Fuse (Pure Trilogy 2) (51 page)

She’s gone. Not that she could stay. How could she? The clock’s winding down. She had to go. But did Bradwell go too?

“Did they leave us here to die?” El Capitan says. “Goddamn it, Helmud. Did they think you were going to take care of me?”

“Take care of me,” Helmud says.

He knows that he should be wondering if they’ve gotten to Newgrange, if they’ve found the formula, but instead he’s thinking that they could say anything to each other behind his back. They could make fun of him. Of course she didn’t want him to kiss her. He’s a guy with his brother on his back, a freak among freaks.

He knows why he kissed her. He was proud of himself for flying this airship, even proud of himself for the emergency landing. And when he saw her face, he was glad she was alive. He loves her. He said it aloud. He’s sure he did. And there’s no going back now.

“Maybe we’ll die here, Helmud. Maybe that’d be for the best.”

Helmud twists to one side. He’s rummaging through a sack. “For the best.”

“I’m glad that Dad gave up on me before he saw us like this. You know, Helmud? You know what I mean? I’m glad he left before he saw how sick we are. We’re
sick
. Look at us.”

He feels Helmud’s hand slip under his chin, pulling him up from the ground. El Capitan sits up, but not straight. He doesn’t have enough
energy. He slouches, leaning against Helmud, who has a spoon in one hand and a little tin of rice in the other. Helmud loops his arms around El Capitan. He moves the spoon to his brother’s mouth. Helmud says, “Look at us.”

El Capitan feels like crying. Helmud, after all these years, is going to take care of him. It’s the two of them, bound.

“Look at us,” Helmud says again, and then he adds one more word: “Cap.”

He isn’t repeating a word. He isn’t just an echo. He said something. El Capitan doesn’t know when he last heard Helmud say his name—before the Detonations? El Capitan looks over his shoulder. He stares into his brother’s face. It’s like he hasn’t seen it up close in years. Helmud isn’t just a kid anymore. His face is warped but sturdy. His eyes are sunken and now they fill sweetly with tears. “Look at us,” El Capitan says. “Look at us.”

“Look at us,” Helmud says.

And then, overhead, El Capitan hears footfalls—heavy ones. A Beast? He sees his gun shoved up against the wall. He reaches for it. The pain in his head shoots down his spine. The gun is just out of reach. He plants his boot and shoves himself and Helmud forward.

The footfalls land hard inside the airship, which rocks a little. He hears someone coming toward the cockpit door.

His fingers brush the butt of the gun. He pushes off once more, wincing with pain, grabs the gun, swings it around, cocking it, and points it at the door—a large, shadowed figure.

“Jesus, Cap! Put that down.”

Bradwell.

“You’re here,” El Capitan says.

“Yeah, I’m here and Pressia isn’t. She went out, alone,” Bradwell says as he stands up.

“You let her?”

Bradwell glares at him, chin tucked to his chest. “Are you criticizing me? I don’t think that’s in your best interest right now.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“A threat,” Helmud whispers.

“Take it as a friendly warning.”

El Capitan doesn’t like threats or warnings, but he likes the fact that Bradwell seems rattled. Maybe the kiss had more effect than he thought. “How long has she been gone?” he asks, sitting up as much as he can.

“It’ll be dawn soon. Maybe she’s there. Maybe not. I couldn’t go with her and leave you two here alone, could I?”

“You didn’t go with her . . . because of me?”

“Because of me?” Helmud says, putting down the tin.

Bradwell nods. “She told me I had to stay with you and Helmud, and she was the one who had to go.”

“You should’ve gone,” El Capitan says angrily. “The last thing I want is Pressia out there alone! Anything could happen to her out there! We don’t know this terrain, its Beasts and Dusts!”

“You wanted me to leave you here to die?” Bradwell says.

“Wouldn’t you have made the same sacrifice?” El Capitan says. “For her!” And, in this moment, El Capitan feels like he’s said the unsayable—that they’re both in love with her, that they’d die for her.

Bradwell crosses his arms on his chest. The birds rattle angrily on his back. “I guess we’ve got that in common.”

El Capitan isn’t sure what to say His arms are weak. He rests the gun on the floor.

“We also both know that she wouldn’t let either of us sacrifice the other on her account,” Bradwell says.

“Right,” El Capitan says.

“But also,” Bradwell continues, “I couldn’t leave you here to die . . . because you’re like a brother to me. Both of you.”

“Both of you,” Helmud says.

El Capitan is stunned. He feels guilty He kissed Pressia. Bradwell was standing right there. He told her he loved her. Brothers don’t do that to each other. “Sorry,” El Capitan says.

“For what?”

“I’m sorry about Pressia. I didn’t mean to—” El Capitan says.

“Shut up,” Bradwell says and he walks over to El Capitan, stands over his body El Capitan braces himself. There’s a chance Bradwell might
kick him in the ribs. “You need to eat something.” He squats down, picks up the tin. “And we’ve got to think of how to repair the damages. We’ve got to find a way to get this ship home.”

“Home,” Helmud says.

“Home,” El Capitan says, as if he’s now the one who echoes his brother.

“I’m going back out,” Bradwell says, handing Helmud the tin. “I think I know where the crack in the tank is. I’m going to get a closer look.”

“Is it safe out there?” El Capitan asks.

“Don’t know for sure. So far, it’s been quiet.”

“I don’t like quiet,” El Capitan says. “Puts me on edge.”

“On edge,” Helmud says.

Bradwell stands up. “When I get back, I want you to have eaten all of it.” He nods at Helmud. “You hear that, Helmud? Make sure he gets it all down.”

El Capitan feels Helmud jerk his head. A nod.

As Bradwell starts to leave, El Capitan says, “I’d have stayed behind to save you.”

Bradwell stops. “Thanks.”

“Thanks,” Helmud says.

Bradwell crawls out of the cockpit, into the cabin, and up out of its side. El Capitan listens to the scrape of his boots, feels the airship shift a little with his weight. He hears his footsteps overhead and then gone—Bradwell on the ground.

Helmud pushes the spoon to El Capitan’s lips. “Wait,” El Capitan says, but as soon as his mouth is open, Helmud shoves the food in. El Capitan chews obediently. Helmud’s hand appears again, holding the spoon, ready to shovel it in. El Capitan’s the weak one now. Helmud is the strong one. And, for a minute, El Capitan lets his weight sag against his brother. He lets his brother hold him up, feed him, take care of him. When was the last time anyone took care of El Capitan? Not since his mother was still at home. When he got headaches, she’d take a cool rag and lay it over his eyes, and let him eat gummy candies. El Capitan closes his eyes for a minute. He gives in.

And that’s when he hears the shout—Bradwell’s voice. “Cap!” The call is loud and short, as if his mouth has been muffled. El Capitan bolts forward, his skull struck by sharp, searing pain. “Bradwell!” he shouts. “Bradwell!”

Nothing.

Quiet.

“Bradwell!” He hears only his breath and Helmud’s, both coming hard and fast. “Bradwell!” he says to Helmud. “He’s gone. Has he been taken?”

“Taken,” Helmud says.

El Capitan lurches forward. “We can’t just let him go.”

“Let him go,” Helmud says. “Let him go.”

“No!” El Capitan says, getting onto his hands and knees and beginning to crawl to the door. His elbows buckle. He falls to his chest.

“Let him go,” Helmud says.

“No!” El Capitan whispers. “No.”

G
ROUPS OF MOTHERS
are causing distractions in the Rubble Fields and the Meltlands, drawing Special Forces to them. Meanwhile Lyda and a troop are winding through the trees in a long, snakish line in the middle of the night with lanterns on sticks, bobbing over their heads. Groups of four carry small catapults on their shoulders like child-size coffins. Lyda is in the middle. She looks at the women’s faces, distorted by shadows, and wonders if some of them have been chosen to gain entrance into the Dome through the points of weakness. Are they to kill Partridge with a knife, a gunshot, an explosive? Even though she believes that the Dome will not be breached, the mothers scare her. They’re strong, crafty, and violent.

She’d like to at least try to warn Partridge. At the same time, her instinct to run is undeniably strong. Maybe it’s the baby growing inside of her that makes her want to turn back the way they came, or maybe it’s her own cowardice. When she was escorted out of the Dome, she was sure she’d be raped, beaten, devoured; when no one was there at first, she pounded on the sealed door, hoping to be let back in.

Now being inside the Dome scares her more than being on the outside. She loves the sooty air, the damp woodlands, the sharp breezes. It’s
alive
, and she’s alive in it.

No one has explained to her why she’s here, and she hasn’t asked Mother Hestra, who walks in front of her in the line. Maybe Our Good Mother wants her to see this violence—a punishment for trusting Partridge and defending him in her presence. She worries she’ll be a sacrifice—like Wilda was—as a warning. But no. She represents the mothers—their abandonment—and carries the most precious thing of all to them: a baby. She’s not sure how or why, but she’s a pawn. That’s how she got out of the Dome and maybe that’s how she’ll wind up back inside of it.

The mothers’ commands are chirrups and grunts. Some signal has been given. The line stops in unison. The lanterns are lowered. The mothers break from the line and move into the underbrush.

Mother Hestra grabs Lyda’s hand. They move quietly toward the edge of the forest that opens to the Drylands. They crouch behind a thorned bush with waxy leaves.

Through the stunted trees, Lyda sees the Dome on the hill, cold and sterile, brilliantly aglow. Will the grenades have any impact? In the Dome’s shadow, the grenades seem more like mosquitoes than weapons. “This is only going to make the Dome angry,” Lyda says, pulling her hand from Mother Hestra’s. “Doesn’t Our Good Mother understand how much firepower they have?”

“What are we supposed to do? Wait forever? Be good and quiet?” Mother Hestra says.

“This isn’t the right thing to do.”

“I no longer rely on right or wrong,” Mother Hestra whispers. “I know doing and not doing. Sometimes you must do.”

Lyda feels Freedle stirring in her pocket. She’s supposed to protect him for Pressia. She should have left him behind, but Freedle is her small, wing-beating protector.

The leader is searching the Drylands. Lyda assumes they will head out into them, to get as close to the Dome as they can with the catapults.

At this very moment, Partridge could be back at the academy, walking the halls to his room. Maybe he’s woken up in the middle of the night because he can’t sleep. Maybe he’s thinking of her. She squeezes
her hands together, closes her eyes, and thinks of Partridge, as if she can warn him. If they’re connected, truly connected, maybe he’ll be able to sense her warning.

And then the mothers roll the catapults uphill into the Drylands. Quickly and quietly, they load the grenades into the catapults—like what? Simple apples. Amputated fists. And then they dislodge the safeties.

When they step back, they say, “Clear,” and another set of mothers releases the locks on the springs. The arms of the catapults eject the grenades.

As they land, the sound is like a smattering of footfalls. Puffs of dust rise near the outer ridge of the Dome. A few hit the Dome’s hard outer shell.

And then they begin to detonate. Powerful and concise explosions. Syden covers his ears and cries.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Mother Hestra whispers proudly.

Once they start, they don’t stop. At first the Dome doesn’t shudder. They’re hitting the air-filtration system dead-on, but it’s sealed.

And then a door opens—the one Lyda was sent out of, what seems like years ago now.

A line of Special Forces soldiers pours out in a row—long, sleek, muscled—at high speed and starts tearing downhill toward them.

“Why aren’t they firing?” Mother Hestra says.

Lyda’s heart chugs in her chest. “They’d rather get in close and find out who we are.”

“We want them to get in close.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We want some of us to be captured. We can cause real damage only from the inside. You know this.”

Lyda shakes her head. “That’s crazy!”

The mothers continue to load the catapults. They aim at Special Forces. The grenades land, thudding the ground around the soldiers, and then almost immediately explode. Most of the Special Forces scatter, but some stay in formation—as if they’re programmed and can’t react to the new situation. Their bodies are blown up—but not all at
once. The grenades aren’t that powerful. They shatter chests, splinter legs, jaggedly tear off an arm.

Lyda can’t stomach it. This is her fault. She grabs Mother Hestra and begs, “Make them stop! They’re just academy boys! They’re just kids!”

“They’re Deaths, Lyda. Deaths!”

Lyda realizes that no one is going to stop this. The mothers will continue to kill the soldiers except for those who broke formation, and those soldiers who have taken cover in the woods will return fire. She hears a shot from a sniper rifle. One of the mothers working a catapult goes limp and falls to the ground.

Lyda has to stop this. If she runs to the Dome now, the mothers would stop firing. She’s pregnant. She might get shot by Special Forces or captured, but if someone has to get captured, it should be her. She has to get to Partridge and warn him. The baby—she worries about the baby, but she can’t let this go on, knowing that it’s her fault.

It’s not logical. She doesn’t have it all sorted in her head. She just knows she has to do something, as Mother Hestra said. And so she edges away from Mother Hestra, stands, and starts running.