Partridge sits back and sighs. He’ll recognize these people from political functions, parties, those who live in the apartment building where he grew up, the parents of his friends from the academy. He shakes his head. “I don’t want to sit next to Iralene this time. Don’t get me wrong. I like Iralene. I respect her. But they’ve got to get used to the idea that we’re not going to get married. Every time they see me with her, it’s going to be harder to explain that I’m with Lyda.” On Christmas Eve, Partridge and Lyda kissed a little. He put his hand on the soft skin of her stomach where the baby is just starting to grow. “I’m going to be a father. Lyda and I are going to get married. We have to introduce this idea and undo my father’s lies.”
Hoppes shakes his head and his fatty jowls wag. He’s taken over managing Partridge’s image. “We’re working on a story that will set this all right. We’ve got a plan. But it’s just too soon. My staff is working diligently. Trust me.”
“How about the truth?” Partridge feels a surge of heat run through him. Lies were how his father operated. He told the people fairy tales so they could sleep at night—tales of a world divided into Pures and wretches. “How about the goddamn truth for once?”
Foresteed sets his fists on the table and stands up, leaning over Partridge. “The truth is that you knocked someone up and you’re engaged to someone else. Your concubine’s set up in a nice place to keep her quiet—like father, like son.”
“I’m not anything like my father.” Partridge stares at Foresteed, waiting for him to back down but Foresteed doesn’t. He glares at Partridge as if he’s begging him to take a swing.
Purdy breaks the silence. Scratching the back of his head, he says, “I just don’t get why you wouldn’t be interested in a girl like Iralene. She was made for you.”
“Literally,” Partridge says.
“Well, she’s a real catch,” Purdy says. “Sometimes you’ve got to rely on someone else to hold up a mirror. Am I right, fellas?”
Hoppes says, “Yes, of course.”
Foresteed nods.
Partridge feels tight pressure in his chest. “I’m in love with Lyda. I’m not going to be peer pressured into falling out of love, okay? So why don’t you keep your goddamn opinions to yourself?”
Purdy raises his hands in the air. “We’re going to work this out. It’s going to be okay!”
He hates this most of all—defensively chipper smiles that cover up all the lies. He can’t take it anymore. His chest feels like it could explode. He leans forward. “I know the truth. And I am going to lead with the truth. My father was the biggest mass murderer in history,” Partridge says. This is the truth he’s held in for a long time. It feels good to warn them. He feels powerful for once. “The people know this, but they pretend they don’t. They’ve all been handed a lie, and they’re living by it. It’s got to be eating at them. They have to be ready to acknowledge it. It’s the only way to move forward.”
“Jesus,” Hoppes says. He’s taken a handkerchief from his pocket and presses it to his upper lip and forehead.
“To what possible end?” Foresteed asks, his eyes wide with astonishment. “I mean, do you want the wretches and the Pures to walk hand in hand into a beautiful tomorrow?”
“Would it hurt to prepare for the time when we leave the Dome and start making a life for ourselves out there? I mean, how about a little compassion for the survivors?” Partridge and Lyda have been writing out plans, simple things they can start to do to improve lives on the outside—clean water, food, education, and medicine. “We can really impact their lives for the better.”
“Isn’t that noble,” Foresteed says.
Partridge can’t bear his condescension.
Purdy says, “Let’s slow down a minute.”
Partridge is sick of putting things off, avoiding conflict. Now is the time. He shifts his tone, tries to sound as calm as possible. “Look, I’ve been thinking about this. What would be so wrong with a council, made up of people from the inside and people from the outside?” He, Lyda, and Pressia could all be on that council—plus Bradwell and El Capitan. They could make real progress.
“God.” Foresteed walks to the door, checks to see if it’s locked, and then sits back down at the table.
“What’s wrong with a council? What’s wrong with some progress?” Partridge says. There has to be progress. This is why he handed himself over to the Dome in the first place. This is why he killed his father—to push for something hopeful.
“No, no, no,” Hoppes says quietly. “These are your people, Partridge, the people of the Dome. They like normalcy, consistency. You can’t barge into their lives and start ripping things up.”
Partridge feels like flipping over the table. He crosses his arms on his chest to try to contain his pounding heart. “Why not? Maybe it’s the only way we’re going to be able to rebuild.”
Foresteed laughs.
“What’s so funny?” Partridge hates Foresteed with a sudden rush. His face flushes with anger. It’d be better if Foresteed punched him or at least argued—but to laugh at him?
Hoppes says, “As a researcher, I’d like to explain to you that the ‘lie,’ as you call it—”
Purdy interrupts, “A term I deeply disagree with.”
“That ‘lie,’” Hoppes continues, using air quotes, “has created the framework that allows the people to accept themselves, to be able to look themselves in the eye, to love each other, and to go on. If you take that away, well—”
“Well what?” Partridge says.
Foresteed smiles. “If you rob them of their lie, they’ll self-destruct. That’s what. How about a little compassion for the people
inside
the Dome? Huh?”
The room goes quiet. These men aren’t going to see his side. There are others inside the Dome who are supposed to be on Partridge’s side—the Cygnus—those who had a plan to get him into power, a plan his mother had tried to put into action from the outside. Where the hell are they now? Partridge could use some reinforcements. He can’t even really tell if Foresteed is telling the truth. Does the lie keep these people together or is he just trying to keep Partridge quiet? “I want to see Glassings,” Partridge says.
“Glassings?” Hoppes says.
“My old World History teacher.” Glassings is one of the secret leaders of the sleeper cells, part of Cygnus, and the one who got the pill that would kill his father to Partridge. In some ways, Glassings got him into this. He’d like for him to at least show up in his life again.
“Why do you want to see him?” Foresteed asks. Does Glassings’ name alarm him?
“I have some questions about world history,” Partridge lies quickly. “It would help to know how some other leaders have led. Don’t you think?”
“Your father was a great leader. What more could you ask for?” Purdy says, smiling nervously.
He wants to ask Purdy to schedule a meeting with Glassings, but he doesn’t like the suspicious look in Foresteed’s eyes, so he sighs heavily as if he’s bored. “How many more of these services?” he asks again.
Purdy reexamines his planner. He taps dates and counts aloud to seven. “That’s it. Seven more memorial services. Not bad.”
“And then we can roll out the new story—the break between you and Iralene and the news of your new love, Lyda,” Hoppes says. “We’ll broach the baby situation about two months after that.”
Are they just going to keep putting it off? “The new story about Lyda will go out soon, right? Days, not weeks?”
“Of course,” Hoppes says.
Foresteed says, “Just go out there and say your lines, Partridge. Let them show their respects.”
“Okay, but no Iralene,” Partridge says. “She needs a break anyway. Just send her home, okay?” He worries about Iralene. She’s under a lot of pressure, feeling terribly scrutinized, and she knows that her role is going to change. Partridge has assured her that she’ll always have a place in his life—as a friend—and a respected role in society, but he just doesn’t know what that’s going to look like.
“We can’t make any promises about Iralene,” Hoppes says. “You know that there are a lot of moving pieces here.” He means Mimi, his father’s widow and Iralene’s mother, who can be unpredictable.
“We can’t be held hostage by Mimi.” Partridge stands up. “I’m in charge,” he says, though he feels nervous saying it. “No Iralene this time. Okay? I don’t want her sitting next to me on live-streaming feed.” Lyda will be watching, won’t she? He imagines her as he last saw her. She was wearing a long white cotton nightgown. She was tired—she’s not sleeping well—but also restless.
“I feel like a caged tiger,” she told him. “I don’t know how long I can take it. When are you coming back?”
He kissed her and told her, “As soon as I can. My life isn’t really my own right now, but it will be soon. It’s coming. I promise.”
“This meeting is over,” Partridge says. Sometimes it’s the little things that feel so good—like calling the end to a meeting. It shouldn’t matter, but he likes that he can flex this muscle and no one can contradict him.
Foresteed strides to the door, gets there first, and unlocks it. “Allow me,” he says. He opens the door for Partridge. There’s the line of mourners, immaculately dressed. Their heads turn, and they stare at Partridge. He hears a few stifled sobs. They gaze at him expectantly.
Foresteed claps Partridge on the shoulder, his grip too sharp. He leans in close and whispers, “You’re wrong, you know. Your father wasn’t just the biggest mass murderer in history. He was the most successful. There’s a difference.”
Partridge puts his hand on the door, ready to walk out of the room. “I won’t live his lies for him. I’m not his puppet, and I’m sure as hell not yours.”
Foresteed smiles at him. His teeth nearly glow they’re so white. “As if you don’t have lies of your own already, Partridge,” he says so softly only Partridge can hear. “If you’re going to come clean, why don’t you start with yourself?”
E
l Capitan doesn’t have a knife. “Don’t need one,” he explains to Helmud. “We’re all dosed up.” He first noticed the change of skin color on Helmud’s arms—always dangling around his neck. At first he thought it was jaundice, but then, as soon as the caretaker told him it was a chemical that repelled those vines—their thorns as sharp as canines—he asked to have his dosage upped. “Two hearts here, two sets of lungs, two brains—more or less,” he said. “We need double the meds. Got to keep that in mind.”
And now his skin looks like he’s been at the beach for an entire summer. Not red and blistered, but golden brown. It’s almost got a metallic shine to it. He remembers getting tan on his arms, face, and the back of his neck as a kid—a farmer’s tan, or so it was called. But his tan was always mixed with dirt too. He and Helmud were the kinds of kids who spent a lot of time on dirt bikes, climbing trees, rooting through mud. Maybe he was more like this than Helmud. In fact, as a kid, Helmud had seemed somewhat refined. El Capitan had been the bully, the brute—he’d had no choice. He was the man of the house so young.
His hands wrapped in towels stolen from a cabinet in his room, he uses the vines to climb to the hatch, which, as the airship has rolled to its side, is now on top. But where’s the hatch? It’s not sticking up, which is how he left it when he went out looking for Bradwell. The vines must have shut it when they wound their way around the airship.
The vines seem to sense the chemicals that are emanating from his and Helmud’s skin. They don’t recoil but they certainly aren’t aggressive and do seem to shift away. El Capitan hears the skritch of their thorns against the airship’s exterior. It kills him that they’re scratching it up.
The vines spook him—not just because they almost killed him once, but because they’re not natural. “There’s something not right about this place,” he says to Helmud. He means the herd of creatures grazing on the hillside—are they giant boars? And the children—all of them are under the age of nine, or so it seems, which means they were born after the Detonations. Plus, too many of them look alike. It doesn’t make sense to him, but he knows it’s messed up. “Not right at all. But who am I to talk, right?”
“Who am I?” Helmud says. Is he speaking philosophically? El Capitan’s glad that Helmud can only communicate in repetitive ways. If Helmud could really express himself, El Capitan’s afraid Helmud would push him to take the conversation one level deeper. El Capitan isn’t one for philosophizing.
El Capitan laughs. “Who are you? Let’s keep our shit together, Helmud, okay? Let’s not go off the deep end. You know what I mean.”
“You know what I mean,” Helmud repeats, and El Capitan knows to drop it. Helmud’s in one of those moods where he wants to assert himself. There’s no talking to him.
A knife would help, but he didn’t have time to go hunting for one. He wanted out. He wanted to see his airship, and he’s finally built up enough strength again to roam. He sneaked out, and now is he being watched from afar? Maybe. Who cares? He’s got a ship to get back in order and hopefully up into the air. He has people to get home—Bradwell, Pressia. He thinks of her and remembers the kiss.
Jesus.
He kissed her. Each time he thinks about it, his heart feels like a crooked thing in his chest, all bent, all wrong—a freak heart. His heart will beat for Pressia for the rest of his life. He’ll love her forever. Bradwell might have been able to turn away from her, but El Capitan could never do that. He’ll just have to take this ache. He’ll have to bear it inside of him forever. He’s survived this long under the weight of his own brother. He understands the burden. He feels aged by it, and yet he’s still young. He was a kid when the Detonations went off, just a little older than Bradwell, but he feels middle-aged—probably because he never had much of a childhood. Without a father and with his mother taken away and dying young, he was rushed right into manhood while still a little boy.
He only hopes that Pressia isn’t forever wrecked by what she did to Bradwell—saved him, yes, but killed him in a way too. A deathblow. El Capitan saw her face when she realized what she’d done, and he knew the one she really loved. It was over. Screw it. El Capitan had to simply move on—no matter how sick it made him feel. Homesickness—that he could fix. Matters of the heart? They just build up scar tissue. He’ll be thankful, one day, that she toughened his heart. “Scars are good. Right, Helmud? It’s the body’s way of making armor.”