Fuse (Pure Trilogy 2) (42 page)

“Everyone gets to be romantic,” she says. “If that’s what they’re after.”

L
YDA IS SITTING ON A STOOL
in the factory in a row of mothers, peeling the dry, rough skin of tubers. They’re pocked with nubs, some of which have grown little strings, almost like tentacles. Others have been kept in storage so long that they’ve grown what look to be purplish claws, as if they intend to turn into Beasts and crawl off. Lyda doesn’t mind the work, though. Once the skin is gone, they are bright white and slick. They slip like fish from her grip into the bucket to be filled; then they’ll be hauled off and steamed. The soft ticks and scrapes of paring knives are the only noises.

When she sees Mother Hestra walk through the factory’s empty door frame, her stomach knots. Mother Hestra has spent the morning waiting to make a request of Our Good Mother—to allow Mother Hestra and Lyda to speak to her alone about a private but urgent matter. Our Good Mother doesn’t usually accept requests for individual appointments. She believes in solidarity and that any piece of news is better absorbed by the group all at once.
A wave could crash down on an individual and sweep them out to sea. But if we stand together, we buoy up and then down. It’s but a ripple
.

Our Good Mother terrifies Lyda. She’d rather not talk to her at all.

And yet, Mother Hestra’s expression is one of muted triumph; even Syden looks like he’s happy. She says to Mother Egan, “Lyda has to come with me. This is a request of the highest order.”

Mother Egan says, “Highest order, huh?”

Mother Hestra nods.

“Fine, then. Lyda? You heard. Go on now.” Mother Egan is in charge of the tuber peeling and looks like a tuber herself—dry, dark skin, a few pocks. She doesn’t have a child attached to her. She lost her children during the Detonations. Lyda stands up, holding the hem of her apron, catching the peelings. She stands over the garbage and brushes the skins into the can and puts her stool back against the wall.

All the mothers are looking at Lyda now—their children too. They watch Lyda in a way she’s gotten used to. They’re proud to claim a Pure as one of their own, but they despise her too. They assume Lyda knows no suffering. Some whisper to her, “Aren’t you pretty?” and “You have very fair skin”—compliments, except their tone is hostile. Once she found a note on her pillow that read,
Go back. We don’t need your kind here
. And when Mother Egan first gave her a paring knife, she said, “Be careful with that. Wouldn’t want to scar that creamy Pure skin.”

It’s these times when Lyda misses Pressia. She didn’t know her well, but they went through a lot together, quickly, and Pressia never seemed to hold Lyda’s background against her. She’s sure that if she could tell Pressia about the pregnancy, she would have a real friend, a confidante. Where is Pressia now?

She misses Illia too; her stories, though strange and dark, were transporting, and they seemed to have lessons in them, the kind mothers hand down to daughters.

As she walks out of the cavernous room, she feels their eyes on her back. She wonders what they will think of her when word gets out that she’s pregnant. They’ll hate her even more, won’t they? For being careless and stupid. For giving herself over to a boy so thoughtlessly. They’ll think she’s a slut. She’s heard the word before. Three girls were whispered about like that at the girls’ academy. They wound up in the rehabilitation center. They stayed a long time and came back somber, wearing shiny wigs until their hair grew back. What punishment will be doled out here?

The day is overcast, the sky a darker gray. The clouds look more ashen at their edges.

“Did you tell her?” Lyda asks Mother Hestra.

“That’s for you to do. She knows there’s something to tell.”

“Will she kick me out? She wouldn’t do that to a young mother, would she?”

Mother Hestra doesn’t say anything for a moment. Finally she sighs. “She’s unknowable. But it’s good that we’re telling her alone first.”

They pass the graveyard. Part of her suddenly wants the music box back. But she knows she shouldn’t want this. Partridge is gone.

They walk to another building—the vat room, where Our Good Mother has been living. Two women stand guard at the door, heavily armed. They don’t have just spears and darts and knives—these are old weapons of choice; they now have guns stolen from the Basement Boys.

Mother Hestra says, “I’ve brought her back with me. Highest orders.”

They allow Lyda and Mother Hestra to step inside.

The vat itself sits in the center of the high-ceilinged room like a huge metal caldron. Our Good Mother’s throne is behind it. But today she’s not there. She’s lying on her back on a cot while one of the mothers pulls on her neck. The mother says, “Deep breath in and hold it. Ready?”

Our Good Mother closes her eyes lightly and nods.

The mother twists her head with a quick jerk. Our Good Mother’s neck pops. She sighs. “Thank you.”

The mother stands. She has a child sitting on one of her hips, resting her head on her mother’s chest. The mother sees Lyda and Mother Hestra. “Someone’s here for you.”

Our Good Mother looks over. “Yes, they have an appointment.” Lyda expects her to sit up but she doesn’t. Though it’s cold, Our Good Mother’s arms are bare, and Lyda can see the baby mouth in her biceps clearly. It’s wet with spittle and makes a little pursing motion with its lips. “Speak to me,” Our Good Mother says.

Mother Hestra says, “Lyda’s news is very—”

“Not you,” Our Good Mother says. Her eyes are closed again and she’s lying perfectly still. Lyda can see the hard metal of the window
frame embedded in her chest, its light rise and fall in sync with her breathing. “Lyda, tell me this urgent news.”

Lyda takes a small step forward. “I’m not sure . . .”

“Is it news from the Dome? Has he contacted you?”

“Partridge?”

“Who else?”

“No,” Lyda says. “I don’t think he can.”

“So he’s abandoned you altogether?”

Lyda pauses. “I guess you could say that.”

“Well, that’s not news. A Death is a Death. This is what Deaths do. They leave.”

She looks back at Mother Hestra.
Tell her
, Mother Hestra urges.
Do it
.

“But before . . .” Lyda says, turning back to Our Good Mother. “Before he left . . .”

Our Good Mother opens her eyes.

Lyda takes a deep breath. “Before he left when we were running, Special Forces were everywhere and—”

Our Good Mother pushes herself up to a sitting position. She looks at Lyda, her eyes tightening, her face covered with the small fissures of wrinkles.

“We were alone when we were running. And there was the warden’s house. It had no roof and—”

“Tell me what happened in the warden’s house.”

“The top floor,” Lyda says. “There was nothing over our heads. And there was an old bed frame. Four posters. Brass—”

“What did he do to you in the warden’s house, Lyda?”

Lyda shakes her head. She can tell she’s about to cry. She knits her fingers together. “He didn’t do anything to me. It wasn’t like that.”

“Are you trying to tell me that he raped you?”

“No!”

Our Good Mother stands up. “You’re saying that he abducted you from Mother Hestra, dragged you to the warden’s house, where no one would hear you scream.” She moves in close to Lyda’s face. “And he raped you?”

“That’s not how it happened! He didn’t rape me. It wasn’t like that.”

Our Good Mother slaps Lyda so hard and fast that it doesn’t even hurt at first. It only burns and then the stinging rises, hotly, to her cheek. She reaches out, and Mother Hestra’s hand is there to steady her.

“Don’t ever defend a Death,” Our Good Mother says. “Not here. Not to me.” She whips away from Lyda, walks to the wall, raises her fists, and pounds them on the wall until she whimpers from the pain. She stops and seems to be frozen there, her head swung low.

“She’s pregnant,” Mother Hestra says softly.

“I know,” Our Good Mother says.

The room is completely quiet for a long time. Finally, Lyda can’t take it anymore. “What are you going to do to me?” she asks.

“I’m not going to do anything to you,” Our Good Mother says. “It’s what I’m going to do
for
you.” Our Good Mother’s voice is a rough whisper. It scares Lyda more than her fists on the wall.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to kill him,” she says matter-of-factly.

“What?” Still shaken and unsteady from the slap, Lyda’s knees almost give out beneath her. “No, please.”

“It’s the truth,” Our Good Mother says. “I will kill him, and to get to him, I will have to kill others along the way. It’s inevitable, but it’s time we planned an attack on the Dome. Time to fight.” She walks to Lyda.

Lyda can’t fathom that something so fleeting and quick and innocent could start a war. Others are going to die because of those few moments in the warden’s roofless house. “Don’t,” Lyda whispers, crying. “Not for me.”

Our Good Mother puts a gentle hand on Lyda’s stomach. She looks at Mother Hestra and says, “A baby we can all hold. The first since the Detonations.”

“The first,” Mother Hestra says. “It will be beloved.”

Our Good Mother sighs and puts a finger to the baby mouth in her arm. She fits the finger into it and rubs the lower gums. “Two baby teeth,” she says. “Did I tell you that? After all these years, two small white buds.”

W
HEN HE WAKES UP
, Iralene is gone. Her side of the bed is perfectly made and she’s reset the room to the beach, which gives him a surge of panic in his gut. Will Iralene be good to her word and switch it back to the farmhouse when he comes back? If not, he’s screwed.

Breakfast is set out for him—again, real food: oatmeal and pink juice. The cameras watch him with their glassy eyes. He stares into them, as if to tell those watching that he’s not afraid. It’s a lie. He’s so scared he can barely eat. He walks to the window and sees the old man combing the beach with his metal detector. He leans out the window and shouts, “Hey, stupid fake old man! You’re doomed! You’ll never find a damn thing!”

The man turns, smiles, and tips his hat.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

He assumes it’ll be Iralene, as she seems to be with him at all times. But it’s Beckley’s voice behind the door. “Here to take you in,” he says.

“Already?” Partridge says. “Can’t you give me a minute?” He’s not sure what he needs a minute for. He’d like to turn the room into the farmhouse and check to see if the note’s still in the toilet box. Without Iralene, he can’t.

“They need you to come in now,” Beckley says.

“Goddamn it,” Partridge says. He hears the rattle of the key in the lock.

Beckley swings the door open. “Ready?”

Within an hour, Partridge is back in the medical center, scrubbed and dressed in a hospital gown, lying on an examination table in an operating room, alone.

He hears the familiar click and hum of the air-filtration system. Straight up in the ceiling there’s an air vent. The air pours down on him and he wishes it were more like the feel of wind. The air vent was his escape route before. But now he has to stay. He has to have faith in Arvin Weed.

A technician walks in. “Here to put on the straps.”

“Straps?” Partridge sits up—an instinct. He tries to laugh. “Come on, now. Do I look like I need to be strapped down?”

The tech is expressionless. “Dr. Weed said it was necessary.”

Weed ordering straps seems like a really bad sign. “Doctor? Weed’s no doctor.”

“He is a doctor now.”

“Look, I don’t need straps.” Partridge puts his hand on the technician’s chest. The technician stares down at it and back at Partridge. And Partridge realizes that this is no regular tech. He’s been through enhancements, and before Partridge knows it, the tech has flipped Partridge’s arm across his body, paralyzing him with pain. His breath comes in short grunts.

With a few more quick motions, the tech has him strapped in. He stands at the foot of the gurney until Arvin walks in, wearing full scrubs, even a mask, so Partridge can see only his eyes. “Give us a minute,” Weed says. “I want to talk the patient through the process, answer any questions.”

The technician walks out.

Partridge and Arvin are alone, though there are still cameras. Partridge is desperate for some reassurance, even if it is coded.

“Why’d you have him strap me down? I don’t need to be strapped down.”

“We have to restrain you when we put you under anyway,” he says, glancing at one of the cameras in the corner of the room.

“Tell me this is going to work out all right,” Partridge says. “Can you do that?”

“This is really groundbreaking work here, Partridge, and we will be recording it for posterity.”

“All of it?”

“Of course.”

“Can’t I have a
real
moment alone with you?”

“Why would you want that?”

Does this mean Weed won’t be able to give him any reassurances or that he never intended to in the first place? “You know why I’d want that, Weed.”

“Well, how about I explain the science of memory and this process?”

He doesn’t care about science right now. But he’s afraid that if he says a word, his voice will crack. He could break down, right here—and it would be recorded for all posterity He decides to let Weed talk while he steels himself.

“Short-term memory is chemical. But beyond that quick recall, memory gets lodged in your brain. It’s anatomical. Basically, we’ve learned how to turn on and off specific neurons and neuron patterns in the brain. When memories form, they create these patterns. So if we turn off the right ones, we can deaden those memories. It’s called optogenetics. We talked about it once, when new advances were unveiled, remember?”

“Um, it rings a bell. Kind of.” In fact, Partridge was good at tuning Weed out when he got on a scientific jag. Now might not be the best time to confess to this.

“First we select and then genetically alter the chosen neurons by using viruses bearing certain kinds of DNA. You know, microbiology, and, in your case, we will then introduce into the neuron a susceptibility to be deactivated by specific colored lights. We’ll go in with extremely fine optical fibers, which we will thread—very carefully—into your brain. And we’ll hit one of those patterns. In this way, we can then deactivate the neuron and its circuit by sending light signals through the fibers. And voilà!”