Fuse

by Julianna Baggott

  “Bluish?”

  “He has wonderful doctors! And the research is top-notch. I’m sure they’ll fix all his little medical problems soon.”

  “What does he want from me, huh?”

  She lifts the fruit and holds it out for Partridge to see. It’s not an apple or a melon. It’s a highly polished computer of some sort, red and made of a waxy-looking, hardened plastic. “You can be anywhere in the world while you recuperate!” she repeats. “I can reprogram the room. We can go there together.” Iralene’s voice is filled with forced wonder.

  “Is this a game?”

  “Do you want to play a game?”

  “Stop it.”

  “Stop what?”

  He turns on a lamp on the bedside table.

  Iralene smoothes her hair, nervously, and Partridge can tell that she’s terrified.

  “What’s wrong?” he says. “Why are you so scared?”

  “I’m not scared,” she says and then she pouts her lips and looks at him flirtatiously. “Are you scared, Partridge?”

  “Did my father send you because he wanted me to fall for you?”

  “Fall for me? I’m real,” she says. “I know that for a fact.”

  “It’s a little upsetting that you’re stating that you’re real,” Partridge says. “Do you know that?”

  “I don’t want to upset you. I want you to really like me. Don’t you like me? Aren’t I pleasing?”

  “You’re my stepsister. Has my father explained that to you? Your mother and my father are married.”

  “But it’s not a blood relation, so it doesn’t count against us!”

  “There is no us,” Partridge says gently. “There isn’t ever going to be an us.”

  “Don’t say that! I’ve been held for you. Stopped and held. Suspended. I’ve been waiting for a long time.”

  “Suspended? What does that mean exactly?”

  “You know what it means. My mother told me everything that you talked about.” She holds up the small red computer and says again, more insistently this time, “You can be anywhere you want while you recuperate, Partridge! Anywhere in the world!”

  “Okay,” Partridge says. He needs to know how this place works so that he can escape. Maybe he can win Iralene’s trust, maybe weasel some info out of her—more about his father, more about this lovely prison. “You pick.”

  “Yes!” She’s very excited. “London!” She presses a screen that’s wedged into the side of the computer, inserting information. She looks at Partridge and smiles, making sure that he’s enjoying this. He’s not, but he raises his eyebrows to appease her. Iralene is fragile. If he’s not excited enough, who knows what could happen? She might crumble.

  She puts the orb on the floor, and the room changes all around them. It’s spectral. A tea tray appears with dainty cups and saucers. Portraits of kings and queens appear on the walls. The window is draped in brocade curtains that are pulled back to reveal a view of a giant Ferris wheel, a bridge, and a cathedral. She walks to the window. “The London Eye,” she says, “and Westminster Bridge. And Westminster Abbey’s close too. I like London.”

  The blanket has changed to a yellow brocade to match the stitching in the curtains. Partridge touches it, but the change in stitching is a projection. The blanket feels the same as the one before. “You could take me for a walk on a leash like a British bulldog.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a joke about my collar.”

  “Oh. It’s funny. Very funny!” She doesn’t laugh.

  “How far can I go with this on?”

  “Anywhere in the apartment. It has two floors and goes on and on. I think, though, they’d like to keep you safely locked in for your own—”

  “Protection. Yeah, I get it.” He runs a finger under the collar just to get it away from his skin. “Is there a key to it?”

  “How would I know anything about that?”

  “Just asking.”

  “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Okay Here’s a question.” Partridge needs to find Glassings. He was on the list his mother showed him in the bunker, the list of people waiting for the swan to return. Cygnus—that’s the word she whispered when she talked about it. “Do a lot of people know that I’m here?”

  “I know that you’re here.”

  “I know you know, and the techs who almost killed me know, and your mother and my father. But the general public? Anyone out there?”

  “Did they even know you were gone?”

  This hadn’t ever dawned on him. His father has sent robotic spiders—thousands of them—to hold survivors hostage until Partridge turned himself in. But inside the Dome he might have wanted to keep the news of Partridge’s escape a secret. It might have been a great embarrassment. “Some people had to notice.”

  “There are always rumors, and there are always secrets. And secrets within secrets. They protect us. The truth can be manipulated. But we live within a secret within a secret within a secret. That’s why we can make anything happen, Partridge. Anything at all.”

  “Do you like living within a secret within a secret within a secret?”

  “It can get lonesome. That’s why I’m glad you’re here.” She glances at him, smiling, and for the first time, he feels like she’s spoken the truth. She turns away and taps on the window. “It’s going to start raining,” she says. “The raindrops will bead up on the glass.”

  He swings his feet to the floor. Iralene walks to the bedside and cups his elbow. “I can do it,” he says. He gets up and walks to a painting, his head heavy and dizzy. He touches it, but instead of the hardened strokes of oil, there’s only the smooth wall.

  “It’s not as perfected as the Caribbean. My mother loves that one,” Iralene says. “But it’s not bad, is it?”

  “Not bad at all.”

  “Do you know how few people in the Dome even know that this kind of a room exists? Do you know how many people have seen a bead of rain on glass like this since . . .” She doesn’t mention the Detonations.

  “How many?”

  It’s apparent that she wasn’t expecting him to ask the question. “Not many. Not many at all. Maybe only a handful. And you’re part of that handful now, Partridge. You and I both are.”

  “Yeah, but what’s London look like now?”

  “Who would want to see that?”

  “I would.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” She laughs.

  “Yes, I would. In fact, if you can project anywhere in the world onto these walls, I want the outside world just beyond the Dome. Not the past. Now. Dusts and Beasts and wretches. Let’s see that.” He thinks of Lyda, out there somewhere.

  “We don’t have it.” She picks up the orb and turns off London. The room reverts to the beach. The breeze is back. The ceiling fan churns slowly overhead.

  “You said anywhere in the world.”

  “But I meant the preserved version of it.” She puts the orb on the bedside table.

  “I want now. Anywhere in the world. But from now.”

  “Stop saying that.” She grips the flesh of her upper arms.

  “Tell my father that’s what I want.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “No. I’ll have failed. I can’t tell him that I’ve failed.”

  “Tell him that his son would like to join him in the real now.”

  “You hate me. Why do you hate me?”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “Yes, you do. And now I’m worthless. I’ve waited all this time. Just for you to hate me.”

  Partridge walks up to her. “Iralene,” he whispers. Her grip on her arms is so tight that the pinched flesh has blotched red. He touches her wrist. “Stop. You’re hurting yourself.”

  “I’m too old, Partridge. I’m too old to find a mate.”

  “Too old? You’re only what—sixteen?”

  She smiles as if he’s said the sweetest thing. “That’s right. Sixteen.”
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  “I can help you and you can help me, Iralene.”

  “Do you need me?”

  “I do.”

  “How?”

  “I need to get out of here.”

  “But here is out of here. You can stay here and live anywhere in the world! There’s nothing better than here. My mother and I . . .”

  He brushes her hair back over her shoulder and whispers in her ear, “Iralene, listen to me. I need to get to Durand Glassings. I need to get out of here—not to something better, only to somewhere real. Can you help me?”

  They stand very close together. She looks around the room.

  “Don’t tell anyone I asked this of you, Iralene,” he whispers. “Okay? This is our secret.”

  She puts her lips to his ear. “I won’t tell a soul. Not a soul. Not anyone. I won’t breathe a word, Partridge. Not a word, not a breath, not a soul. And will you help me?”

  “Anything, Iralene. Tell me what you need.”

  She looks at him, stunned, as if she’s never considered what she needed. She opens her mouth, but then, as if she has nothing to say, she closes it.

  “Iralene,” he says.

  “I don’t play the piano, Partridge,” she says, her cheeks burning.

  “That’s okay.”

  “But you should follow the music,” she whispers. This is a gift. She’s given him something essential. “Now you owe me.”

  He feels uneasy. What will this gift cost him? “We’ll both help each other.”

  “This is our secret,” she whispers. “It’s ours.”

  EL CAPITAN

  FREE

  AS THE TRUCK LABORS UPHILL, El Capitan downshifts. Helmud is whistling behind El Capitan’s back.

  The soldier who assisted him in the surgeries is in the back of the truck. They’re on their way to the outpost. It’s dusk. El Capitan is looking for boars and those damn bleached owls. He doesn’t regret taking out as many of those birds as he could—only that they weren’t edible. The boar was, though. It had beautiful, marbled meat, and it’s been prepared and eaten.

  Out the passenger’s window, he sees a flicker close to the ground. It disappears. He doesn’t know whether to speed up or slow down. Could be a boar with twisted horns. He’d love to have more of that meat. Helmud jerks on his back.

  “You see something?” El Capitan asks.

  “See something!” Helmud says.

  El Capitan stops the truck. “What is it?” He hunches to get a good view out the passenger’s window. But Helmud turns the other way, then cries out.

  El Capitan’s head snaps to the other window, and there is the elongated face and muscular upper body of a Special Forces soldier. El Capitan draws in a quick breath. Hastings! Hastings steps away from the truck, his weapons so sleek they look wet. “It’s okay, Helmud. It’s okay,” El Capitan says. He turns to the soldier in the back of the truck. “Don’t get out, okay? Don’t move. I’ll be back.”

  El Capitan grips the handle, hopes Hastings hasn’t been reprogrammed to kill him, then gets out of the truck, raising his hands in the air. Just in case Hastings is outfitted with a ticker that can explode his head, El Capitan keeps his distance. “What can I do for you?” he says.

  Hastings’ chest rises and falls, heavy and quick. He paces back and forth in front of El Capitan. Helmud has curled down as low as he can, hiding behind El Capitan’s shoulders.

  “What do you want?” El Capitan asks again.

  Hastings walks up close. He towers over El Capitan and stares at him. El Capitan hears a click and looks down. The knife in Hastings’ boot—a claw of a knife—has popped out.

  “Easy now,” El Capitan says as he looks back up at him.

  “Easy now,” Helmud whispers.

  Hastings steps back and claws at the dirt, writing.

  Set me free.

  El Capitan doesn’t say anything for a moment. He’s trying to process this. Hastings is asking for what, exactly? How could he be set free? He belongs to the Dome. He’s their creation.

  Hastings walks over to a rock.

  “Wait,” El Capitan says. Could he actually set Hastings free? He and Helmud have been surgeons these past weeks. If they could sedate him and debug him, he’d be free and extremely valuable. Hastings stares at him pleadingly. He knows the look—put me out of my misery. The last time he saw it he was with Pressia in the woods. He shot a boy caught in a trap. He’s not asking to be killed, though, is he?

  Hastings pushes the heavy rock toward El Capitan and turns his back, kneeling down. He bows his head and opens his arms wide.

  El Capitan opens the back of the truck. “Hand me that bag.” The soldier gives him the sedatives. He walks back to Hastings, who’s still on his knees.

  He touches Hastings’ massive shoulder then squeezes it tight. Hastings stiffens—expecting a blow to the head? El Capitan sees Hastings’ pulsing jugular, slips the needle under the skin, releases the sedative into his bloodstream, then pulls the needle out. He watches as Hastings slouches forward, catching himself with one locked arm. He twists and looks up at El Capitan, his eyes floating with tears. He’s confused at first then strangely relieved. He smiles, ever so slightly. As his elbow buckles, he falls hard to the ground.

  “Looks like we’ve got another patient, Helmud—a big one.”

  PRESSIA

  CYGNUS

  PRESSIA HAS EXPLAINED to Bradwell everything she’s learned, including her theory about the death of Ivan Novikov, plus the strange images and phrases that repeat—entwined snakes and talk of being forged by fire, made new by flames, strange sets of numbers, the poetry, and the appearance of her middle name, Brigid. They’ve split up the work. She’s devoted the day to Willux’s number obsessions, and Bradwell has concentrated on words and patterns. They’ve taken turns using Fignan—who buzzes happily when being put to good use—and have agreed not to interrupt each other unless absolutely necessary.

  Still, she’s aware of Bradwell’s every move. Sometimes he breathes in like he’s about to say something. She stops and turns. “What is it?” He looks up and stares at her for a moment. Their eyes catch. She wonders if he’s lost his train of thought. He looks down at his papers again and says, “Nothing. Just trying to put things together.”

  Now it’s dusk, and Bradwell starts to cough like he has croup—harsh, seal-like barks that make him wheeze. He sits on the edge of the bed, hunched over, each cough racking his lungs.

  Pressia says, “Let’s get some air.”

  Fignan beeps.

  “You can come,” she says.

  They put on their coats quickly, the birds on his back shifting their wings. On their way out, Pressia points out one of the faces painted on the wall—the one that reminds her of Fandra. “I had a friend who looked like this girl. Fandra.”

  Bradwell leans in close. “Gorse’s sister? She was one of the last”—he starts coughing again, but then draws some slow, deep breaths—“one of the last to use the underground before we shut it down.”

  “We were like sisters, and then one day she was gone.”

  They step into the open air. Fignan sticks close to their boots. As Pressia bolts the door, she asks where the underground led.

  “We hoped to get people out, but the territories surrounding this place are deadly. We wanted to think there was a place on the other side where people were surviving—maybe peacefully, maybe living pretty well. Her brother Gorse came back alone after they tried to make it out and said he’d lost Fandra.”

  “Why did you shut the underground down?” They head into the orchard, dipping under the limbs rooted into the ground, stepping over the bulbous roots.

  “We sent people out and few came back. They told brutal stories. A lot were simply missing and others died. We lost hope. Or nerve, or both.” Bradwell pauses, maybe to catch his breath. He leans against a tree. “I still hold out hope that some survived, but what if they all died out there? It’s a thought that I can’t shake.”

  “If they didn�
�t try to make it out, they were probably going to get picked up by OSR and, back then, that meant they’d have to start killing people in Death Sprees or, worse, get used as live targets. What choices did they have? You were doing your best.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bradwell says, “about Fandra.”

  She shakes her head. “I hold out hope too. I can’t help it. I do.”

  They continue on, passing a set of fallen stables, a shattered greenhouse. Fignan buzzes along and then uses his arms to walk over roots, stones, and shards of glass. Bradwell takes deep breaths, pulling the cold into his lungs.

  Pressia sees the dormitory where Wilda is probably getting ready for bed. She stares at one of the lights in the windows. Wilda. She wants to tell her that they’re trying to figure it out.

  Bradwell stops in front of a spot where the cement wall was buffered by a demolished school building and survived intact. When Pressia stops, too, and studies the wall for a moment, she sees what he’s looking at: the shadow-stain of a person left on the wall, someone who was reaching down to pick something up when they were vaporized on the spot.

  “There used to be so many of these throughout the city,” Bradwell says. “Some were made into small shrines.”

  “My grandfather pointed them out. They used to scare me when I was little, like they were dark ghosts.”

  “But they’re beautiful,” Bradwell says.

  “You’re right.” Pressia remembers what he said to her about finding beauty everywhere but never in herself. She looks at her doll-head fist, ugly, beaten, ashen. He’s right, she thinks.

  The wind whips up then dies. Fignan situates himself between Bradwell’s boots.

  “I think Partridge was right about something,” Pressia says.