by Sarah Fine
The scout ship gives off the telltale hum that tells us we’re about to be obliterated.
“Get back in the Archer!” I shout, and shove my mom down under the water, yanking on Christina’s legs and forcing her to do the same. I lunge for the rear door and swing it down over us with all my might as the bolt of white lightning from above strikes the Sicarii ship. I almost have the hatch closed as the wreckage rains down.
Something slams into me, and the door cracks on my head.
It’s all darkness and quiet after that.
TWENTY-ONE
MY DREAMS ARE MADE OF ICE. CHRISTINA LOOKS DOWN at me, her beautiful face lit by the eerie light of the scout ship, frozen in that sad smile. I love you, Tate, she says, over and over, and even though I’m cold and blind and paralyzed, I hear her. I feel it. I cling to those words.
“I love you, Tate,” she whispers. “Wake up. Come back again.”
The pressure of warm fingers on my skin. The tickle of breath on my neck. The soft brush of lips against my temple.
“Today’s the day you come back for good.” Her voice is in my ear. A shiver streaks along my spine, and goose bumps erupt.
Christina.
“I’m here. I’m right here. All you have to do is open your eyes.”
So I try. And it hurts. The tiniest trickle of light beneath my closed eyelids feels like a splinter in my eyeball. “Can’t.”
“I’m naked.”
My eyes pop open. I manage to see her smile—and the fact that she’s clothed—before clamping them shut again. “Dirty trick,” I mumble, my voice slurring.
Her fingers slide through my hair. “You had such a bad concussion.”
“Tell me . . .” The last thing I remember was seeing the white bolt in the sky.
“You saved us from getting hit by burning wreckage when the Sicarii ship came down, but I barely got you and your mom out. Race and Congers made it to the water and helped me get you guys to shore.”
“Congers survived?”
“He did.” She takes my hand. “Rufus didn’t, though.”
“And my mom?”
“She’s in the next room over. She had a lot of internal injuries from the crash. Dr. Ackerman removed her spleen and was able to stop the bleeding. She’s recovering.”
“Manuel?”
“Broken arm, but he’s fine.”
“Sung? Graham?”
“They didn’t make it,” she says in a choked whisper. “It was quick, though.”
I wait for the ache in my chest to subside, then force my eyes open a crack. I’m in the infirmary. There’s an IV line hanging by my bed. “What day is it?”
“It’s been two days since the battle. You’ve been in and out, but Dr. Ackerman said you wouldn’t remember much of that.”
I focus on closing my own fingers, on the feel of her skin against mine. “Are you okay?”
“A lot of bruises and aches, but I’m totally okay.”
I swallow. My mouth is so dry. “And are we okay?”
She leans forward, lips curving into a mischievous smile. “You’ve asked me that every time you wake up. And I’ll repeat what I’ve said every time: I’m all right, and you’re all right, and we’re all right. I was really upset that you didn’t want to be with me, but your mom . . . she said it was because I was important to you, not because you didn’t think I was good enough. That helped.”
“You’re a badass,” I say, smiling despite cracked lips. “But you’re also one of the most important people in the world to me.” My dad told Leo that each family had to decide what was most important. And as the patriarch of the Archers—I have. No idea what that means yet, but I’ll take it one day at a time until I find out. “I love you.” There. I’ve finally said it when she’s awake.
She grins. “You’ve said that every time you regained consciousness, too. I think this was lucky number seven.”
Figures. “Then you know I mean it.”
Her lips touch mine. “Yep.”
A shadow appears in the doorway and clears its throat. Christina raises her head. “I’m hoping he’s back for good,” she says to it.
“Mind if I sit with him for a few?” It’s Race.
“No.” She turns back to me. “I’m going to go down to the cafeteria. I’ll be back later.”
I nod and watch her go. Race takes her place in the chair next to my bed. His arm is in a sling, and he’s limping slightly. His face is bruised, and he looks exhausted, but not unhappy. I try to sit up, but it’s a struggle. He hits a control and motors me up, so at least I’m not flat on my back. The movement makes me feel like I might barf, though.
“I checked the population counter,” he tells me. “There are no more anomalies. We got all of them.”
“Any sign of others on their way?”
“Not yet. But now that the network’s active, we’ve notified our government contacts all over the world. There will be cooperation to bolster it quickly, so when the Sicarii do show up, we’ll know long before they get close and be able to hold them out there until they . . . run out of telomerase and die of old age, I suppose. That Sicarii prisoner said they were now running through victims every few weeks. They can’t stay in space forever. With your dad’s plans and the remains of the wrecked H2 defense ship, we can strengthen the network and create a deadly, robust shield.”
“What now?”
Race sits back. “Bill Congers and Angus McClaren are negotiating. But I believe things will be different from now on. We have a new understanding.”
“No more secrets?”
He chuckles. “Oh, the secret will remain, for now at least. What good will it honestly do to reveal that two-thirds of the population are descendants of an alien species? No, I mean that The Fifty and the Core will be allies now. There will be no more aggression between us.”
“What do the Bishops have to say about that? Their patriarch is dead.”
“But in the end, he knew who his enemy was, and he was willing to give his life to save this planet. The Bishops have been notified of recent events, with the understanding that they will stay quiet if they want the money to keep flowing. They can live however they’d like, as far off the grid as they want to be—as long as they don’t hurt others or try to reveal the existence of the H2. If they do, they’ll be cut off.”
I stare up at the ceiling. “So many people have died.”
Race grips the side railing of my bed. “And if you hadn’t figured out the lenses, every last one of us would have been wiped out. They could have cut our connection to the satellite shield and rendered it useless. But you prevented that.”
“It was my dad. My dad’s system.”
Race looks me right in the eye. “It was you who made it work. He didn’t do that for you. He left you the pieces, and you put them together.”
“I had plenty of help.” If it hadn’t been for Leo, I might still be trying to figure out the freaking password.
“But it wouldn’t have happened if not for you.”
“Exactly,” I whisper. “If I hadn’t stolen the scanner from my dad’s lab, none of this would have happened.”
His bloodshot gaze is steady on me. “That’s absolutely true. Your decision to steal the scanner set everything into motion.”
I swallow hard.
“And if you hadn’t done it, the invasion would be on schedule, and the Sicarii might have thoroughly infiltrated both sides by now, easing their path to planetary domination and the death of everyone on Earth.”
“What?”
“Tate, your father was aware of the anomalies and had created the defense system, but he didn’t have all the information he needed, because the Core had the other pieces of the puzzle. Your actions, rash as they were, with all those terrible consequences, were still the thing that brought the two sides together,
and that’s the only thing that saved us.”
“That’s a pretty rosy interpretation of what I did.”
“‘Everything we do has a result. But that which is right and prudent does not always lead to good, nor the contrary to what is bad.’”
“Did you seriously just quote Goethe to me?”
He gives me a small smile. “Your father did a remarkable job with your education.”
“I know,” I say, feeling hollow. “I know.”
He shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable. “Listen, I didn’t know Frederick Archer very well. On the few occasions I met him, we were on opposite sides of a deep divide. It is now very clear to me that he was a good man, and a brilliant one. Whether I pulled the trigger or not, I’m going to live with his death on my hands for the rest of my life, and that’s what I deserve.” He pauses, and I wait, my stomach tight. “So I don’t have the right to say what I’m going to say, but I’m going to do it anyway.” He clears his throat. “He would have been proud of you, Tate. You may have made mistakes, but you still honored his legacy and his name. He lives on through you.”
I suck in a breath, despite the heavy weight on my chest. “Everyone thinks he was a terrorist.”
“No. We have discredited that explanation of events. Bill made it a priority.”
“Bill did?” I have trouble imagining why that would be important to Congers.
Race sighs. “Bill lost his only son in that battle, Tate. And they left a lot of things unspoken between them. I think he’s trying to make up for that somehow. He won’t talk about it to anyone, but he’s taking Graham’s death hard.”
I close my eyes. I don’t want to think about the people we lost. There are too many. It’s overwhelming. “I think I need to rest,” I whisper.
I wince as Race’s chair scrapes against the floor. “Then I’ll leave you to it,” he says. “We’ll talk when you’re on your feet again. But, Tate?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever happens from now on, I want you to know that I’m grateful to you. We all are.”
• • •
The conference room is packed as I walk in, slowly, with Christina’s hand in mine. Right now, I’m holding on to her as much for balance as for affection. I’m on my feet a lot more now, two days after I woke up “for good,” as Christina describes it, but I’ve still been sleeping a lot.
It’s time I start to help around here, though. Everybody’s been cleaning up the factory, and the people who don’t work here are getting ready to leave and return to their homes, their lives. This is the last thing we have to do before we say good-bye.
We have to say good-bye.
The massive circular table that usually sits in the center of the room is gone, replaced with row upon row of chairs. At the front of the room is a podium, surrounded by pictures. Brayton Alexander. Ellie Alexander. Aaron Bishop. Rufus Bishop. Graham Congers. Daniel Sung. Kellan Fisher. Leo Thomas. And so many others. The ones we lost, the heroes who fell. No separation between human and H2, no distinction.
We file past them, dozens of pictures, lined up in rows. Fingers reach out to stroke faces that we will never touch or see again. I stand for a long time in front of Leo’s picture, which will soon be hanging in the hall of the patriarchs next to his father’s. It’s so wrong, and everything about it hurts.
“If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have figured it out,” I say to him. “I’m going to miss you.” For the rest of my life, I’ll miss him. Christina leans her head on my shoulder and swipes a tear from her cheek.
All around me, others are mourning. Bill Congers’s jaw is clenched as he fights his own lonely sorrow. Race stands beside him, his mouth tight. I wonder if he’s thinking of his own son, if he’ll do things differently, if he’ll learn from me and my dad, from Congers and Graham. The mistakes we made and the opportunities we missed. I hope so.
As I turn to go to my seat, my mother is wheeled in by Dr. Ackerman. Her eyes are black, and she has a bandage over her nose and on the side of her face. She looks awful, but I grin as I break from the line to go to her. I so easily could have lost both my parents, but she’s made it through. Yesterday she told me she was arranging a sabbatical from Princeton so she could be in the city with me during my senior year. I have no idea how that’s going to go, but I’m thankful I have the chance to find out. “I didn’t think you were allowed out of bed,” I say as I lean down and kiss her cheek.
“I’m not,” she says, arching an eyebrow and looking over her shoulder at the scowling Dr. Ackerman. “But this was important.”
Angus strides in with one of the Core agents, carrying a large stack of portraits to position at the front of the room. Most of them are men I don’t recognize, but after a moment I realize they’re Core agents who lost their lives in our earlier battles. And then I see the last four set in line with the rest:
Peter McClaren.
George Fisher. My heart sinks as I realize his body must have been found.
Charles Willetts.
And my dad.
“These are the heroes whom we haven’t yet mourned or celebrated,” Angus declares, “and we thought it fitting that we do so now.”
My father’s stern, handsome face peers out at me. There’s something defiant in those eyes, a keen, cool intelligence. I stare into them, wishing for the warmth I craved, that I still crave. My mother’s hand slips into mine. “When you were born, he was so scared.”
“What?”
“He told me that he knew he’d make mistakes. He wasn’t sure he knew how to be a father. His own father had been so strict and so stern. But he loved you, Tate.” Her face crumples. “He loved you more than he could say.”
And that’s what does it. So many people have said I’m like him. They’ve told me he would be proud of me. But this, from my mother, breaks me apart. After everything, all the mistakes he made, the mistakes I made, the distance between us that will only be bridged through memory and thought because I’ll never hear his voice again . . .
I let go of her hand and approach the picture. Frederick Archer, my father, the man who figured it out, who put everything in place, who saved the world with a little help from his son. “You did it, Dad,” I say to him quietly, under my breath, words for no one but him. “I couldn’t have done this if you hadn’t prepared me. I’d be dead if you hadn’t done what you did.”
I move closer. I don’t know what I believe, whether he can hear me, but I hope he can. “I love you, too.”
I step back. Nothing’s changed. We’re still grieving terrible losses, people whose sacrifices saved us but whose absence will haunt us always. We’re preparing for an enemy of unknown number and strength, hoping what we have is enough to protect our planet. The Fifty and the Core have a lot to figure out. Things are complicated, and they’ll stay that way for a long time.
But I’m proud of my dad, of what he did, and if he were here, he’d be proud of me, too.
And that much, at least, is simple.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to the incredible team at Penguin for helping and cheering us on. My gratitude goes to Stacey Barney, our editor, for being patient, thorough, and thoughtful. Thanks also go to Marisa Russell for coordinating publicity at Penguin, and also to the team at JKS Publicity, including Julie Schoerke, Samantha Lien, and Grace Wright, for doing everything from getting us interviews with Publishers Weekly to snagging me a cab at midnight on Bourbon Street.
A special thank-you goes to the team at New Leaf Literary, but I want to express my intense gratitude to Kathleen Ortiz and Joanna Volpe for providing support of every possible kind throughout this process. You guys set a high bar for agents. Like, up in the stratosphere.
To my friends who never wavered in your electronic (((hugs))) and encouragement—Brigid, Jaime, and Virginia most especially—I am in your debt. And Lydia, not even a
mountain of shrimp toast could properly convey my adoration.
Thank you to my family for holding me together, and to my colleagues, especially Paul, for being willing to let me mix book talk with psychology talk.
And finally, to our readers, thank you for hanging with Tate and Christina during the most intense week of their lives. Whether you scan red or blue, I love you all.
—Sarah Fine
Thanks to Melissa, my love and the CEO of our family.
My incredible co-author, Sarah Fine, who somehow juggles four full-time jobs at once!
Joanna Volpe, the Guinness World Record holder for the Greatest Agenting Moves in One Calendar Year.
The entire team at New Leaf Literary and Media, most notably Kathleen Ortiz, Jaida Temperly, and Jackie Lindert for their editorial prowess during the writing process!
Our incredible team at Penguin, including the marketing and publicity teams (Marisa Russell, Erin Berger, and Erin Gallagher); Tony Sahara, who designed our incredible covers; Cindy Howle, copy chief, who oversaw the production process; our copy editor, Wendy Dopkin; and Stacey Barney, who loved this series from day one and made it work through sheer will.
My mom, Nahid Ghaffari, who taught me to read practically before I could walk. My dad, Faraz Shahbazian, who loves books as much as anyone. My entire family and my friends for their support over all these years.
—Walter Jury
WALTER JURY was born in London, went to high school in Silicon Valley, worked in the infamous agency mailrooms of Hollywood, and currently resides just outside of Manhattan. Burn is his second book for teens. Under his real name, he is one of the movie producers of the Divergent series, amongst other films and television shows he is developing.
You can visit Walter Jury at walterjury.tumblr.com
or on Twitter @WalterJury