Her mother sits to her left—Mimi looks barely stitched together. Her eyes, round with fear, dart around the room as if she’s lost. The seat to Iralene’s right is empty, reserved for Partridge, of course.
He sits down and leans over to her, whispering, “I told them to let you go home. You’ve been through too many of these. Seriously, you should take off if you want to.”
She touches his knee. “You both need me here,” she says, indicating Partridge and her mother.
“Actually, I’m fine.” He glances around for another seat nearby, but they’re all taken.
“Your father would have wanted it this way.” She smiles sadly.
This is the part that’s confusing. Iralene knows that he killed his father. She was the one who delivered the poisonous pill to him. So why would she think he’d be moved to do things the way his father would have wanted?
“I wish Glassings was invited,” he says.
His name startles her. She whispers, “I heard he stopped showing up for classes. His office is cleared out too.”
“How do you know that? Who told you?”
“I do have some friends, Partridge. Your father made sure that there’s a handful of academy girls who know me well enough. I have to have someone to ask to be my bridesmaids!”
“Bridesmaids? Iralene, you know that—”
“I didn’t say I was marrying you. Did I?” She touches her hair to make sure it’s perfectly straight.
He unbuttons his suit jacket. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“Glassings will come through when you need him. No matter where he’s run off to.”
“I hope,” Partridge says. But it makes him nervous that Glassings is gone. There’s nowhere to run off to inside the Dome. Nowhere at all.
Someone reaches forward from the row behind him and gives his shoulder a squeeze. Partridge turns and sees one of his father’s fellow architects of the Dome from ages ago, Walton Egert. Partridge’s father and the other architects called him Gertie. He says, “Stand strong, Partridge. You hear? Stand strong, sonny.”
Partridge looks over his shoulder and says, “Thanks, Gertie. Thanks so much.” He’d never have been allowed to call Walton Egert by his nickname if his father were alive. It’s a power play—Partridge’s way of saying, I’m senior to you now. So why don’t you back off on the condescension.
Gertie gets it. He says, “Of course. You’re welcome,” and sits back in his seat stiffly, looking side to side to see who else heard it. A few people did, and they look away so as not to add to his embarrassment. It dawns on Partridge at this moment that he’s going to have to do that same move a thousand times in so many different ways.
Important people walk to the podium and speak about his father’s dedication, intelligence, and foresight, but mainly about how indebted they are to him for saving their lives. The speeches made during these services always make Partridge uncomfortable, and tonight is no exception.
One of his father’s advisers leans into the mic, saying, “Willux saved each and every one of us from death, from mutilation. We don’t have to live among those wretches: murderers, rapists, monsters—all of them! We were chosen. Let us be worthy of that choice forever.” And then he raises his hand and points at Partridge. “We have a new leader now. Willux’s only surviving son. Lead us,” he says to Partridge. “Lead and protect us. You are here for us in this turbulent time of sadness and grief, during this time of change. Thank you for rising up and taking your father’s place.”
Everyone in the room turns and looks at Partridge. The cameramen point the cameras at his face. He feels flushed and yet cold inside. His face is frozen. His eyes move from one camera to the next. Iralene elbows him gently. He nods and gestures back at the man at the podium. The cameras pivot away from him again, and only then can he breathe.
Partridge tells himself that all he has to do is get up after Foresteed’s talk and say his lines: I’m here to represent my family. My father is dead. And now is a time for healing. Thank you for coming, and I hope we can all move into the future with confidence and hope. Those are the only things that he and Hoppes could agree on. It’s as far as Partridge could take it. This is almost over, he tells himself. He hears Gertie’s voice in his head—Stand strong, sonny—which only churns his stomach.
Foresteed takes the mic. He’s saying what he always says: “Ellery Willux was the foremost intellectual of his generation. A man of science, of vision, of innovation…” His voice is perfectly modulated. His eyes tear up on cue, but his jaw is bravely jutted. His voice is edged with enough emotion at one point that Partridge wonders if the guy really loved his father. Willux was charismatic—even when he was the mastermind behind the scenes before the Detonations. How else could he have amassed such unchecked power?
He can still hear Foresteed saying, “Your father wasn’t just the biggest mass murderer in history. He was the most successful…” Is that what some of these people are worshipping here?
Foresteed’s eyes roam the crowd as he speaks and then lock on Partridge. “May we never forget what he’s done for us, and may we carry his legacy into the future.”
Partridge’s back prickles with sweat. He doesn’t want his father’s legacy carried into the future.
And now it’s Partridge’s turn at the mic as if he’s the man to carry his legacy into the future, and supposedly he is.
Partridge stands and walks along the row of blown-up photographs, which start during his father’s days as a cadet in the Best and the Brightest, when he founded the Seven, fell in love with Partridge’s mother, and might have started to go a little crazy—perhaps showing just the first few signs of mania, narcissism, and maybe some good old-fashioned paranoia. They move on to photos of him as a lead engineer of the Dome, standing beside more than one president, and, more recently, photos of him inside of the Dome, giving speeches, standing in front of the most recent elite corps of Special Forces.
And then there’s one photograph of his father with an arm around each of his sons. Partridge looks lanky, small for his age, and is wearing the worried brow of someone middle-aged. Sedge, on the other hand, went through puberty young. He’s tall and thick shouldered. He stands straight and smiles at the camera. They’re standing in front of a Christmas tree. It might have been the first Christmas after the Detonations. They have the air of survival. They’ve gotten through something. They’re safe now.
Partridge walks up to the podium set up for the broadcast. He looks out across the audience but can barely see through the glare of the bright lights. He spots Mimi, who looks at him, bleary-eyed. Beside her, Iralene gives him a tight-lipped smile and a nod of encouragement. Foresteed stands along one wall next to Purdy and Hoppes.
As if you don’t have lies of your own already, Partridge. If you’re going to come clean, why don’t you start with yourself?
He coughs into his balled fist and then opens his mouth to state his given lines. I’m here to represent my family. My father is dead. And now is a time for healing…
But as he starts to speak, the words that are there are simpler: I killed my father.
He panics. What’s he going to say to these people? The cameras are pointed at him—it’s like being surrounded by oversized eyes. Out there, Lyda could be watching. Everyone is watching. This is actually the first time he’s addressed all the people of the Dome.
The first time.
The truth.
It doesn’t matter what Cygnus wants from him, what Glassings expects. None of them have gotten in touch with him since his father’s death anyway. Why? He doesn’t know, but he does know that he’s in charge now. He’s the leader. It’s time for him to lead.
He thinks of Bradwell looking at this footage one day. What if it ends up in his footlocker with all of the other old stuff he’s kept? He hears Pressia wondering aloud if he’s got enough courage and El Capitan shouting at him, “Say it! Tell them! What are you afraid of? The worst has already happened to us.”
&
nbsp; Damn it. He’s going to be a father himself one day—soon. His own child could see a recording of this moment in the distant future.
He looks out and spots Gertie, who seems too old to look so ashamed, but he is and quickly looks down at his knees. Partridge doesn’t want to have to send a message to each and every Gertie in the Dome one by one. No. Damn it. Now’s the time.
He opens his mouth again. If you rob them of their lie, they’ll self-destruct. He can’t keep the lie going. He has to be able to look himself in the mirror too.
“Thank you all for coming,” he says and glances at Hoppes, who looks pleasantly surprised. Hoppes wanted him to be more conversational, but Foresteed’s face darkens. He knows this break from the script isn’t good. These people like consistency, normalcy…
Partridge takes a deep breath and grips the podium. “Here’s the honest truth about my father. He was the mastermind behind the Detonations. He was a mass murderer.” Partridge can feel the air in the room tightening, going silent and still. “I’ve been outside of the Dome. I’ve met people who know the truth, including my own mother. My father killed her and my brother too. I was a witness.” This feels like the most important thing, suddenly. Giving witness. He sees a flash of his mother and Sedge, the explosion. He looks down at the podium and back up again at the sea of blanched faces, staring at him wide-eyed. He sees Iralene. Her eyes are shining with tears. She shakes her head just the tiniest bit, urging him to stop, but he can’t stop now. “The only reason you all needed saving was because he blew up the world as we knew it. My father saved you because he wanted to scorch the entire earth and start over.”
Foresteed has started pushing past Hoppes and Purdy up the aisle toward the back of the hall—maybe looking for the person in charge of the cameras.
Partridge speeds up. “Why start over alone? In addition to having the lower class of fused and broken wretches as servants, why not have a more or less handpicked population of like-minded sheep to herd into some new version of the planet that my father wanted to rule, solely? You were his sheep.” He shakes his head. “No—he was no shepherd. Not like that. You weren’t his sheep. You were his audience. We are all complicit. We let the Detonations happen. We have to be honest. How else can we move forward into the future if we can’t at least acknowledge the truth of the past?”
Iralene’s mother, Mimi, is out of her seat, marching toward the aisle, saying, “I can’t take this! I can’t take it!”
Iralene scrambles after her.
Others are standing up too, trying to leave, pulling others with them.
Partridge has lost Foresteed in the lights at the back of the hall, but he hears his voice now. “Cut the mic! Cut it!”
Many voices rise up, but Partridge keeps going. “We owe it to the survivors out there—the ones we call wretches—and we owe it to ourselves. We can do better. We can move into the New Eden with all of our losses. We can own up to them now. And we can feel the guilt at last. If we do, that’s how we can maybe—just maybe—be forgiven. I want each of you to know—” The mic cuts out. The spotlight dims. Partridge can see more of the audience now. Those still in their seats are stunned. Their faces are slack with shock, their eyes widened with fear. The boy who saluted him earlier is sitting next to his mother, who’s covered his ears with her hands.
It’s silent. The cameramen shift away from the cameras, now dead.
Partridge says, “I want each of you to know that I’m going to build a bridge between the Pures and the wretches—from inside the Dome and out. I’m going to make it right again so when we move to New Eden, we’re not—” Foresteed is rushing toward him. He would call the guards, but he has no control over them. They answer to Partridge alone. “We’re not tyrants and oppressors. We have to say the truth so that we can forgive ourselves and one another and hope to be forgiven by the ones we left out there. The ones we left to die.”
Foresteed is standing next to him now, breathless from running behind the scenes. He grabs Partridge’s arm and shoves him back a little. “It’s okay,” Partridge says calmly. “I’m done now.”
He steps down from the stage, loosens his tie, and marches down the middle aisle. The guards jog to catch up and flank him on either side. He passes the anteroom and pushes open the double doors.
But he’s not outside. He’s never outside.
For a second, he doesn’t know where he’s going, but of course he does. He wants to know if Lyda saw the broadcast. He wants to see the one person who’ll understand, who’ll know he did the right thing.
However his future unfolds, he’ll build it around her. That’s the next truth that has to go out to the people. He’ll force Hoppes’ hand. One truth at a time…until there’s just one truth left—that he killed his father. He’ll hold on to that one.
LYDA
ORIGAMI
The repairman is long limbed, wiry, and tall. Lyda imagines him outside the Dome—as a hunter, a scavenger. He might actually do well out there, but then he picks up the broken orb—her Christmas gift from Partridge—and she notices how soft and pale his hands are. He holds the orb so delicately that she knows he’s afraid—of her? He showed up so fast that her request must have gone through some special channel. Does he know that she’s Partridge’s…what? Lover? Mistress? What is she?
She knows the words people have used for pregnant, unmarried girls like her—ruined, disgraceful, pitiful… These girls had supposedly fallen in love, gotten caught. Lyda only heard the rumors. Certain girls disappeared from the academy, and if they came back, they wore shiny wigs, as their heads had been shaved, and they looked pale and frightened—like shrunken porcelain-doll versions of their former selves.
They’d been locked up at the rehabilitation center. Lyda remembers it well—her lonesome cell with its fake light, the rows of pills, the specialists with clipboards, including her own mother who worked there and could barely look at her because of her burning shame. What does her mother think of her now? She hasn’t come to visit though surely she knows Lyda’s here in this apartment that Partridge has set up for her, Partridge with his newfound power.
And Lyda has a strange power too, she realizes now, looking at the shaking hands of the repairman, but she doesn’t understand it. Maybe girls who are ruined, as she is, are known to be wild, to have broken from society in a way that can’t be fixed, and therefore the rules no longer apply to them. Is there some freedom in her ruination—even though she’s locked up here out of the public eye? Or is it simply her connection to Partridge that gives her power? She can’t read the repairman’s nervousness.
Lyda’s hair is growing back. She tucks just a small bit behind each ear. “Thanks for coming so quickly,” she says, testing him a little. “Do you respond to all complaints this fast?”
“These orbs are special!” he says holding it up. “Don’t get many calls for them. I actually worked on the prototype for these.” Boyd is his name. It’s printed on a tag pinned to his shirt. “My first job out of the academy.”
The orb is a small electronic device that allows Lyda to change the decor of the room—even the images that appear as views from the bank of windows—so that the apartment can suddenly feel like it exists in some version of Cairo, Paris, the Canary Islands, or the Swiss Alps, and on and on—all during the Before. “You know how this thing really works?” Lyda asks.
“Sure. Yeah. The corrections should be pretty simple.” He takes the orb to the small glass-top table in the dining room, pulling out a small set of tools. “Mind if I work on it here?”
“It’s fine by me,” she says. “Do you want something to drink?”
Boyd looks up at her quickly and then away. “No—no thank you. Nice of you to offer, but no thank you.” He sits quickly, blushing, and bows his head to the orb.
He’s so flustered that Lyda wonders if he thinks she’s flirting with him, trying to seduce him. Maybe others think of her not as pitiful so much as dangerous. She prefers that.
She gets he
rself a glass of water and sits across from him at the table. “Tell me how it works.”
“It’s really complicated. Maybe you should watch the broadcast of the memorial service. We were all watching it at work, but then I got this urgent call, so…”
“Urgent? I don’t know about that.”
“It’s the only reason I’m missing the broadcast, which is mandatory. It’s running live in every home right now. I think you’re supposed to—”
“I don’t have to do what I’m supposed to do anymore. That’s the upside of being a social outcast.”
He jerks his head, nodding quickly. “Still, we should probably have it on. They know, you know, what’s on and what’s not. I’d just feel more comfortable with it on. I mean…you know.”
Lyda gets up and walks to the television but doesn’t turn it on. She knows what she’ll see—Partridge living a lie. He’ll be with Iralene, maybe even holding her hand. On Christmas Eve, he promised her that it would end soon, that someone was in charge of handling this so that Lyda and Partridge can emerge, together. Only a few more days, he promised a few days ago, the last time he saw her—a week tops. With the room set on Cairo and a view of moonlit pyramids out the bedroom window, he confessed that he killed his father. He wouldn’t tell her details—only that he hadn’t wanted to, but he did it. She understands that kind of thing now, having lived among the mothers and coming to understand survival on the most basic level. But still, his confession made her feel a fissure deep inside of herself. It was right, yes. She doesn’t doubt that Partridge felt like he had to do it—for survival or to right the wrongs of the past or to make change inside of the Dome possible. But it was also wrong. Even if it was noble, there’s no way around this immutable fact. And it changes a person. Partridge is different now. She felt it before he confessed to the murder, but as soon as he did, she knew it was the reason for the change—a change that’s almost imperceptible. “And Lyda,” he said to her, “something good has to come of it all. It has to.” She knew that he meant he wanted to make this wrong thing the source of something right.