Burn (Pure #3)(106)

“We have outside confirmation,” Foresteed says. “We’ve captured the traitor who led them to the airship. We’ve gotten enough data from him to confirm that they have some kind of agent—chemical warfare of some kind.”

“What traitor?”

“A Special Forces soldier who went rogue.”

Not Hastings. Not Silas Hastings. Please, no. “Who?”

“Someone you once knew well, it turns out. Hastings.”

Partridge tightens his grip on the curtains. “You didn’t torture him to get—”

“No. He tried to fight it, but there was only so much he could do. He’s programmed to give in to us. Behavioral coding,” Foresteed says wistfully. “If only your mother hadn’t blocked yours.”

Partridge is thankful for that. He can still make his own decisions—for better, for worse. “Can I talk to him?”

Foresteed walks up to Partridge, stepping into the beam of fake sun streaming through the window. Foresteed is glazed in sweat. He lifts the gun and positions it in the soft pocket behind Partridge’s jawbone. He says, “We are going to be ready. Your sister, if found, will be executed. And you, Partridge—you’d better do the right thing and help draw her in. Because you know what happens in a revolution?” Foresteed pushes the pistol in deeper. “The wretches will chop your head off first, but not if I’m moved to do it for them. Do you know what I’m saying?”

Partridge nods, and then, like a shot through his gut, he thinks of his own baby. Will his child be strong enough to survive if the Dome is taken down? Just because the child was conceived out there doesn’t mean it will be tougher or more immune.

“Do you have a plan?” Foresteed asks.

“I need to get her grandfather for her. I need that.” Could he trust Arvin to send word out among Cygnus? Did they help her escape? Or are they looking for her too?

Foresteed squints. His eyes tighten to watery beads. He says, “Can I trust you?”

“You already said it. My father’s dead. It’s just us now, Foresteed. You and me.”

Foresteed smiles with one side of his mouth and lowers the gun. His eyes quiver over Partridge’s face. “That’s right. You and me.” Foresteed straightens his Righteous Red Wave uniform with a few quick jerks. It’s possible that Foresteed is looking forward to this, as nostalgic as he is for the good old days of the Righteous Red Wave. He gives Partridge a quick salute and then walks to the door, his pistol still held in one hand. Without looking back, he says, “Get the old man.” And then he walks out the door and down the hall.

Partridge tries to rub away the lingering feeling of the gun pressed under his chin.

Beckley appears. “Report went out. State of emergency. Recorded message from Foresteed. He said the wretches are going to rise up. He said the time is now. Is it true?”

Partridge studies Beckley’s face for a moment. “I know what you think of me.”

“You do?”

“You think I’m in too deep. You think I have no idea what I’m doing. You think I’m going to drown. Sink or swim, and you’re betting I sink.”

“Are those metaphors? I don’t understand metaphors.”

“Knock off the bullshit. You think I’m sinking, don’t you?”

“Partridge, we don’t have time—”

“I can’t even tell if I’m sinking or the water’s rising all around me.” He looks around the room seeing none of it, feeling blind.

“Partridge, what can I do? Give me an order.”

That’s right. Partridge is supposed to be in charge—even if he has no power, Beckley’s on his side, isn’t he? “You’ve got to get me to Peekins—the chambers.”

“We should go fast. It’s starting to get chaotic out there.”

“Iralene’s coming with us. And no one can see us.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Glassings. I need him safe. I need to talk to him too.”

Beckley shakes his head and looks out the window, as if he’s trying to figure out the weather—as if it could change. The skin around his eyes is dark—sleeplessly so.

“Beckley. What is it?”

“Glassings.”

“What about him?”

Beckley looks at Partridge. “He died in the night.”

“What do you mean? Was Foresteed involved? Did he do it?”

“Blood clot. In his heart. Foresteed’s men were moving in to interrogate him about Lyda and Pressia, but he was gone.”

Partridge wonders if he knew on some level that they were coming back for more, if he willed himself to die because he couldn’t take another round. “I should have gone to see him. I went to the Personal Loss Archives to see my brother’s box—it was empty. I could have been there. Maybe I could have…”

“He’s gone, Partridge. Now you have to concentrate on the living.”

Partridge feels fatherless—an orphan who’s been orphaned again. “But I need to see him. I need Glassings. I can’t do this alone…”

“You’ve got to have some faith in other people.”

Partridge sees a man running diagonally down the street, a rifle strapped to his back. Militia. Partridge looks up and sees his own reflection. I’m not my father, he wants to tell the hazy image of his own face. I’m not my father. But then he remembers the clerk’s vibrating hand again. Yes, his brother is everywhere. His mother is everywhere. But so is his father. He says, “I’m Willux’s son. What have I ever learned about having faith in other people?”