PARTRIDGE
RISKS
Someone’s been here before them. The fake living room flickers over the cement walls. Iralene is holding Partridge’s hand, Beckley beside her. This is the home she’s known. He can tell that it scares her now. Partridge recognizes the fluffy white rug, the little panting dog, the massive sofas and armchairs and modern art hung on the walls, and the shiny kitchen where the image of Mimi once made muffins, over and over, telling Iralene—sitting at the piano across the room—to start the song again.
But this loop isn’t the one Partridge saw before. The image of Iralene walks into the room wearing a robe and slippers, then into the kitchen where she pours herself a glass of milk and grabs a plate of cookies.
“I hate this one,” the real Iralene says, gripping Partridge’s hand tighter. “Your father made it for my mother. A Mother’s Day gift.”
Her mother arrives from the image of a door that Partridge doesn’t remember being a real door. She too is wearing a robe, tightly cinched.
Mimi says, “How about some girl talk to go with your milk and cookies?”
The fake Iralene says brightly, “Okay!”
Partridge keeps walking. “The hallway is in that corner, right? The one that leads to the capsules?”
Iralene’s hand slips away from his. She walks to the image of her and her mother. “Sometimes I think he actually wanted us to be happy,” she says.
Partridge glances at Beckley, who says, “We don’t have much time here. If we stay too long, people will think you’re actually sick, and they’ll start to panic.”
Iralene steps inside of her own image. She knows her part and her lines. She lifts her hand in perfect sync with the image and twists a strand of hair. She and her image both say in unison, “There is this one boy at school. I think he’s really special.”
“Oh really!” Mimi says. “And does he think you’re special too?”
The image of Iralene dips her head down shyly. But the real Iralene reaches out to touch her mother’s face. Of course, it’s not there. Her hand slips through the air. “There are ones of me when I was even younger. My mother teaching me to sew. Her reading storybooks to me on the sofa.”
Partridge is chilled by the idea of watching your life instead of living it. “Did my father watch these?”
“He couldn’t just take us in and out of suspension every time he missed us. He had to have these little moments of us now and then. And my mother and I watched them, of course. They were fairy tale versions of our lives. We loved ourselves in them. Each time he’d bring a new one to us, we’d savor it together.”
This was happening when Partridge’s father was ignoring him and Sedge, when he’d sent them off to the academy, when, after Sedge was supposedly dead, his father didn’t even bother to let Partridge come home for the holidays. He’s weirdly jealous but also sickened. This was no way to love a family.
Iralene laughs at her mother’s image, which is saying how wonderful Iralene is, how any boy would be lucky to win her heart. “My mother would have never said that in real life. She’d have said, You have to make him fall in love with you. You have to be perfect, Iralene! If he’s a worthwhile man, you’ll have to trick him into loving you.” She turns to Partridge and Beckley as the images of her and her mother keep talking. “I’m not the kind of girl a boy would naturally fall in love with.”
Partridge isn’t sure what to say. She’s lovable—just the way she is—but he can’t love her.
Beckley’s the one who speaks up first. “Do you know how many men are in love with you? Your image has been plastered on every screen.”
“They love my image, then,” she says flatly.
Partridge shakes his head. “No, I don’t buy that. One real look at you and—”
“And what?” Iralene says, so eager that she cuts him off.
“They see through the image to you,” Partridge says. “The real you.” She walks to Partridge, grabs his arm, and pulls him close. He feels guilty every time he’s kind to her. He’s only giving her false hope, and he’s betraying Lyda. But what should he do? Be cruel instead?
“Let’s go,” she says. “This way.”
She leads him and Beckley down a hall. The doors on either side are marked with placards—numbered specimens and names. The air buzzes with electricity. Iralene pauses when she comes to the door where her name used to be. Her mother’s name is still there beneath the now-empty space—MIMI WILLUX.
“Does your mother still come here?”
“She can’t afford to age, especially now that she’s single again,” Iralene says matter-of-factly. “But she’s been out for all of the memorial services and our date.” She puts her hand on the door. “I won’t go back, though. I made her promise that I could be free now.” She tilts her head. “Well, as free as I can get.”
They move on down the hall.
This place is hauntingly dark and cold and dismal. Bodies exist behind every humming door. Bodies held in time—for how long? Damn it. Weed was right. If he can get them free, up for air, what the hell is he going to do with all of them?
“Dr. Peekins!” Iralene calls down the hall.
They hear the scuffle of shoes. Peekins turns a corner and stands with his hands on his wide hips. He’s a short, duckfooted man of Partridge’s father’s generation. “Iralene,” he says.
“Hi,” she says warmly.
The two hug.
Iralene says, “Dr. Peekins was the first face I saw each time I came up for air.”
“And I had to put you down sometimes too, which was unpleasant when you were little, before you fully understood.” Unpleasant—it’s the kind of euphemism that people in the Dome use when something is awful, unconscionable… Partridge can only imagine what it was like to put Iralene under as a child.
Iralene tilts her head and says, “You told me bedtime stories, remember? The baby in a basket in the woods who grew up to be strong and beautiful.”
Peekins’ eyes are wet. Was he a father figure for Iralene? “Of course I remember.” Then Peekins turns to Partridge. “And this must be the young man himself!” Peekins holds out his hand. Partridge shakes it. “We’ve never had the pleasure of meeting, but of course, I know who you are.” For good measure, he shakes Beckley’s hand too, which Partridge likes. A lot of people ignore Beckley.
“Partridge needs your help,” Iralene tells Peekins.
Peekins’ eyes dart up and down the hall. He takes a step closer, lowering his voice. He seems to know that helping Partridge might be dangerous. Has Foresteed told Peekins that he’s in charge? “Does this have to do with Weed?”
“Has he been here?” Partridge asks.
“He’s sent word. The Hollenback baby,” Peekins says softly. “And now Belze.”
“Yes,” Partridge says. “Odwald Belze. Can you help?”
Peekins rubs his eyebrow. “I’m not supposed to…”
“It’s important,” Partridge says.
“Yes, but there are conflicts, you know.” He scratches his chin. “Things beyond my control. I can only do so much.”
Iralene touches his shoulder. “Please. Can you try?”
His face softens. “This way.” They follow Peekins down one hall and then another. “Belze is an older man and a wretch, and he’s been kept under for a long time. The deep freezes are much more complex than the short ones, as Iralene would know—kind of the way it works with anesthesia.”
“Can you bring him up carefully?” Partridge asks.
“I’m always careful,” Peekins says, and he stops in front of a door marked ODWALD BELZE. “But there are risks.”
“The other alternative is to never bring him up for air—never even try it?” Partridge asks. “What’s the difference between permanent suspension and death?”
Iralene nods. “Every time I went under, I wondered if I’d be forgotten.”
“I’d never have forgotten you,” Peekins says. “You know that.”
Peekins opens the door. Iralene and Partridge follow him into the small room. Beckley stays in the hall, standing guard.
And there’s a six-foot capsule, its glass foggy and iced gray. Partridge feels a chill—from deep inside of him to the surface of his skin. Peekins wipes the glass, revealing an old man’s frozen face. His expression is stiff and pained. He has a long dark pink scar running down his neck, bisected a third of the way down like a cross. Pressia’s grandfather.
“Where’s his leg?” Iralene asks.
“He came in that way,” Peekins says. “It’s a kind of fusing actually. Something from the Detonations. There’s a clump of wires at the stump. From what exactly, who knows?”
Partridge remembers being with his half sister when their mother died—the murderous blood filling the air. They’ve both lost so much. And yet, here’s this man who took care of her all her life, the only father figure she ever knew and whom she thinks is dead, and Partridge can return him to her. It’s the greatest gift he can think of. Love, returned. “I want him treated very carefully,” Partridge says.
“Of course,” Peekins says. “I can only try. No promises!”
“Don’t tell Foresteed or Weed or anyone else in power.” Even though Glassings vouched for Weed, Partridge isn’t sure. “I’m asking you directly. Okay?”
Peekins nods. “Yes, yes.”
“There’s something else he’s here to see,” Iralene says.
“I think I know what’s brought you,” Peekins says.
“What’s that?” Partridge asks.
“You’re not the first person to come down and ask about it. Anything that’s locked up that tight must have been of incredible value to your father, right?” So he knows that Partridge wants to be let into the chamber. Who’s come before him? Probably Foresteed. Maybe Weed. Did members of Cygnus try to get access?
“Do you know what’s in there?” Partridge asks bluntly.
“What’s in the room isn’t meant for you.” Partridge isn’t sure what this is supposed to mean. Was it meant for his father? For someone else?
“I wasn’t expecting to find my inheritance, Peekins.”
This comment startles Peekins. His head jerks a little, and then he looks away.
“Do you know what’s in the room? Or should I say who?”
Peekins doesn’t answer.
“You have to tell me.”
“No,” Peekins says. “I don’t.”
“I’m in charge now. Didn’t you hear?” It’s a lie, but Peekins might not know the truth.
Peekins looks at him and blinks.
“Dr. Peekins, I thought you knew how to follow orders,” Beckley says, standing in the door, one hand on his gun.
“I am following orders.”
“Whose?”
He looks at Partridge. “Your father’s.”
His father’s alive? Is this what Peekins is saying? “Jesus, Peekins,” Partridge says, trying to laugh. “He’s dead!”
Peekins doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. He looks as frozen as one of the suspended bodies. Why would Peekins be following his father’s orders? “Unless he’s not dead. Is that who’s in the chamber, Peekins? My father? Did he somehow get resuscitated?” Partridge leans his shoulder against the wall to steady himself. “Is that urn that’s supposedly filled with his ashes and that was put on display at every goddamn memorial service just a hoax?” Partridge’s ears start ringing. I killed him, he reminds himself. I killed him. I wanted him to die, and he’s dead.
Peekins still doesn’t answer. Partridge wants to punch him in the head. Maybe Weed’s right and a little act of violence is needed every once in a while. “Tell me the truth, Peekins—right now. Tell me what you know.”
“Or what?”
Partridge rears back. Torture. “Or I’ll send you in.”
“Where?” Peekins says. “I heard you put an end to all that.”
Partridge’s jaws knot. He looks at Iralene and Beckley for help, but what can they say? Peekins is stating the obvious. “Take us to the high-security chamber, Peekins. Can you manage that?”
Peekins walks them through the halls to one that ends in front of a large metal door. It’s locked and barred, with a blue-lit alarm system mounted on the wall and a keypad to one side of the door. Partridge places his hand on the blue screen, hoping it will work like some of the fingerprint systems in his father’s war room and inner chamber, but as Peekins predicted, nothing happens. He leans down, looking for a retinal scan, but nothing flashes across his eyes.
He stares at the keypad. Is this the only thing keeping him from the suspended body of his own supposedly dead father? Or is it Hideki?
He starts typing in all of the key words that he associates with his father:
Swan. No response.
Cygnus. No response.
Phoenix, Operation Phoenix. Nothing.
“Peekins, am I close? Is this how it works?”
Peekins is silent. Partridge hates him for this. “Damn it,” Partridge mutters. He’s so frustrated that he starts missing letters, misspelling—he hits CLEAR, CLEAR, CLEAR and starts over. Seven, the seven. He starts to type each of the names of the Seven—his mother’s, his father’s, Hideki Imanaka, Bartrand Kelly…
Then Beckley gets a message through his earpiece. “The other guards say that the crowd is beginning to worry. They want someone to call an ambulance. A doctor has identified himself and has asked if he can help. We have to go.”
“Not yet,” Partridge says.
“We have to go!” Iralene says, pulling on his arm, making him mess up again.
“Iralene! Let go!” He starts over. Eden, New Eden… Nothing works.
Peekins walks up close and whispers, “You’re not really supposed to be here. I know the truth.” That Foresteed has all the real power? That Foresteed is blackmailing him? Or is Peekins saying that he knows Partridge killed his father?
“The truth is that my father is dead. You can’t be following his orders,” Partridge shouts at Peekins. “I know he’s dead!” The more he says his father’s dead, the less true it feels. The words seem to peel away from their meaning and are just sounds. “You’re just trying to get into my head, aren’t you? Who are you really working for? Foresteed? Weed?”
Peekins lifts his chin and doesn’t say a word.
“I’m going to get into this chamber, Peekins. With or without your help. You might as well be on the right side when the time comes.”
“I know the right side from the wrong side,” Peekins says very slowly. “Do you?”
Partridge leans in and puts his face an inch from Peekins’. “Don’t push me. Are you listening? Don’t push me.”
For the first time, Peekins looks a little scared. He nods slowly. Is this what a bully feels like? Partridge wonders. If it is, then it feels good.
Beckley says, “Come on.”
“We have to go,” Iralene says. “Follow me.”
And they start running down the halls, passing nameplate after nameplate—so many bodies, frozen, stuck, but still alive.
EL CAPITAN
BETTER OFF
Dusk is coming on, but how many days have passed? Where’s Bradwell? The broken, smoldering city is losing its edges. The shadows fill in like tidal pools. The Rubble Fields are quiet. Have all the Dusts been burned alive? The streets are nearly silent. El Capitan passes a pile of bodies covered with a tarp, but he can see a folded burned hand, a stiffened foot embedded with metal.
Bradwell’s gone to tell Pressia that he loves her. Has he found her already? Will he ever show up at the meeting place? El Capitan knows she loves Bradwell and that she’ll never love El Capitan. “Better off,” he whispers, and it’s an old thought—one he used to rely on when he killed wretches, used them as live targets, counted the bodies after the Death Sprees. Better off dead than living this life, which is just a long death.
Helmud is quiet. He must remember El Capitan’s dark moods. He shrinks on his brother’s back, doesn’t twitch, doesn’t hum.
El Capitan is making his way to the old bank vault. There’s a good chance survivors are already huddled down there. He’ll tell them to get the hell out. He wants to be alone. He wants to be completely alone. He never will be.
He pulls his collar up around his neck and walks next to a wall that used to be a building. At this very moment, Pressia and Bradwell might be falling in love again. He remembers finding them in the stone underpass, kissing. And he has the sudden desire to ram his brother into the wall, to find a stick and beat Helmud with it. All the old habits, comforts—that’s what he’s drawn to: the power he once knew, the power that once knew him.
He stops walking, clenches his fists, and stares up at the sky, smoke scudding across it.
It used to be that beating his brother made him feel a little more alive. He doesn’t know how or why. Maybe because it was the closest thing to beating himself.
“We’ve got nothing,” El Capitan whispers. “Nothing.” He grips the front of his coat, twists it, and then screams. He can’t remember the last time he screamed like this.
Helmud tightens to a knot on his back.
“Get off me!” El Capitan shouts. And he throws his elbows into his brother’s ribs. He reaches over his shoulders and grabs Helmud’s arms and yanks him forward so hard that El Capitan falls to his knees. “Get off me!” he shouts, clawing at Helmud.
“Get off me!” Helmud shouts, jerking backward as hard as he can, twisting across the wet ground. “Get off me! Get off! Me! Me! Me!”
“No, me!” El Capitan shouts. He reaches wildly for his brother, who arches and weaves. “Me!” He doesn’t care about the bacterium. Nothing matters. He can feel the tape ripping up from his skin.
Then Helmud punches El Capitan hard across the jaw. El Capitan is stunned. He freezes on all fours. Helmud cocks his fist and punches him again. El Capitan rolls over and piledrives his brother into the ground. Helmud gets a choke hold around El Capitan’s neck and keeps punching El Capitan in the head.
“I’ve got nothing,” El Capitan shouts at his brother. “I’ve got nothing!” Helmud keeps beating on him.
And then El Capitan stops fighting. He covers his head with his arms, curls up, and lets Helmud punch him. Helmud is breathless. His knuckles are sharp, and his jabs come at El Capitan hard and fast. “I’ve got nothing,” El Capitan says over and over.
And then Helmud says, “Me, me, me.” But he keeps pounding his brother, keeps beating him until he grows weak, until finally he gives out and lies down, holding El Capitan’s shoulders. They lie there in the wet dirt, muttering—nothing and me and nothing—until El Capitan isn’t even sure which of them is saying what.
Nothing.
Me.
Nothing.