling her that she intends to kill Partridge, that she’s going to attack the Dome and people will die in the process. Our Good Mother has announced that the mothers are to prepare for war, that Lyda is the cause, and that she represents all of them—ruined, abandoned, left to fend for herself.

Lyda lifts herself and Mother Egan plumps a pillow behind her back. She hands Lyda the plate with its fork. “Some red, thick-skinned fruits were found this fall. We’ve thawed and pressed some for you. Mother Hestra wants you strong.”

Lyda sips the drink, salty and sour. She still feels nauseous from time to time, but mostly she’s equal parts tired and restless. “Thank you.”

Mother Egan smiles. “Anything for you.” All the mothers are nicer to her now, but not out of sympathy—more like fear. They sense she has power. “I can’t wait for the baby to come!”

Lyda forces a smile. But she wraps a protective arm around her belly Just whose baby will this be? Another reason the mothers are nice to her—they covet the baby.

“A baby will be a joy for all of us.” Mother Egan looks at her, hungrily.

“Thank you for the food,” Lyda says again and she’s relieved when she hears someone walking into the room—a distraction. Mother Hestra. She’s been hunting. Her sack is freshly bloodstained but empty. She’s already delivered her catch. “Mother Egan!” Mother Hestra says. “Mind if I visit with the patient?”

Mother Egan doesn’t want to leave, Lyda can tell. She’s brought food and has an excuse to be with Lyda. But she can’t raise a fuss. “Of course I don’t mind,” she says. “Enjoy your meal.” This is a subtle reminder that Lyda owes Mother Egan this meal, this kindness.

“I will,” Lyda says.

Once Mother Egan is gone, Mother Hestra sits down heavily on the bed. Syden looks sleepy and red-cheeked from the cold air. “How are you?”

Lyda chews the soft meat. “I’m thinking of leaving.” She’s surprised that she’s said this aloud. It’s only a dim thought in the back of her mind. The idea of trying to survive out there alone terrifies her.

“You won’t make it,” Mother Hestra says. “Listen, you were the incident. If it wasn’t you, it would have been something else. It’s time.”

Lyda glances at Syden, peeking around his mother’s stomach. “He didn’t hurt me. You know that.”

Mother Hestra drops her sack. She rubs her hands together, trying to warm them up. “But did you really understand, Lyda? Did you really know what it might mean?”

“Did
he
?” Lyda can’t even say his name.

“Didn’t he?” Mother Hestra says.

Lyda isn’t sure. Did he really know that she could get pregnant? Lyda had never heard of a baby being born to someone not married. So there was no living, breathing proof that it could happen to someone like her, so young. She remembers the warm skin of Partridge’s chest, their hot breath trapped in the coat. He asked her if she was sure. He had to know. Why else would he ask her that question? And she didn’t even understand what he was asking, that he wanted permission, much less what granting it might mean. But she could have stopped him. She didn’t want to stop.

Lyda puts her plate and glass on the floor. She lies down in the bed, presses her hands together, and tucks them under her pillow. “It doesn’t matter whether he knew or not,” Lyda says, although it does matter. It’s the difference between the two of them being sucker-punched together or her alone. “Mother Hestra,” Lyda whispers urgently, “I need to get word to Bradwell, Pressia, and El Capitan. Is that possible? They might be able to help. This attack can’t happen.”

Mother Hestra says, “I don’t know about that.”

Lyda needs to tell them what’s happening. Maybe they’ll have an idea how to make all this crazy talk of war and death end. She feels like crying. “The Dome . . . you don’t know them. You don’t understand how well equipped they are, how powerful. All of you walk around without any idea . . . It’ll be a bloodbath. Don’t you understand that?”

Mother Hestra shakes her head and smiles. “We’re not attacking the Dome. We’re attacking
Deaths
, the men who made us suffer for years before the Detonations ever rained down on us, the ones who ruined and abandoned us all. You stand for abandonment, whether you want to or not. You are all of us and your child is all of our children.”

“I don’t want to stand for anything.”

“Sometimes you don’t have a choice.”

“Promise me you’ll
try
to find my friends. Please,” Lyda begs her. “Just try.”

Mother Hestra strokes Syden’s hair. “We’ll see,” she says. “But no promises.”

T
HE SKY IS DARK
. Every once in a while, El Capitan tells them where they are, calling through the open door to the cockpit, his voice confident and, strangest of all, happy. Pressia’s never heard El Capitan sound happy like this before. He’s told them the total distance of the trip—2,910 nautical miles—and depending on the winds and speed the ship can manage, it’ll probably take somewhere between thirty-five and fifty-six hours.

They’ve passed Baltimore, the upper Chesapeake Bay, Philadelphia, New York City, Cape Ann, the Gulf of Maine, Prince Edward Island, the Gulf of St. Lawrence. She wishes it were daylight, so she could see them; instead she imagines toppled cities, wrecked highways and ports, plus roaming Beasts and Dusts.

The airship’s engine room is noisy. The pumps hiss and thrum. “What was in each of those cities during the Before?” she asks Bradwell, who’s sitting next to her.

“In Baltimore there was a big harbor, an aquarium and ships, a huge Domino Sugar sign that was always lit up. In Philadelphia, there was the statue of a man on top of a building and an enormous bell that stood for liberty. In New York City, well . . .’’ His voice trails off. “My parents would say that you had to be there before the Righteous Red Wave settled in. You had to be in it to believe it. It was alive.”

Pressia knows that any number of things could go wrong. They might not make it over the ocean. El Capitan might not be able to land this thing. Ireland may be a dusky crater or filled with Beasts and Dusts more vicious than the ones they’ve known. If they’re lucky enough to get to Newgrange in time for the solstice, the sun might illuminate a spot on the floor, and they might dig to find . . . an empty pocket of air, dirt, nothing at all. And she still doesn’t know how Fignan will somehow act as a key.

But knowing all of that, there’s still this moment—up in the air with Bradwell, going somewhere, trying to get out, acting on hope. The joy is there, sitting solidly within her. They hold hands.

El Capitan calls out, “We’re over Horse Island, Newfoundland. Last landmass before the Atlantic.”

Pressia looks out of the porthole, beading with moisture that streaks the glass like tears pushed from your eyes in a strong wind, and she imagines Horse Island overrun with teams of wild horses. But all she can see is the billowy shift of sooty clouds.

“I’ll be releasing the first buoy in thirty seconds,” El Capitan says. “It’s going to be loud. Hold tight.”

Bradwell squeezes her hand. “I’m holding tight.”

The release of the buoy is so thunderous that the airship vibrates. A flash passes the window, filling the cabin for a moment with a brilliant glow. And suddenly she remembers the Detonations sharply. Light blasting through everything. Glowing windows and walls and bodies and bones.

Lit.

Lit up.

Like an explosion of the sun.

And then the light fades. The small porthole is dark again. She breathes out, leans her head against Bradwell’s shoulder. She says, “For a moment, it was like . . .”

“I know.”

It’s night and this is a small miracle—holding Bradwell’s hand as they’re skimming the clouds, careening over the dark ocean, sailing through the sky.

T
HE SWIMMING POOL
has been closed to the public so Partridge and Iralene can swim alone. He isn’t supposed to get his head wet because of his injury, but he’s allowed to wade around.

Iralene wears a yellow swimsuit with a short skirt wrapped around her waist. She floats on her back, dips underwater and comes up again. Her makeup doesn’t smear.

There’s a guard named Beckley, standing on the cement, fully dressed and armed. When he’s out of earshot, Partridge asks Iralene, “What’s with Beckley?”

“He’s watching out for you, if you have symptoms or something,” she says. “Just in case something goes wrong.”

“Really?” Partridge says, pushing his arms through the water. “He doesn’t look like medical personnel.”

She seems to change her mind. “Well, if you’re going to be the leader, you need to get used to being protected.”

“So the guard isn’t really a doctor’s suggestion, but my father’s idea?”

“Yes,” she says. “See how much he loves you?” It’s also a way for his father to keep tabs on him at all times.

Partridge feels weak—but it’s more mental than physical. His body is weirdly restless. He wonders if it’s because while in the coma, he stored
energy, pacing the cage of his body, waiting to be let loose. He’d like to shoot hoops. “Aren’t there some academy kids around who I could play a pickup basketball game with?”

“The doctors would never let you do something so dangerous!”

“I’d like to just see who’s around, maybe even some of my teachers.” He’d like to see Glassings and ask him about his last memory—the lecture on beautiful barbarism. “Did they send me cards? We always did that when kids went into quarantine.”

“Of course they did! But they were . . . destroyed. The doctors didn’t want to risk germs coming in with them.”

“Really? You just destroyed them all?”

“Yes, but there were tons of them. People really like you.”

“They’re
supposed
to like me,” Partridge says. “I’m Willux’s son.”

She swims around his waist and bobs back up.
“I
like you,” she says. “I’d like you no matter what.”

Although he couldn’t swear to it, she seems honest. She dips underwater and swims through his legs. When she breaks the surface behind him, she says, “It’s hard to believe it’s winter. Isn’t it?”

“Maybe it isn’t,” Partridge says. “Who knows what it’s like on the outside.”

Iralene laughs. “You’re so funny. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

But Partridge wasn’t joking. “Do I think you’re funny?” he asks Iralene.

She swims in close, touches her wet nose to his. He feels an ache—is it love? It feels more like homesickness or lovesickness. Iralene says, “You think I’m pretty.”

“But do I think you’re
funny
?”

She looks away. “You think I’m everything you’ve ever wanted!”

Partridge nods. She’s got to be. Why else would he have proposed?

Beckley is driving them in a small enclosed motorized cart. They sit in the backseat. They’re being kept out of sight. Iralene’s hair is perfectly
puffed. How she managed it so quickly after the swim Partridge isn’t sure. Was there a pit crew in the ladies’ locker room?

“Where to now?” Partridge asks.

“The zoo,” she says, looking out the foggy plastic window. “The butterflies and the aquarium are my favorite, remember?”

He doesn’t remember, so he doesn’t answer. He notices a small beetle on the back of Beckley’s seat. He almost reaches out to touch it. But something in him tells him not to point it out to Iralene.

They go to the butterfly house first. It’s kept warm and moist. They’re surrounded by dense foliage. The butterflies dip and sputter all around them. Beckley keeps a respectful distance. He looks uncomfortable among all the flitting wings.

This section has been cleared just for them too, but some parts must be open to the public; Partridge can hear children not too far off. This trip reminds him of Christmases when he used to stay with the Hollenbacks, Julby and Jarv, stockings and little presents, lonesome holidays when his father was too swamped with work to take Partridge for even a few days. Sometimes they came to the zoo and walked around.

Iralene holds Partridge’s hand tightly, as if she’s afraid of butterflies.

“I wonder if my father will want me to spend the holidays with him? Will we suddenly bond while he prepares me for my new future?” He can’t even say the words without sounding a little sarcastic.

A bright blue butterfly alights on Partridge’s shoulder. Iralene points it out. “Look! It’s so delicate and perfect!”

The butterfly really is beautiful. This close up he can see the black, velvety edges of its wings. But he looks past it, at Iralene—her brilliantly green eyes, her perfect features, her shining hair. “Does my father love me now all of a sudden?” Partridge says, the butterflies batting all around their heads.

Iralene slips her arms around his waist. “Maybe it’s been hard for him to show his love, what with the losses you two have suffered.”

“You mean with my mother dead and Sedge having killed himself.” He’s not sure why he says it so bluntly. Maybe he’s testing her.

“Sad,” she says, “but we really shouldn’t talk about them. The past is gone!”

Partridge has the desire to defend his mother and Sedge, as if they’ve been pushed aside. He’s suddenly angry. He reaches around and unhooks Iralene’s hands. “Don’t say that.”

“What?”

“Don’t talk about them like that. The past isn’t the past.” He walks away from her.

“Now that we’re engaged, there’s hope for a beginning. A new start. That’s what we can be for your father, for each other.”

“Something’s not right,” he says, rubbing his temple.

“What do you mean?” She walks toward him, but he takes another step away.

“I don’t know,” he says. He makes a fist. “My body,” he says, and he stares at himself.

“What about it?”

His body doesn’t feel like it’s been bedridden. His muscles are the strongest and leanest they’ve ever been. He doesn’t trust Iralene, even though there’s something about her that’s sincere, innocent.

“Partridge,” she says, “talk to me.”