Burn (Pure #3)(118)

Iralene hooks her arm around Partridge’s. He’s so disconnected that her touch surprises him. “There are so many of them!” she says.

Partridge’s heart thuds in his ears. He feels a surge of pride. He can’t believe they’ve organized and joined together like this. He imagines what El Capitan and Bradwell are feeling now. Are they at the head of this? Has it happened around them? But at the same moment, that surge of pride quickly switches to fear. They’re gathering because they’re expecting entrance. This isn’t a feel-good mission. This is the beginning of a revolution.

“We have to communicate with them,” Partridge says. “There’s still a way to slow it all down! We have to do this peacefully. Do we have an update on Pressia and Lyda?”

“They’re on their way,” Beckley says.

The thought of Lyda makes his chest constrict. Why didn’t she ever return his letters? Has she fallen out of love with him?

“You can talk Pressia into calling a truce. I know you can,” Iralene says. “She comes from those people. She’ll know how to communicate with them, right?” Wretches—that’s what Iralene means.

Beckley’s talking to someone on his walkie-talkie. “He’s ready? Here now?”

“What’s going on?” Partridge asks.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Beckley says, “but I took the opportunity to get someone who could be a liaison.”

“A liaison?”

“You’ll need someone on the ground to serve as a go-between. I thought of the perfect person. Someone who might seem…trustworthy to them.” Beckley walks to the door, opens it, and in walks a tall, lanky Special Forces soldier hobbled by a sleek prosthetic, the soldier’s leg ending in the thigh. The soldier stares at Partridge, and Partridge knows him.

“Hastings…” He tries to see his old friend, goofy and easily embarrassed. He misses him.

“Partridge Willux.” Hastings’ voice is more robotic than ever, but there’s still something deeply human inside of him, something they can’t erase.

Iralene is afraid of Hastings. She tightens her grip on Partridge’s arm and shifts so that she’s standing slightly behind him.

“What happened?” Partridge asks about Hastings’ leg. The last time he saw Hastings, Partridge had told him to go find El Capitan. Did that lead to his loss? Is Partridge to blame? It wouldn’t surprise him.

“An incident.” Hastings has been shut down. He can only give short answers—the least revealing kind. He went rogue and they recoded him.

“I’m sorry about that,” Partridge says.

Hastings nods. They’re still old friends. Some loyalty remains.

“Hastings,” Beckley says, “we need you to be our eyes and ears.” Hastings is fully bugged. “We’ll set you up with communication so we can speak directly to who’s in charge down there.”

“El Capitan and Bradwell,” Partridge says.

“We’ll give you a handheld that will transmit our voices from here,” Beckley explains.

Hastings takes a deep breath. His bulky shoulders rise and fall.

“Beckley brought you in because you’d be the one they might trust out there, but really you’re the one I trust, Hastings,” Partridge says. “We go way back.”

“You don’t have to play on your old ties,” Iralene says softly, recognizing something in Hastings. “He’s programmed to obey you.”

“She’s right,” Beckley says. “Foresteed doubled up on his behavioral coding. He’ll never go rogue again.”

“I want him to have a choice!” Partridge says. “Damn it! I want people to make up their own minds!”

Beckley walks up to Hastings. “Can you make up your own mind, Hastings?”

Hastings looks at Partridge and then at Iralene. He shakes his head. “No, sir.”

“We have to get him out there fast,” Beckley says, “if we’ve got any hope of negotiating.”

“Okay, Hastings, go on out. Find Bradwell or El Capitan. Pressia will be here soon,” Partridge says, hoping it’s true. “When you find them, we’ll be ready to talk. We can still turn this around.”

Beckley walks to the hall and picks two guards to escort Hastings out of the Dome.

Before Hastings leaves, he glances over his shoulder. He gives Partridge a look—it’s all he has, an undeniable humanity in his eyes. The look is both accusatory and full of suffering. It’s sharp and quick and sends a shock through Partridge. It’s as if Hastings knows the future, and it’s worse than Partridge could ever imagine. But before Partridge can say anything—and what would he say?—Hastings has walked out of the room, half lumbering, half limping.

He remembers Hastings talking to a girl at the last dance he ever went to, the one where Partridge danced with Lyda. How did they end up here—each newly broken in ways they never could have predicted?

“There’s one more thing,” Beckley says to Partridge as he steps back into the room. “Cygnus decided it was better if you and Lyda were split up.” He reaches into the pocket of his uniform jacket and pulls out two bundles—stacks of folded paper, each tied with string. “Letters—from you to Lyda and from her to you.”