“I didn’t have a choice.”
Thomas dunks his head and works the soap from his hair and then rises sputtering. His face appears to sulk even when he smiles. A trail of gold hair drops from his belly button to his groin—otherwise his skin is as bare as an infant’s, maybe shaved. “Yes, well, you know how you are.”
“Reluctant.”
“Always busy. Always working. You never have time for old friends.” He turns to Vincent, who smiles at him curiously, his sponge oozing soap down his thigh. “Go away. Though I may call for you later.”
Vincent climbs from the bath and wraps himself in a robe and splashes through the puddles on the floor on his way out. Thomas watches him go before eeling his way to the head of the tub, hooking one arm over the edge. On the ledge rests a tray piled high with baked grubs. He snatches one, pops it in his mouth.
“There is no life without water, Thomas. That is the immutable law of the universe.”
Thomas suckles the grub. “What are you getting at?”
“Do you know how upset people would be if they knew you were taking baths?”
Thomas makes a dismissive gesture, then lets the beak of the grub slip from his lips. It drops to the tray with a tick. “We recycle the water. Everything here will be bucketed into the gardens.”
“How generous of you.”
His eyes narrow and his voice drops to a whisper. “So have you done it?”
“No.”
“Have you even tried?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a lie. If you can build an owl, you can build a gun. You can build me whatever I ask for.”
Thomas is right. Lewis is lying. He has not tried and he will not try. Three months ago, when someone began painting protest slogans across buildings, when a brick crashed through one of the Dome’s windows, when an effigy of the mayor was found floating in the sewage canal, Thomas approached Lewis about the possibility of black powder, of guns. Their forebears had thought it unwise, in such a contained community, to make it any easier to kill what few people remained in the world. And in the second amendment to their constitution, all rifles and pistols were destroyed. When Lewis reminded him of this, Thomas raised an open hand. “I know. I know what they said. But times are different. They had water. I need to be able to better control my people.”
Thomas has never appeared physically threatening, but his mind has a shrewd capability for violence. Even when they were children, he knew how to hurt, placing a hand to the chests of those who wanted to be with him most, saying, “You may not play with me.” Now Lewis sees a similar sharpness in his expression, a barely controlled fury that twitches the corners of his mouth. “You wouldn’t want to see your precious museum closed, would you? Then all the knowledge would be left to those who know what to do with it. Men like us. The less people know, the better off they are.”
“The better off you are, you mean.” Knowledge is a threat. Lewis is a threat. It isn’t the first time Thomas has mentioned closing the museum. There was even a motion to do so last month during a city council meeting—so that the space might be occupied, its many treasures repurposed—but it was struck down.
Thomas says, “You are deeply unpleasant, you know that?”
“Closing the museum is an empty threat. People would riot. It’s one of their only pleasures.”
“It’s a shadowy junk pile, a haunted house. You’re the only one who takes pleasure in it.” Thomas is smiling, but he clenches his jaw as if to keep himself from swallowing something bitter. “What about your mother?”
“What about her?”
“I would hate it if something had to happen to your mother.”
“Be quiet.”
“Death might actually be a favor. It’s not as if she knows whether—”
“I said, shut up!” With that Lewis kicks the tray and it splashes into the bath and the grubs dirty the water and a small wave rolls into Thomas.
The two men stare at each other for a long moment, and then Thomas’s severe expression breaks and a bright laughter overtakes him. The water ripples around him. “You know what I love about you? I can always count on you to speak your mind. That’s what I love about you.” He climbs out of the bath and water trails off his body and makes a silvery path on the stone floor. He pulls a towel off a shelf and wipes himself dry. He is a short man, the top of his head coming to Lewis’s shoulder. Though he is lean, he is also soft, cushioned, not a bone on his body visible. “You’ve heard about the rider?”
“I have.”
“A girl. Amazing. They say her eyes are as black as night.”
“So they say.”
“She’s a mutant. She’s poison. And when everyone hears about her—when they begin to dream about other worlds and doubt the wall—what then?”
“It has nothing to do with doubting the wall. This is what we’ve been waiting for. This is why the Sanctuary has survived. Hope.”
“You’re wrong. The Sanctuary has survived by keeping people afraid.”
“You’re worried they’ll leave. Maybe they will. Shouldn’t that be their choice?”
“We’re talking about the survival of the human race. Forty thousand people. I am responsible for them.”
“The rider proves there are others. Maybe your responsibility isn’t so great after all.”
Thomas throws the towel over his shoulder and goes to a window and looks out it and heaves a sigh. Lewis joins him there. From this high vantage, in the center of the Sanctuary, so much of the city can be seen, the topography of streets and buildings arranged around the Dome as if they have begun to orbit around a drain.
Thomas lays a damp hand on Lewis’s shoulder and says, “Something bad has been coming for a long time, old friend, and I’m worried it’s finally here.”
Chapter 3