Fuse

by Julianna Baggott

  They keep rising and he jostles the controls a little left and a little right until he almost finds the center of the lever and the airship steadies and lifts . . .

  And then finally they’re out. He hears Bradwell and Pressia hoot and clap. He remembers the look that Pressia gave him after he’d made that comment about obsession, the charge it gave him. She thought he’d said something smart. She respected him for it. He feels that charge again, like a lit fuse in his chest. The low, dark clouds scuttle by. El Capitan is in the air. He isn’t a little boy, abandoned by his father, craning his neck to find a distant airplane buzzing across the sky.

  No, he’s the one in the sky. It’s not the first time in his life he’s felt like a man. El Capitan has always had to be more of a man than he should’ve had to. Instead, it’s like he’s no longer that lonesome little boy, afraid to show any weakness, too afraid to cry even though he felt desperate and sad and lost, the one who’s sure his father left because he couldn’t stand to look at his worthless son ever again.

  For the first time in his life, he’s not worthless at all.

  PART III

  PARTRIDGE

  IRALENE

  PARTRIDGE OPENS HIS EYES. The back of his skull aches. A ceiling fan swirls overhead. He isn’t in Glassings’ World History class. He isn’t in his dorm room.

  And then a girl’s face appears, a little blurry at first but it snaps into focus. The girl says, “Oh my gosh! You’re awake!” She calls out, “He’s awake!” She fiddles with a pocket-size handheld. “I’ll send word to your father! He’ll be so relieved.” And then she looks at him and touches his arm. “Everyone will be relieved, Partridge. All of us!”

  He’s trying to remember how he got here. Is it after curfew? He’s never been inside the dormitory at the girls’ academy, but he’s pretty sure they’re nothing like this—spacious with billowy curtains. He blinks at the girl and, for no reason he understands, there’s only one phrase in his head and so he says it aloud, hoping that it will make sense to her. “Beautiful barbarism.”

  “What’s that?” the girl says.

  “Glassings’ lecture on ancient cultures. He was giving a speech on . . .” He remembers Glassings’ blazer.

  “Aren’t you glad that’s over with? Lectures, classes, teachers. That’s one upside to an injury like yours. You’re free!”

  “Free?” He wonders what she means. He’d like to believe her, but he can’t. He tries to lift his head but feels the sharp headache again. He touches two shaved patches close to the base of his skull where the pain, deep in his brain, is the sharpest. “Where am I?”

  “This is our place, Partridge. Don’t you remember that part?” She holds up her hand and wiggles her fingers, showing off an engagement ring with a large diamond. “They said you wouldn’t remember things, amnesia, what with the blow to the head. But I told them you’d remember me.”

  So he took a blow. That’s why his head hurts. Amnesia. He stares at the girl, trying to place her. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “You’re . . .”

  “I’m your fiancée. We’re engaged. Your father’s set us up here in this place. We met at the dance.”

  “The fall dance?”

  “None other!”

  “I asked you to the fall dance?” He doesn’t remember seeing this girl before. He remembers girls doing calisthenics and singing in a chorus on stage.

  “You went with someone else, but later that night, you met me, and the other girl flew out of your head.” She reaches for his hand, lifts it for him, holds it to her cheek.

  That’s when he sees that part of his pinky is gone—severed at the top. “Jesus! What happened to my hand?”

  “Hush, Partridge. You shouldn’t get excited like that.”

  “What happened to me?” His voice sounds loud and off-kilter in his own head, as if he’s hearing it broadcast.

  “A coma. You’ve been surfacing from it. In and out. It’s winter now. Almost Christmas!”

  “Was I in an accident? Jesus, tell me!” He touches the nub where the top of his pinky once was. He imagines a knife coming down on it and a strange pop. The knife makes him think of old kitchens. There’s a Domesticity Display set up now in Founders Hall, or is there?

  “The accident was horrible. Don’t you remember the ice rink?”

  He shakes his head. The room swirls behind her. Panic seizes his chest and yet he’s exhausted. “The ice rink?” He can almost feel a spot in his mind that’s vacant—a blind spot. He tries to look at it but as soon as he looks, it shifts out of view. “What ice rink?”

  “They set one up for fun—a plastic sheet that they froze in the gym. You and Hastings went in after hours. You weren’t supposed to be there. You laced up skates and were racing on the ice and you got tangled somehow. You fell, knocking your head on the ice. Hastings accidentally ran over your pinky, slicing it clean off.”

  That vacancy, that erasure in his mind, feels like a sheet of white ice. “Where’s Hastings?” He has to hear Hastings’ version. “Back at the dorm?”

  “Special Forces.”

  “Hastings? He’s not Special Forces material.” Was Partridge going to be taken in too but then left behind because of the accident? He thinks of Sedge. He almost wants to ask if he’s really dead, but then the truth is there: Sedge has been dead for a couple of years. He killed himself. The end.

  “They had to recruit a number of boys quickly. Vic Wellingsly is gone, the Elmsford twins, Hastings, and more. The wretches,” she whispers. “There have been uprisings. They needed more soldiers.”

  “Out there? Outside the Dome?” He thinks of dusty wind, can almost feel it on his skin.

  “Shhh,” she says. “Not everyone knows that, but yes.”

  Partridge’s head feels impossibly heavy. “My coding sessions,” he says. “They’re all messed up now. I’ve missed a ton of them. And school. Where’s my father?”

  “It’s okay,” the girl says. “Your father has a plan for you. A very good plan!”

  He feels a pang in his chest. Is it fear? “Me? Why? He doesn’t even like me.”

  “Your father loves you, Partridge. Never forget that!”

  “What kind of plan?”

  “Not just for you, but for both of us!”

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  “You do know my name. It’s Iralene. You knew that. It was tucked away in there, kept forever. Don’t you remember it?”

  Iralene. Secrets. Promises. “I do remember it now,” he says. Iralene. Piano. Iralene. In the cold. In the dark. “Yeah. I do.” Does he love Iralene? Do they have secrets and promises? Have they been together in the cold and dark? He stares at her. She leans in and kisses him softly on the lips. He feels like he remembers kissing in the cold, undressed. Cold? Where would they have cold like that? The gym, chilled for the ice rink?

  “Tell me more about you. Fill in some details.”

  “Well, my mother was a widow. She’s known your father for years and, just recently, they married. But we’re not blood-related, Partridge, so it’s okay.”

  “My father remarried? He’s not the type . . .” Not the type to fall in love, Partridge thinks. His father doesn’t understand love. “Your father died? My mother’s dead too. She was a martyr. She died during the Detonations trying to save people.” This doesn’t seem right but Iralene accepts it.

  “Yes, I know,” Iralene says. “My father . . . well, he got in trouble for fraud and was sent to jail before the Detonations. Luckily my mother already knew your father when this happened and so he helped us, financially. We wouldn’t have made it without him, much less have gotten into the Dome.” The story churns inside Partridge. It makes him feel sick. Why? His father was helping someone. He fell in love again. These are good things, aren’t they?

  Iralene picks up the handheld from her lap. “There’s a voice message from your father.”

  He straightens up—a habit when his father’s involved.

  Iralene pushes a button an
d his father says, “Partridge, I’m so glad that you’re awake and well enough to receive this message.”

  Partridge hates his father so suddenly and with such a powerful rage that he feels like his chest might explode. “Wait!” he says to Iralene. “Press stop.”

  The room goes quiet.

  He covers his mouth, trying to steady his breathing.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Play it,” he mutters. “Get it over with.”

  “Now I want you to take it easy,” his father goes on. “You should ease back into your life. Enjoy yourself.” Partridge’s heart is still pounding. His father has never told him to enjoy himself. Not once, ever. And there’s something about his voice—it sounds strained, maybe even older than he remembers and not just a few months older but years, maybe decades. He wonders if his father isn’t feeling well. Is that why he isn’t here in person?

  “In a few days,” his father says, “you’ll be called back into the hospital. There will be more they can do to try to salvage and renew some of your”—he hesitates here but then must decide to remain clinical—“your brain’s synaptic firings. After that’s done, my son, I will be calling on you. I will be asking great things of you as a leader. I’m making it official now.” He pauses the way he did in public addresses. A dramatic pause. His father is about to announce something. Partridge’s stomach tightens as if he’s expecting a punch. “You will be my successor. I can’t lead forever. I need to start handing over some power. Who better to give it to than you?”

  Partridge is stunned. He still feels the fiery burn of hatred, but now he also feels disoriented, as if the room isn’t fixed in time or space. His father wants him to be his successor, to lead? Nothing makes sense—not his father, not this room of billowy curtains, not the girl who’s staring at him now, wide-eyed.

  His father says, “I imagine Iralene is by your side at this very moment. Listen to me—these next few days, you two have fun. That’s an order. The future is coming and it’s coming quickly.”

  And that’s the end of it. Iralene is gazing at Partridge, the handheld gripped tightly in her hands. “Partridge?” she says softly.

  He punches the mattress as hard as he can and he’s surprised by his own strength. She startles, her back going rigid for a second.

  “It makes no sense!” he says, the pain surging through his skull. “My father’s ashamed of me. That’s something I know and have always known.”

  “He loves you,” Iralene whispers.

  “You don’t know anything about me and my father,” Partridge says.

  “But I do,” she says, moving to the edge of his bed. “Maybe he never wanted to admit that he needed you before. Maybe he wanted to spare you the burden of your future. But he needs you now. He’s been—”

  “He’s sick, isn’t he? Is he dying?”

  “No, no, not dying,” Iralene says quickly. “He’s been unwell. He’ll get better soon, but I think he is mortal. Who else does he have?”

  Partridge lets his eyes drift around the room. He’s not sure how to argue with Iralene. His father has never made sense to him. Maybe she’s right. Sedge is gone. His father is left with Partridge.

  “It’s important that you rest,” Iralene says, “so we can start enjoying ourselves. That part was an order, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  Iralene stands up and walks to the door. Partridge glances at the fan overhead. Fan blades. For a second, he imagines them as sharp metal knives, able to chop him to pieces. Where did that thought come from?

  He looks at Iralene, who’s standing in a shaft of sunlight coming in from the window—like real afternoon sun. He hears waves rolling in and out.

  “Is that the ocean?”

  “Think of it as a night-light,” Iralene says, “that your father made just for you.”

  His father wouldn’t make anything just for him. That was something his mother would have done. He thinks of her at the beach, wrapped in a wind-whipped towel. It’s an old memory and he’s relieved that it’s still in his head. He thinks of her the way he always has: She died a saint. But as soon as the thought appears in his mind, he comes back to the last words he remembers hearing before he woke up—nothing about racing Hastings on a man-made ice rink in the chilled gym. No. It’s Glassings’ voice, lecturing in a stuffy classroom about ancient cultures, rituals for the dead. Beautiful barbarism.

  LYDA

  KNOWING

  MOTHER EGAN WALKS IN, holding a plate of leeks, tubers, tender meats, and a glass of pink-tinged liquid. “Up, up,” she says gently.

  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 does
n’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.”

  PRESSIA

  LIT

  THE 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.