Resist

12 ALINA

A hard knock on the cabin door wakes me. I roll off the bunk and open it.

“Sleep well?” Maks says. He looks at my bare feet and allows his eyes to travel the length of my body. If anyone else did this, I’d throw a punch. But Maks is huge. And we’re guests.

“I slept fine.” I cross my arms over my chest, and stare right back at him.

He looks behind me at the others. “Vanya’s ordered breakfast. She wants you to join her. No need to bring the golden oldies. Can you remember the way to her suite?”

“Yes,” I say, even though everything about yesterday is a blur. Maks leaves, and I quickly shut the door to keep out the cold.

“What a meathead,” Silas says, sitting up in his bunk and stretching.

And soon everyone’s up. Dorian and Song spend a few minutes each on the oxyboxes while Silas and I lower the density of oxygen in our tanks.

“Why ain’t we wanted?” Maude complains. “You’re gonna get back ’ere and find us boiling in a pot. I hope you like the taste of bunions.”

“She probably doesn’t trust drifters,” I say. “She griped about it yesterday. But you’re with us, and we’ll let her know that. Don’t worry.” Maude cuts her eyes at me. Bea’s the one she trusted because Bea’s the one who saved her. But if she knew me, she’d know she can trust me, too, now we’re on the same side—I’d never betray a comrade.

We follow a pebbled path from the cabin to the back of the main house. A guard talks into a radio then waves us through, and once inside, we let Silas lead us along darkened hallways and up a flight of stairs until he stops and points. “I’m pretty sure it’s those doors,” he says, and is about to speak again when a muffled scream roots us to the spot.

The hairs rise on my arms. “What was that?” I say.

“Upstairs,” Song whispers.

“Shh, just listen.” I hope that what comes next is a laugh, or better yet, nothing at all. But another scream rings out—louder and longer.

“We have to see where it’s coming from,” Silas says.

“We can’t go snooping wherever we want,” Dorian says.

“You think we should ignore it?” Silas steps up to him.

I put a hand on each of their arms; we can’t come apart now. “It might be nothing,” I tell Silas. “But we should check just in case,” I say, turning to Dorian.

They both nod, and we all follow the scream up another set of stairs. At the top I gently try a few unyielding doorknobs until I find one that gives. Behind is a narrow staircase. “I’ll keep watch down here,” Dorian says.

At the top, we step into a tapering hallway, dark apart from a sliver of light at the end. We tiptoe toward it, and there’s another scream. When we reach the door, we pause.

“Do we want to know?” Song whispers. Of course I don’t want to know. I want Sequoia to be a haven. A home. But I grasp the handle and turn it slowly.

A guttural scream greets us. And a sweating girl sitting up in bed wearing a white gown. When she sees us, she pushes her hair from her eyes and leans forward, squinting as though she isn’t sure how real we are. She is wearing a facemask and breathes out short, sharp breaths. On the other side of the room, a man has his back to us. He didn’t hear us come in, and the girl doesn’t alert him. The room is clean and bright, empty apart from her bed and a counter top.

The girl rolls onto her side, grasps her stomach, and grunts.

“Count the time between the contractions,” the man says calmly, never turning around.

“Give me something for the pain,” she begs, and that’s when we take off. Without firmly shutting the door, we careen down the hallway and almost land in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

“Well?” Dorian says.

Silas examines the ground. He looks like he might faint. And the girl in labor screams again.

When we finally reach Vanya’s room, she looks at the clock on the mantelpiece. “We don’t encourage sleeping in,” she says, her voice husky. Maks is sitting in a pink armchair. He is looking only at me. I stand straight.

“We got lost,” Silas says.

“Well, you’re here now.” Vanya gestures toward a table piled with food, and we sit and eat. There isn’t the variety there was at The Grove—no fruit or bread—but there are plenty of synthetic dishes and a variety of cooked potatoes. I spoon a heap of what looks like singed twigs and bark into my mouth. It’s salty with plenty of crunch.

Vanya smiles. “You like? That’s something we’re particularly proud of,” she says.

“Protein,” Maks adds.

“We found a few scurrying around in the kitchen and now we have thousands and thousands,” Vanya says. “We farm them in a cabin near to yours . . . cockroaches.” I cough and almost choke. I have never eaten a living creature before. I should be disgusted, but I can’t help rolling the bug around in my mouth in amazement, and trying to conjure up an image of what the creature would look like alive. Does it have eight legs? Wings?

“They survived?” Song says. He picks up a cockroach between his fingers and chews on it.

“We survived,” Vanya says. She is at the head of the table and Maks is at the opposite end, next to me. His foot presses against mine, and my muscles tighten. “Was the cabin comfortable?” Vanya asks. We nod. “And when you got lost, I presume you got to see a few things.”

“Not much,” Silas says. “But I hope we can help here, or at the very least learn to fit in.”

“I think you’ll be a wonderful addition,” Vanya says, and touches Silas’s face. When she sits back, she puts a finger into her mouth like she can taste him.

Silas’s neck flushes, but he doesn’t object to Vanya’s flirting, just like he never objected to Petra’s temper and violence. At The Grove, we all learned how to defer to a leader.

“Why do you need that?” Vanya asks, pointing at my airtank. Now I’m the one whose face burns. Even though it isn’t my fault, I’m ashamed for needing so much air. I look into my plate. “Silas and I lived in the pod and smuggled out plant clippings. They still pump at thirty-five percent, so we need a bit longer to adjust,” I say.

Vanya sips a glass of water and eyes me mistrustfully. But I’m eyeing her, too. Where are the trees? And why has no one mentioned there’s a girl here giving birth as we speak? Isn’t it something to celebrate? I have a horrible feeling there’s more to Sequoia than Vanya wants us to know. “And what percentage are you at now?” she asks.

“Twelve,” Silas says.

I look at my gauge, which is at fourteen percent. “Twelve,” I say.

Vanya tuts. “Reduce it to ten. If you feel dizzy, use the oxyboxes. You’ve seen them?”

“How do they work?” Song asks.

“We didn’t have them at The Grove, you see,” Dorian adds.

“I’m fully aware of what you had and didn’t have at The Grove,” Vanya says, and sits back in her chair. “Don’t pretend you don’t recognize me, Dorian, because I recognize you. You were infatuated with Petra back then—thought she was some kind of deity. And all she was doing was making love to trees. Pathetic.”

Anger burns in me. Growing trees wasn’t some hobby; it was the key to freedom—to survival. I am about to tell Vanya as much, when I sense Silas’s eyes on me. He shakes his head so slightly you’d have to be watching for a sign to even notice. I keep my mouth shut.

Dorian sets down his knife and fork and wipes his hands on his pants. “We thought you died, Vanya,” he says.

“Do I look dead?” she purrs.

“No.”

“So, tell me, was Petra still prohibiting relationships?” Silas nods. “What a drag!” Vanya raises her glass in the air and laughs. “How will the human race endure if we do that?” She is chuckling, her mouth a wide grin, but there’s something quite serious in her tone.

“Why did you leave us?” Song asks.

“It’s complicated. Families always are,” she says. “And I’d tell you everything except I have no guarantee you’re not here as spies. There’s a chance The Grove is still standing and my sister has sent you here to steal my people. Or maybe you’re here to kill me.”

If only, I think.

Silas lowers his head. “I assure you, The Grove is gone,” he says slowly.

“Well, I’d like to check. Can you do that for me, Maks?”

Maks pours himself a drink and waves it at us, almost spilling it. “And what will we do with them in the meantime?”

Vanya rubs her temples as though overcome by tiredness. “Start by giving them iron, immunity pills, and a boost of rockets.”

“Rockets?” Song asks.

“Oh, Petra would never have approved. Rockets will increase the number of red blood cells and reduce your need for so much oxygen,” Vanya explains.

“EPOs,” Song says.

Silas glances at me for less than a second, but it is long enough for Maks to notice. “They aren’t optional,” he says.

Vanya stands up and steps away from the table. “Okay, take them to the clinic for testing,” she says, her back to us.

“What are the tests for?” Silas asks.

“Membership tests,” Maks says. He grins, but it is shallow. He stands up. “Ready?” he asks.

We aren’t, but it isn’t a question.

13 BEA

Three pebbles, a bottle cap, a metal badge, and a hair clip. Each makes a hollow clink as I drop it back into the fountain. Six things, but I’m sure we’ve been here longer than six days. Did I forget to count off a day? Did I sleep through a couple?

All Jazz wants to do is doze, and she’s stopped eating.

I return to her side, where I kneel and touch her forehead. She’s burning up worse than ever, and I’ve no way to keep her temperature down apart from pressing cold clothes against her skin. I can’t bear to examine her leg. Last time I checked it was swelling. If the infection gets into her bloodstream, there’ll be nothing I can do. How long does that take to happen? A week? Longer? Or has it already happened?

Her lips part. “Is Quinn back?” she asks.

I stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers and keep my voice sunny. “Quinn’s always late, but he’ll be here. You concentrate on resting.” She stares up at me and twists her mouth—she’s a child, not a fool. “Can I do anything for you?” I ask.

“Some of that medicine,” she says, and points to the bottle of alcohol I’ve been using to sedate her.

“I have this,” I say, and break off a piece of a nutrition bar, which I try to press between her lips. She shakes her head, so I reach for the bottle. She takes a mouthful and grimaces. It doesn’t taste nice, but it’s keeping her calm.

I look across at the fountain. If I missed a few days, maybe we’ll be rescued soon.

Please God or Earth, or whatever else is out there, let us be rescued soon.

Please.

14 QUINN

After sleeping for a few restless hours, we get up with the dawn and head for Sequoia. Jo and I row one boat while Abel rows the other. We’re fighting against the current and the wind and after only an hour my arms burn like hell, not to mention the hand I cut on the stack of cars yesterday. My pants are soaked from the rain and slosh of river water coming into the boat, and I’m barely resisting the temptation to ask how much farther we have to go, when Abel calls out, “Over there!” He points to a dock and Jo waves to show she’s heard.

Abel ties up his own boat then pulls us in. Jo steps ashore first and arches her back and groans. “I’m so sore,” she says.

“Thought I was the only one flagging,” I say, climbing out of the boat.

“The wind’s too strong. It’ll be easier to walk,” Abel says.

The city is shrinking and fewer of the buildings here have been bombed by the Ministry’s rampage over the past few weeks.

“I remember where we are,” Jo says. Her face clearly betrays the fact that we’re nowhere near Sequoia, and I’m no closer to getting help for Jazz and Bea.

Abel jumps back into his boat and throws his supplies onto the dock.

“Why are you both so far from home?” It’s the first thing I’ve asked, and considering the questions whirring in my head, it’s a pretty timid one.

“I was on a mission,” Abel admits matter-of-factly. “A spy. Didn’t turn out quite as planned.”

“You were spying on the pod?” I ask.

“The Resistance, but I was in the pod. I was hoping to get into The Grove, but got caught and almost beaten to death by the Ministry.” He touches his bruised face and glances at the tattoo on my earlobe without changing his expression. “If it hadn’t been for the rioting I probably would’ve died. The place was chaos, so some big shot threw me out a back door expecting I’d suffocate.” He looks at Jo, and she smiles. It feels good to know that at least one person benefitted from the rioting, and I have an urge to tell him I was responsible. But too many other people died because of what I did, so I keep quiet.

“I ran away from Sequoia,” Jo says without being asked. “I was looking for The Grove and so was Abel once he got out. We met there. In the ruins. I’d heard about what Petra was trying to do. I’m sorry she’s gone.” I don’t tell her that Petra was a mad bitch.

“So Sequoia’s the next best thing,” I say.

“It’s a thing,” Jo says, her voice flat.

Abel steps onto the dock again, opens a compartment in his backpack, and takes out a protein bar that he breaks into pieces and shares with us.

“Did you leave because of . . .” I point at her stomach. She looks down at herself.

“Sort of.”

“Shall we go?” Abel says.

We move along the dock, up a short road, and find ourselves surrounded by hundreds of rusting cars positioned in perfect rows and columns. We weave our way through until we come out onto another, wider road, clear but for the odd fallen lamppost or overturned truck. Abel picks up his speed. Jo and I follow slowly.

“Is Abel the baby’s father?” I ask, when I’m sure he can’t hear.

“Abel? No.” She inhales deeply. “The father’s in Sequoia. He’s kind of vile.”

“A lot of dads are,” I say.

Jo comes to an abrupt halt and seizes my arm. “It isn’t a joke. If you cross Maks, he’ll kill you.”

She releases me and walks on, linking arms with Abel. I watch, feeling a bit jealous that they have each other.

I miss Bea.

15 RONAN

The road is slush, strewn with cement blocks, sheets of broken glass, and misshapen metal poles. I would take pictures to use in a piece, but it isn’t exactly the time or place to be worrying about art.

When Jude drove off, I took a moment to enjoy the solitude. I’ve never been alone before. Not truly. And I liked it: the feeling of space and freedom and sky. In the pod you’re never far from other people—a breath away. But those feelings are already wearing thin, and it’s only been a day. The reality is that The Outlands isn’t a haven for peace—it’s a graveyard. There’s nothing but human bones and the remnants of death everywhere: rotting mattresses, chipped teapots, dried-up pens, and shriveled tree stumps.

The idea of hiding out here forever is foolish. How would I breathe once my airtanks ran out? What would I eat? Who would I talk to? I’d go mad or be dead within a couple of months.

So I’m searching for Quinn because the only option left is to take Jude up on his offer—find his son and become an auxiliary.

It’ll be better than death.

It has to be better than death.

Doesn’t it?

16 ALINA

The nurse I’ve been sent to see is so tall and thin she looks like she’s been stretched. Even her nose is unusually long. She hands me a cup of water and three tablets: one white cylinder and two tiny red eggs. “Take these,” she orders.

“What are they?”

“Mandatory, that’s what they are,” she says.

I swig some water, pretending to swallow the tablets but hiding them under my tongue, and as the nurse turns, I spit them into my hand and stuff them into my pocket.

“Up here,” she says. I climb onto a table and lie down. She ties a rubber band around my arm and hands me a ball. “Squeeze this.” She taps the inside of my elbow a few times, and before I can react to what’s happening, sticks me with a needle. I jump but bite away the urge to squawk. “Stop wriggling,” she snaps as she unties the rubber band and fills a vial with blood.

Once she’s got five vials, she spins around, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the floor, and stores my blood in a rack in the fridge. Then she reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a tiny bottle of clear liquid.

“Time for your rocket.” She shakes the bottle, presses a syringe into the lid, and lifts the needle to the light, tapping it a few times with her finger. She studies a droplet of clear liquid rolling into the tip. We’ve been told this shot contains EPO, which will increase our number of red blood cells and drive down our need for oxygen. That’s the opposite effect from the vaccinations we were required to take in the pod, but I don’t care. I don’t want to be injected with anything. Not here. Not anywhere.

I consider resisting, and the nurse, sensing it, looks at me over the rim of her spectacles. “Problem?” She dabs my arm with alcohol. I close my eyes, and she jabs me with the needle.

I think we’re finished, and lift myself onto my elbows, but I’m wrong. The nurse smiles and tosses me a rough blanket. “Take off your pants and underwear and put this over your lap. I’ll be back in a minute.” She closes the door and is gone. I look down at the blanket and then at a string of unfamiliar metal implements lying on the counter. I stand up and pace the tiny lab.

The idea of someone examining me down below is humiliating in more ways than one. Not only am I terrified to let the nurse look at me and insert things into me or scratch things away, but my hair smells like someone’s been sick into it, and when I took off my boots last night, my feet stank—I can’t even imagine what the rest of me smells like.

I’m not a crier, but for the first time in a very long time, my eyes prickle. I rub at them roughly and when this doesn’t work, I slap myself sharply across the face. It stings, which is what I need. “Get a grip, Alina,” I say aloud.

I kick my boots into the corner of the room and stare down at my baggy, damp socks, which I leave on, climbing out of my pants and underwear and throwing them next to the boots. As the door opens, I jump up onto the table, covering my legs with the blanket.

The nurse quickly grabs a facemask from the counter, which she slips over her mouth and nose. It isn’t attached to any airtank; it’s to protect me from germs, though she’s probably wearing it to protect herself.

She sits on a stool and releases a set of stirrups hidden in the table up and out. “Put your feet in these and lie on your back.”

“What’s this for?” I ask. “I mean, the blood sample will tell you everything you need to know. I’m not carrying a disease if that’s what you think. I lived in the pod, you know. We have regular health checks there. I’m clean.”

The nurse grimaces. “I’d hardly say you’re clean. Lie down.”

I stay sitting. “What’s it for?”

She tuts. “Shall I get Vanya to come in and explain? Maks?”

I shake my head. What if they decided to stay and watch over the exam? No.

I lie back. “Shift your butt to the end of the table,” the nurse says, jabbing something against my tummy, rolling it back and forth while she stares at a screen. She lifts the blanket and yanks my knees apart. “You’re going to feel some pressure,” she says, but it isn’t pressure—it’s pain, like I’m been sliced open. I clutch the sides of the table and hum. You’re okay, I tell myself. This is not going to kill you.

After a few moments, she switches off the screen, pulls the blanket over my legs, and lowers the stirrups. “Get up now.”

I stagger as I stand, using the blanket like a kind of skirt, and lean against the counter, my head between my arms. It’s a peculiar feeling, this weakness, and I don’t like it.

“When did your cycle begin?” She unpeels the rubber gloves from her hands and tosses them in the trash can. I’m tempted to lie, because it’s none of her damn business, but I don’t know what these tests are for, or what the consequences of the results will be. So I tell the truth. “Nine days ago,” I say.

She nods. “And how many days did it last?”

“Six,” I say.

She records the dates on an ancient-looking pad and opens the door. “Go to Room 28. Down the hall, take your first left, and it’s the fourth door on the right.” She yawns, revealing a mouth of missing teeth. “Do you want a napkin for the blood?”

“Get lost,” I say, slamming the lab door, and hurtling down the hall and away.

As I turn left, I almost collide with Maks. He towers over me, his arms crossed over his chest to accentuate the size of his biceps. “Done with your medical?”

My face reddens. “Yes.”

He presses his lips together into a taut smile and tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. I flinch, then hate myself for being so easily discomforted by him.

“Well, that’s the worst test over with. Well done for making it through.” I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic. He rubs my chin, smiles, and marches away. From behind I can see he has a pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers, and I don’t like it.

We have surrendered our weapons.

I peer through the round window of Room 28. Silas, Dorian, and Song are sitting at desks. I slink inside and they all turn around. “What are we doing in here?” I ask.

“A written exam of some kind,” Silas says.

“Well, it’s better than getting another medical,” Dorian says impassively.

“I’m nervous we’re being recorded,” Silas says.

Song rises and examines the walls, baseboards, and each desk. “Hard to tell,” he says.

“You okay?” Silas asks.

I wring my hands. “I’m fine.”

“Did you do everything they asked?” Silas says.

“Yes. Except swallow the tablets.” I pat my pocket and stare at the floor. “Anyway, what happened to you?”

Silas, Dorian, and Song look at one another. “I don’t know what they do here, but it isn’t what we were doing at The Grove,” Silas says. Song is still checking under each chair and fiddles with the electrical sockets and oxybox. “They wanted samples,” Silas continues. My mouth drops open. He doesn’t have to say any more. After the physical exam I was given, it wouldn’t take a genius to guess what kinds of samples he means.

“How could we do it?” Song says. “Not on demand.”

“I did it,” Dorian admits, unabashed.

“What?” Silas says.

“We said we’d cooperate, so I was cooperating.” He scratches his nose.

“Cooperating?” Silas clenches his jaw, working hard to control his temper. He roughly scratches his head.

“Where are we meant to go if we get chucked out? Petra threw everyone in a cell for a few weeks. Is this that much different?” he says.

“The nurse gave me a pretty thorough exam,” I murmur. I can’t look at any of the boys.

Silas groans. “Oh, Alina,” he says.

“It must be for some sort of genetic testing,” I say.

Song shakes his head. “You can work out genetics using blood samples, and they’ve got plenty of those.”

“Then what is it they want?” I ask.

Song inhales deeply through his nose. “I think”—he pauses—“I think they’re checking to see how fertile we are.”

17 BEA

After going back up to the pharmacy and rummaging on the floor for almost an hour, I find some ancient painkillers, and although I have no idea whether or not they’re working, I shovel them into Jazz every six hours. Even in her sleep, she moans softly.

“Am I going to die?” she mewls, waking at last.

“Of course you aren’t, silly,” I say, which is probably a lie. Even if Quinn finds his way to Sequoia, he has to get back here and by then it’ll have been weeks since Jazz’s fall.

And what scares me most is that as each day passes, my hope wanes a little more, when hope is the only thing I have to hold on to.

There was nothing I could do for my parents just as there’s nothing I can do for Jazz. I try not to remember their bodies lying limp on the makeshift platform, blood blooming beneath them while the crowd stormed the stage. All I could do was watch on Old Watson’s screen, so far away from where I was needed. At least I’m here for Jazz. And I have to be strong for her and wait until the worst happens . . . or a miracle.

I cradle Jazz’s head in my lap and hum a doleful tune; I can’t remember any happy ones. It’s to calm her, but it’s for me, too, because if I don’t hum, I’ll cry, and Jazz shouldn’t have to see that.

“Are you sleepy?” she asks, peering up at me. I pull her head tight into my body—all the pain she’s in and she’s worried about me. “I’ll be quiet so you can rest,” she says, and clenches her jaw.

“I don’t need to sleep,” I tell her, one hand stroking her freckly face, the other hand clutching the knife. But my eyes sting from fatigue. My shoulders droop. My head feels so heavy. “Maybe I’ll try to get a few minutes,” I say.

“Bea!” Jazz’s urgent whisper wakes me from a murky dream, which I forget as soon as I open my eyes.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I tried to move. I shouldn’t have. It still hurts.” She is sitting up and shivering. Her little hands are frozen.

“It’s okay. Relax now,” I tell her. I fumble for the pills. I was foolish to spend my life studying politics and philosophy, thinking that was the way to a better life, when I should have been learning how to survive in the real world. If only Alina were here. She’d know what to do, and Jazz might have a fighting chance.

Jazz nudges me and squeals. A yellow discharge is seeping from her wound. I bend down to get a better look. “No, Bea! Look!” I follow the line of her finger down her leg to her feet, across the tiled floor of the station to the other end, where a pair of boots appears.

A boy.

I rub my eyes in case I’m still in a dream. Then I grab the knife and jump up, slicing the air with it.

How much more am I meant to endure? When am I allowed to surrender? If it weren’t for Jazz, I might drop the knife and do just that. As it is, I swing the knife again. “Get out of here.”

“Let’s talk,” the boy says. “All I want to do is talk to you.” Calmly, he unburdens himself of his backpack and holds his hands in the air. One hand is holding a gun.

Jazz screams in terror.

And so do I.

18 ALINA

As soon as we’re done with the tests and back in the cabin, Maude hitches up her skirts. Her knees are bleeding and her hands are caked in mud. “What’s your answer to this, smarty pants?”

“What happened?” I ask.

“What do you mean, what happened? Where were you all day?” Maude kicks me in the shin, and Bruce pulls her away before I retaliate. I don’t want to fight anyway; I have a raging headache.

“It ain’t her fault, Maddie,” Bruce says. Maude removes her boots, hurling them at the wall and barely missing Silas.

“Didn’t they test you?” Silas asks, rubbing his temples. We’ve spent the last four hours cooped up in that dingy room answering math, science, and logic questions as well as filling in surveys about our skills and hobbies. None of us are feeling very peppy.

Bruce sits on his bunk and rubs his dirty, bare feet. “Just after yous lot left, we was given gardening gloves and told to dig,” he says.

“No medical testing?” Dorian asks.

“Of course not. Not if I’m right about what they want to know,” Song says. I want him to be wrong about the fertility screening, but none of us can think of another explanation for the intimate medical exams.

“What do they wanna know? What’s going on?” Maude squawks. “I don’t wanna be no servant. The drifter life ain’t easy, but at least we was free.”

Maks throws open the door to the cabin without knocking. With the light at his back, only his bulky silhouette is clear. “Dinner,” he says, stepping inside.

“They’re exhausted,” I say, indicating Maude and Bruce. “Why were they put to work? They should be meditating and training to breathe on lower levels of oxygen. Are you trying to kill them?”

Maks narrows his eyes. “If we wanted to kill them, we’d have them digging their own graves, not vegetable patches.” Silas tugs on my sweater, warning me not to answer back because that’s exactly what I’m about to do. Maks nods triumphantly and leaves.

“We should think about finding somewhere else to live,” Silas says.

“You think she’ll just let us walk out the way we came in? Petra wouldn’t have.”

Song takes a lungful of air from the oxybox. “And it’s pretty well fortified here. They’ve used the old rubble and brick to build new structures. It’s solid.” He raps his knuckles against the wall of the cabin to demonstrate how sturdy it is.

“You know what’s weird?” Bruce says. “No forest. We walked all round this compound today, probably five acres, and nothing.”

“Not a single tree?” I ask. It doesn’t make sense. “You probably missed them.”

“Really? Oak trees and alders and whatnot? Yeah, cuz they’re a cinch to hide,” Maude says.

“Maybe they know trees will lead the Ministry here,” Dorian says, buttoning up his jacket.

“Then where’s the air coming from?” Song asks.

“Greenhouse,” Maude says. “Big thing behind the annex. Some little trees in there, all right. Apples and pears and the like. But they got veggies mostly. And tomato vines.”

“That won’t be enough to make a difference,” I say. The whole point in raging against the Ministry is to restore the earth to what it had been. Trees are a symbol of that, and also the only plants big enough to set people free. It might take us a millennium, but we have to start somewhere.

“I suggest we go to dinner and discuss this later,” Dorian says. “They’ll be waiting.”

We all nod in agreement. It’s best not to raise any suspicion just yet.

The red brick annex is newly built using old materials. We file in along with everyone else and choose seats around a long table as far from the stage at the front as possible. The tables are empty apart from cups and water jugs, but as we sit down, servers appear from swinging doors holding platters of food over their heads. No one joins us at first. They file into the hall in pairs and seem to take their places in predetermined seats. I’m about to stand up in case we’re sitting where we shouldn’t when a young man with long, curly hair sits next to me, and some girls join him.

“You found the loners’ table then,” the man says, and laughs. “I’m Terry.” He holds out his hand. “You can take off the masks. They pump a little air in here so we can eat comfortably.”

“Alina.” I pull off my mask and take his hand.

Opposite sits a girl with thin eyebrows and icy blue eyes who introduces herself as Wren. A black scarf is tightly wound around her head, covering up her hair. “We’ve never had a whole group join us before. Always individuals. The rumor is The Grove’s been destroyed. Is that true? You think others will follow you here?” she asks.

Maude reaches across the table and snatches a hunk of cake from a platter. Terry politely fills everyone’s cup with water.

“I doubt it,” Silas says. “They’re all dead.”

“Oh,” Wren says, emptying her cup in one long gulp and reaching forward so Terry can refill it. “The Ministry wants us all dead, don’t they? As I see it, our best bet is to finish them off first.” Wren holds my gaze for a moment. Terry and the others at the table nod, and I do, too. If there were a way to get rid of the Ministry, I’d love to hear about it.

The dining hall falls to a hush, and as Vanya and Maks enter, everyone stands. Vanya takes her place at the center of a table on the stage and Maks sits by her side. He catches my eye across the room and winks. I pretend I haven’t seen and focus on Vanya. “Here’s to life!” she shouts. Everyone cheers as the remaining platters are distributed.

“We have to give thanks,” Song says. He hasn’t touched anything on his plate. Instead he’s looking around, slightly horrified, as everyone tucks into the food on the platters.

“Just eat,” Silas says.

“I’m not going twice in one day without giving thanks . . . or remembering,” Song says.

“What’s he mean?” Wren asks, giving me a prime view of the food she’s chewing.

He means we have to remember where our food came from, but I don’t think that’s what’s really worrying him. “We haven’t forgotten Holly, you know.” I place a hand on his arm and rub it gently. No one did this for me when Abel disappeared, and I wish they had; just a pat to tell me I wasn’t alone.

“Song’s right,” Silas adds, softening. “We should keep our traditions alive.”

“We thank the earth,” Song says. I put down my knife and fork and Silas and Dorian do the same. Maude and Bruce are oblivious. Terry and Wren watch silently. “We thank the water. We thank the plants and trees—the roots, leaves, fruits, and flowers. We give thanks to one another. We give thanks to the spirits of all those who have died. We offer our devotion in the earth’s name. We salute you.” I hold my palms together in front of my heart and bow my head.

“So it is,” we say.

“Is that voodoo or something?” Wren laughs.

“We acknowledge that nature has more power than we do,” Dorian explains.

Terry wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “But it’s humanity at the center,” he says. “Well, not humanity. Us. You.”

“Do you know your pairings yet?” Wren asks. She licks her lips.

“Pairings?” I ask. I almost don’t want to know.

“Wren!” Terry snaps, and as he does, a commotion at the top table has Vanya waving and shouting. “Troopers to the gates!” No one moves.

Maks leaps from the stage. “Troopers!” he bellows. “Weapons!” He dashes past our table and slams through the doors. Around fifty others scramble to their feet and gallop after him.

“What’s happening?” Silas asks, jumping up.

“We must have more visitors,” Terry says.

19 RONAN

I take slow steps through the station toward the girl wielding the knife and the hissing child, and try to examine their faces in the waning light.

I recognize Bea Whitcraft right away, even with her mask on. I don’t know her personally, but I’ve seen her picture, and the word WANTED, flash up on the screen about a hundred times a day since the press conference.

They didn’t show any video footage, of course. I had to ask the press secretary to send me that as a favor. I had to know how it happened, and what I saw was my father shoot Bea’s parents in cold blood. So now they’re saying she’s a terrorist, though she looks more like a drifter.

On the floor are empty bottles and bloodstained rags.

“Can I help you?”

Bea swings the knife. “What do you want?”

“Who cares? Stab him,” the child mutters. Her pallor is frightening, and she doesn’t seem able to move from the floor. One leg of her pants is torn open, and blood has dried on the tiles around her. She’s crying, and there are tear tracks down Bea’s face, too.

“I won’t hurt you,” I tell them. “I heard noises, that’s all. I came to look.” Niamh complained about what she called Quinn’s stupid attachment to Bea, which could mean that if I’ve found her, he’s close by.

I stash the gun in my pocket and inch closer. Bea winces at each step, and when I’m near enough to touch her, she stiffens. “Get back,” she says. She holds the knife inches from my face. Her eyes are wide with fear, exhaustion, or madness—maybe all three.

“The girl is very sick,” I say. Gently, I push Bea’s hand and the knife away from my face. But she swings it back toward me and presses the tip so hard against my neck, she nicks the skin. I’m not expecting it and jump back, wiping the blood. She holds her arm out farther and straighter. “I told you to stay away,” she says.

I could easily wrench the knife from her, but if there’s a chance she knows where Quinn is, I have to gain her trust. So instead, I step way back and pull a flashlight from my backpack, which I shine at the child’s leg. It’s red and swollen, the skin taut, and a long gash is yellow. My stomach lurches. Bea looks at me steadily.

“How long has she been like this?”

“I don’t know. A week?” she says, her chin trembling. The child hasn’t long left, not without real medical attention.

“I see,” I say. I consider lying, but I have no reason to. “I can get her help. I’m Ronan Knavery.”

She looks at my earlobe, then holds the knife up again. Her expression is hard. “Your father killed my parents,” she spits. I can’t deny this because I watched it again and again on the video footage, so I nod. But if she hates me just because of what my father did, there’s no knowing how she’d react if she knew I was personally responsible for so much destruction at The Grove. The number of people and trees I cut down doesn’t bear thinking about.

We watch each other, neither of us speaking, until she sniffs. “You look like your father,” she says. People have told me this before, as a compliment, but she’s insulting me. She clenches her jaw.

“I know,” I say. “But I’m not him. And I’m really sorry for what happened to you.” I speak quietly, gently, hoping she’ll trust the sincerity in my tone.

“So I suppose you’re here to bring me back and see me hanged.”

“No. I’m looking for someone else.”

Her features give nothing away. “We’re all that’s left.”

I hold my breath. “From what?” I ask, when I know what she’s going to say.

“From The Grove. A safe place that your father razed to the ground.”

When we left The Grove, it was collapsing, but I’m sure I saw survivors fleeing. Did I imagine it to make myself feel better? Did we kill them all? The people and the trees?

And Quinn? Where is he?

Bea is studying me.

“Actually, Quinn’s father was in charge of that mission,” I say, watching for a reaction.

“Quinn?” the child murmurs through semiconsciousness, and Bea quickly hushes her.

So the child knows him, which could mean he’s been here. And maybe he’ll be back, although I can’t be sure Jazz didn’t meet him at The Grove when the Resistance supposedly captured them.

I root in my backpack and pull out a strip of penicillin, pressing one through the foil and holding out my hand. “Antibiotics.” She looks at the pill in my palm, suspicious. “If I wanted to hurt her, I’d have used the gun,” I say. “Now put away the knife . . . Please.”

Still holding the knife, Bea reaches out with her other hand for the pill. I consider wrestling the knife off her. I don’t. I drop the pill into the pit of her palm and step away. She eases the girl into a sitting position and presses it between the child’s lips, forcing her to sip some water from a flask. The child manages to take the pill before her eyes roll back in her head—she can’t fight her fatigue.

We were warned about terrorists in training, and back then my mind filled with images of stocky, square-jawed youths wielding guns and throwing grenades. I didn’t picture anything as pitiable as this: a child being eased into death by a hollow-cheeked girl fighting for her own breath on a dirty, solar-powered respirator.

“I can radio the pod,” I say. I doubt Jude would help, but she’s a child, and I should try. It’s the least I can do after what I did to her home. Were her parents at The Grove? Were they killed?

“Touch any kind of radio and I’ll cut you,” Bea says.

I hold my hands in the air. “I understand,” I say.

She erupts, jumping up and pushing me. “How dare you? You don’t understand a thing!”

I stare at her and lean away. “My father died in the riots, too,” I say.

“It’s not the same thing. My parents were good. Your father was . . . he was . . .”

“He was an asshole,” I say, and she blinks. I pause. I don’t want to say something untrue. “But I wish I loved him more.”

Her eyes well with tears. “When people leave, you always wish you’d loved them more.” She wipes her eyes and sniffs. And then she is sobbing and pressing her face against her arm to stifle the noise.

I’ve never been able to cry like this. My mother spent long days in bed, coughing and moaning, until one morning she was gone and the noise was replaced by silence. I cried only once—quietly and alone in my room. Why didn’t I honor her by mourning?

I delve back into my pack and pull out the radio. Bea looks up. “No,” she says, starting toward me again.

“If she doesn’t get to a hospital, you’ll be digging a grave.”

“They’ll kill her.”

“She’s dying anyway.”

Bea chews on her lips.

I stand up and walk away.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“She could wake up and cry out while I’m making contact. I want them to think I’ve found the person I’m meant to be hunting.”

Bea doesn’t argue or ask any questions. “Her name is Jazz,” she says.

The rumble of the buggy’s engine can be heard when it’s still miles away. Bea pries each finger on Jazz’s hand from its grip on her arm. “You’ll be okay,” she says, almost like she believes it. She kisses Jazz lightly on the forehead, and stands up to gather her things. “What will you tell them?” she asks me.

“I found her alone and scared.” Jazz nods to show she’ll corroborate the lie. “Now find somewhere to hide and only come out when you hear the buggy leave,” I say.

Bea turns to Jazz. “You’re not as much of a brat as I thought you’d be,” she tells her, and laughs.

“Bye,” Jazz says. She chokes back her tears. And Bea doesn’t let herself cry either. She nods and moves away.

I watch her leave, then take Jazz out to the roadside where we sit shivering under the winking stars and sliver of a sickle moon. Her wounded leg is so bloated, I doubt they’ll be able to save it. Hopefully they’ll save her.

“Can you imagine what it must have been like to live out here before The Switch? So much space.” I am talking to myself more than to Jazz, who shuts her eyes. I hold her tighter. “People used to travel across the whole world. No one stayed in his own country. Now even Outlanders don’t get very far. We’re all trapped. Trapped in the pod or on this big island. Is there a difference?” Jazz reaches out, takes my thumb in her cold hand, and closes her eyes as the buggy trundles out of the shadows, its bright lights, like giant eyes, blinding.

I stand holding Jazz in my arms. The buggy slows and stops. Jude steps out and stands in front of the vehicle.

“Who’s that? And where’s Quinn?” Jude growls. He is wearing loose-fitting trousers and an old sweater rather than his uniform and looks like a very ordinary man. A dad.

“I haven’t seen him.” He wouldn’t have thought a RAT was worth the journey, so I lied when I radioed in: I told him I’d found Quinn.

“Then why the hell . . .” He stops, steps forward, and peers at Jazz. He sweeps her hair away from her face. “What am I meant to do with her?”

“She needs a doctor.”

“This wasn’t part of the deal.” He wheels around.

“I’m close to finding Quinn. And I want to take you up on your offer. I’ll become an auxiliary if it means I don’t have to kill any more innocent people.”

Jude turns. “They weren’t all innocent,” he says, looking at Jazz, who he almost killed. “And anyway, why should I believe you?”

“I only lied about Quinn to help her. And I doubt I’ll find anyone else who needs saving,” I say, thinking of Bea.

He opens his arms. “Hand her over,” he says coolly, and without flinching, studies her leg.

“Is Niamh okay?” I ask.

“She’s still angry. Your sister has a good deal of your father in her,” he says. “You, though . . . you didn’t catch it.”

“Nope, and Quinn didn’t catch much of you either,” I say, in case he thinks that this spell of conscience and unexpected concern for his own son makes him some sort of hero. Jude stares, and Jazz squirms.

I step out of the glare of the headlights and into the shadows. “The drifters are vicious. Watch out for them,” Jude says on his way back to the buggy.

Carefully, he places Jazz in the rear seat and climbs behind the wheel. He reverses roughly over the rubble, and is off.

I return to the station. “Bea!” I call out. Within minutes she appears. She’s shivering. My heart lightens. I was worried she would have run off, and I don’t think I want to be alone out here.

“Do you think she’ll live?” she asks.

“She has a chance,” I say.

The top buttons of her coat and shirt are open, exposing pointy collarbones and pale skin. I go to her, and she holds out her hand. “Thank you,” she says. I take her hand and shake it, and finally one corner of her mouth curls into a faint smile.

“I am glad you found us,” she says.

“Me, too,” I say.

20 ALINA

Vanya orders us to finish eating our dinners—the troopers have everything under control. “But what if it’s the Ministry? They nuked The Grove. They could do the same here,” I say. Is it possible that the chatter in the room is masking the sound of zips and tank treads?

“I’m sure it’s nothing Maks can’t handle,” Terry says. He takes a spoonful of white powder from a bowl and sprinkles it over his steaming dessert, then pushes the platter toward my plate, but I’m too nervous to eat. Is nowhere safe? I’m exhausted, and I don’t want to run anymore; I want to stay in Sequoia and have it be home. Is that too much to ask?

I rub my face vigorously, to wake myself from pointless daydreaming, when the room stirs. Vanya stands and Terry climbs up onto the bench to get a better look. Then he hoots and dashes toward a growing crowd.

All at once, the hall is a volcano of cheers.

“Can’t I eat my grub in peace?” Maude complains, disinterestedly chomping.

“Come up on stage!” Vanya calls. The crowd edges forward and the first person to appear on the platform is Maks. He’s holding his pistol in one hand, a balaclava in the other. Vanya puts her hand to his chest.

A girl climbs up onto the stage after him, and when she turns to the side, it’s clear she’s at least six months pregnant. Yet she’s no older than fifteen. Her hair is lank and her clothes torn. She is still wearing a facemask, which Vanya rips off and throws aside.

“Jo!” someone at our table shouts.

“Welcome back!” Vanya says, and everyone claps. “And someone new. Welcome to you also.” Another figure, taller, mounts the stage. But it can’t be. I glance at Silas who, without even looking at me, nods. “Who are you?” Vanya asks.

“Quinn,” he says aloud. Everything around me goes fuzzy. Why is he here? And where’s Bea?

“And one more,” Vanya says, pulling the last visitor onto the stage. Is it Bea? I close my eyes. I can’t look.

I reach for the table as the room erupts in a round of riotous cheering.

“Open your damn eyes,” Silas says, shaking me. “He’s alive.” And when I see what he sees, I gasp.

Bea is missing, but Abel stands on stage. Abel is alive. He scans the room and our eyes meet. His mouth drops open. I hold up my hand in a half-wave and he shakes his head in disbelief. His face has the mottled yellow-and-purple look of someone who’s been beaten up, but he’s here. The Ministry didn’t kill him after all.

“I can’t believe it. He’s goddamn, bloody-well alive,” Silas says through his teeth.

“Yes,” I say. I’m smiling. For the first time in a long time, I’m happy, and I don’t care how ridiculous I seem.

And then I realize Maks is following Abel’s gaze. He looks at Abel, then at me. Abel and me. And although every one else in the room is cheering, Maks is frowning.

He is not very happy with Abel’s homecoming at all.

Without saying so, Silas and I decide to keep what we know about Abel to ourselves. Dorian, who I’d mentioned Abel to back at The Grove, doesn’t remember the connection. “At least he’s alive,” I whisper when we’re back in the cabin. Silas splashes his face with cold water.

“You say it like it’s a good thing,” he throws back. He’s right: we already knew Abel wasn’t Resistance and that he duped us, but we still don’t know why. “And you shouldn’t get your hopes up,” he adds.

“What do you mean?” I say.

“Just because he went missing and has turned up doesn’t mean he’s here because of you. You’re not to let your guard down again, Alina.”

I nod, embarrassed, and Silas pats me on the back awkwardly, lies down in his bunk, and pulls a blanket over himself. But Maude’s frantic. “If Quinn’s here, then where’s Bea?” she wants to know.

“I promise we’ll find out in the morning,” I tell her, and reluctantly, she goes to bed.

My mind is racing; I can’t sleep. Not until I know what Abel’s up to, why Quinn’s here, or where Bea is. I lie awake listening to Maude and Bruce snore in unison. Dorian is in the bunk next to me. He turns over, mutters something, and restlessly kicks and coughs. Silas and Song are silent.

I throw my legs over the side of my bunk. The stone floor is biting cold. I put on my socks, my pants, and within seconds, I’m dressed and out the door.

The cabins, outbuildings, and main house are dark, but no sooner have I stepped onto the graveled pathway than a floodlight illuminates the area.

A girl carrying a gun confronts me. She doesn’t point the weapon, just blocks my way. “Where are you going?” she asks. She steps closer. “Oh, you’re one of the new ones. Someone should’ve told you that you’re supposed to stay in at night.”

“I didn’t know,” I say, trying to sound dense.

“Well, you do now,” she says.

“Where are Abel and Quinn?” I ask.

She glances at the main house. “Abel’s probably in his old room. I don’t know Quinn,” she says, and gestures at my cabin with her gun.

I walk back slowly, and when she heads in the opposite direction, I sprint toward the main house and slam my body against it. The floodlights go out, and I am in darkness.

I skirt along the edge of the house feeling for a way in, but every door is locked. I turn a corner and the guard is there, sitting on a bench reading an old paper book by flashlight. She looks up briefly, waves the light this way and that, then returns to her reading. Another guard appears from a door behind her.

“That time already?” she says, slipping the book into her jacket and stretching.

“You can do my shift if you like,” the other one says. They laugh. “Any probs?”

“Pretty quiet. I found one of the newbies wandering around, but she went back to bed.”

“Which one?”

“The one Maks has his eye on. I wouldn’t like to be her.”

“Really? Oh, I would.” They laugh again and saunter toward the annex chatting. They activate the floodlight and the whole area is awash in light. I watch them go and try not to think about what it means that I’ve caught Maks’s notice.

The door the guard came through is open, and the guards are less than fifty feet away and making their way back. I hurry across the courtyard and almost break my neck tumbling through the open door and down a couple of uneven steps.

I scramble to my feet and scamper along a hallway to another door. It opens with a warning creak. I duck as I go through. Beyond it is a wider hallway with a series of doors on either side, and I creep along, examining the signs above them: Dispensary—Research Lab 4—Research Lab 5—Screening—Library. I scurry up a flight of stairs and find several doors with no signs. Surely these are the bedrooms.

I kneel and press my ear against the keyhole waiting for the sound of movement or a recognizable voice. The house remains wrapped in silence. I check the next door. Nothing. So I keep going, trying each door and waiting a few moments before moving on. By the time I’ve reached the end of the hallway, I’ve tried twenty doors. I stand with my back against the wall, feeling suddenly foolish. How did I think I’d find anyone?

I pick my way back down the hallway when I hear glass shattering. I stand rigid, waiting for an alarm to ring, then think better of it and sprint down the hallway and away. I round a corner and before I can stop, I yelp and clatter into someone running in the opposite direction. We both end up on the floor, but I jump up first and hold my fists ready. The person looks up and repositions his facemask.

“Quinn?”

“Alina?”

I pull him to his feet. “What are you doing in Sequoia?”

“Looking for you,” he whispers. He looks like he’s about to hug me, but changes his mind. “Jazz had a bad fall. We have to go and help her.”

“Jazz?” I can’t believe it. The Grove was falling in on itself when we left it, and Jazz had climbed into the trees covered in toxic foam.

“Yes,” he says hurriedly. Someone coughs in a room near us, and Quinn gestures with his hand for me to follow him. We tiptoe down the hallway and slink into a room.

He points to the floor where shards of glass glisten. “Be careful. I knocked the stool over and the water glass went flying.” The curtains have been drawn and the moon is barely illuminating the room through the clouds. A bed is tucked into the corner and next to it a stool is lying on its side. The window is wide open and a raking breeze makes the curtains flap and smack against the wall.

“What’s going on?” I point at the open window.

“I was searching for a way out. Thought I’d be less likely to be seen this way. Turns out I might die, though.” I follow him to the window. We look over the ledge. The room is three floors above a stone path. “We have to leave,” he says. He looks like he hasn’t slept or eaten in a long time, nothing like the person I met in the vaccination line weeks ago. How can so much have changed so quickly? It hardly seems possible.

“Where’s Bea?”

“She’s keeping Jazz safe. Is Silas here? Do you think he’d come with us? We’ll need him.”

My throat relaxes. “I knew Bea would make it,” I say.

“Well, she’ll be a goner if we don’t get to her soon. So will Jazz.” He looks out the window like he’s considering jumping. I lead him to the bed, where I make him sit and tell me everything, from the moment he left The Grove until he arrived in Sequoia. He speaks quickly, skipping important details, so I have to keep making him go back and explain more.

“So can we go now?” he says finally.

“Maybe Vanya will help,” I say.

He scratches his head. “I tried to tell her earlier and she just smiled. There’s something rotten behind that smile, Alina. After the way Petra treated me, I’m not taking any chances.”

I try to reassure him. “We’ll speak to her again tomorrow.”

“What is this place? I haven’t seen one tree,” he says. A few weeks ago he never would have noticed. If Quinn can change, maybe anyone can.

“We aren’t sure what’s going on, but the pod’s looking like an option,” I say, and laugh.

Quinn stares at me. “Is that a joke?” he asks.

I shake my head, because actually, it isn’t. “I promise we’ll convince Vanya to do something,” I repeat.

“What about Bea?”

“Does she have air and water?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, “but—”

“It’s just one night,” I tell him, even though one night is all it would take for everything to turn into a catastrophe.

I go to the door. “How did you meet Abel?” I ask, turning the handle.

“By chance. Do you know him?”

“Kind of. Is he the baby’s father?”

“Jo said he wasn’t. Why?” A wave of relief rushes over me, followed by shame for even caring when there are so many other, more important things to worry about.

The lights are still out in the main house. I inch along the hallway and as I am about to descend a level, there’s a scuffling.

“You’re hurting me,” a voice says. Cautiously, I lean over the banister and make out the tops of two heads. It’s Maks and Jo. She’s trying to break free of his grip. “Vanya put me in another room. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“You humiliated me,” he snarls. Jo shrinks into herself.

“Please let me sleep on my own, Maks,” she says.

“And how can I be sure you won’t have run off by morning? You think I’m gonna let you out of my sight again? You’re coming with me.”

“I’m not your property,” she says, wrenching her arm from him and backing away. She’s barefoot and wearing only a light, white nightshirt.

Without another word, Maks smacks Jo hard across the face. She crumples into a heavy heap. “You’re carrying something that belongs to Vanya and that means you belong to Sequoia and to me. You think I don’t know why you ran away?” She looks up at him and before I can duck, sees me. But she doesn’t give me away; she holds out her hands and lets Maks help her to her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she says. She puts her free hand to his chest and then, standing on her tiptoes, kisses his lips. “I’ve been so scared. Are the trials working? Are the babies okay?”

“He doesn’t want you, you know,” he says, pinching her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s me or no one, Jo.”

He takes her arm and leads her away, but not before Jo manages to flash me a warning look. Like she has to.

When I open the back door, I can’t see any guard—just an empty chair with a mug next to it on the ground. I creep into the night and scamper back to the cabin.

“Where the hell were you?” Silas asks as I climb back into bed in my clothes. Maude and Bruce are still snoring. Song is lying like a corpse, his mouth open. Dorian has his back to me.

“Quinn says Bea and Jazz are in trouble,” I say.

“Jazz is alive?” Silas asks.

“She was—days ago,” I say.

21 BEA

Ronan and I are sitting in cracked green leather chairs under layers of blankets, scarves, and coats on the balcony of what was once a restaurant in the station. The sunrise is obstructed by decrepit buildings. Ronan shows me a blurred photograph on his pad. “Don’t you want a clear image?” I say. I fiddle with the gauge on my airtank. It would be wiser to keep myself plugged into the solar respirator and save the air, but it was too big to fit through the narrow balcony doors.

“I just want the color. I’ll mix it when I get back.” He pauses. “Can I have one of you?”

“What for?”

“So I can ping it through to the Ministry and pick up my reward. Your capture is very valuable.” He laughs, but that there could be a fraction of truth in what he’s said makes me turn away. Not before he’s managed to take a picture of me.

“Delete it!” I try to snatch the pad.

“No,” he says.

“What if someone sees it and recognizes me?”

“It’s as smudged as the other one. And anyway, no one’s interested in the photos artists take.” He studies the picture and then looks at the real me. “Why are you out here, Bea?” he asks.

“Because your father wanted my head on a plate,” I remind him.

“But why did you join the Resistance in the first place? Are things really so bad in the pod for auxiliaries?” he asks. Can Premiums be so self-involved they completely fail to notice how ninety-five percent of us live?

“Have you ever even been to Zone Three?”

“A couple of times,” he says sheepishly.

“If I could have changed things from inside, I would have,” I tell him.

He is silent for a long time, looking through the few pictures he’s just taken. “There has to be a way to make things fair. Nothing’s impossible,” he says finally.

“You can try working on things in the pod. I’m never going back. Anyway, I’m waiting for someone.” I still haven’t mentioned Quinn. As far as the Ministry knows, he’s dead, and no one should think otherwise.

Ronan gazes into the distance, then closes his eyes. His eyelids twitch and the lashes flicker as sleep comes for him. And then he opens one eye and peers at me. “Are you going to get some rest or just watch me?”

My cheeks get hot. “Out here? It’s below zero.”

He reaches down and pulls a lightweight blanket from his backpack, which he throws at me. “Try that,” he says. I pull it over my chin and tuck my feet under my butt. “Better?” he asks. I nod and close my eyes.

I wake to find Ronan shaking me. “Bea, wake up,” he whispers. “Bea.” I yawn.

“How long did I sleep?”

“Never mind that. Move!” he says.

“What’s happening?” I try to stand and stretch but he takes hold of my thighs, so I can’t.

“They’ll see you!” he says.

I slide off the chair and onto the balcony floor. “Is it the Ministry?”

Ronan shakes his head. “I have no idea who they are. They must have spotted us.”

I suddenly feel less cold. My aching limbs lighten. It must be Quinn and Alina and Sequoia come to save me. “At last, they’re here!” I say, trying to get a glimpse of the road.

“I’m pretty sure you don’t know these people,” he says. “This way.” Reluctantly I slither through the balcony doors behind him and into the restaurant, which is strewn with dozens of chairs like the ones outside. “Stay low,” he says, remaining hunched. We go to a window.

“Do you know them?” he asks. It isn’t easy to see through the grimy window. I rub the glass with my sleeve and put my face to it. Three bearded men dressed in rags are inspecting the station. Each is armed: one with a broken pitchfork, one with a baseball bat, and another with a thick metal pole. And they have bulky solar respirators on their backs. “Drifters,” Ronan says. He pulls out his gun and loads it with a handful of bullets.

“What are you doing? They aren’t monsters.” Certainly not Maude, and not those who Jazz said helped defend The Grove. I grab for Ronan’s gun, but he pushes me away so hard I fall, landing on my arm and twisting it. I groan, but he doesn’t apologize or try to help me up.

“Shh,” he says, finding a broken windowpane and taking aim.

“Give them a chance,” I say. I crawl to the window. The men skirt the station, all the time peering up.

“They look like they’re on their way to a lynching. Don’t be naïve, Bea.” The condescension in his voice makes me well up with anger.

“You’ve been out of the pod two seconds and think you know everything. Watch and learn.”

“Where are you going? Come back. Come back.”

I march out of the restaurant, down the staircase, and outside, where I stand by the exit.

I’m about to speak to the men when the one carrying the baseball bat turns his back on the station and shouts. “Oi, Brent, you sure it was this building? I can’t hear nothing.” He shuffles away and leans against a van on the other side of the road.

“Chill your boots, Earl. There’s definitely meat in there. I heard it squalling last night,” Brent says, using his metal pole as a kind of walking stick.

“Yeah, well if there ain’t, maybe I’ll just eat you.”

Brent jabs Earl in the stomach with his pole and cackles. Even from a distance I can see his black teeth.

Earl quickly recovers, and when he does, he bashes Brent’s knees with his baseball bat. “Watch it, or next time I’ll use your head for batting practice.” This doesn’t seem like bravado; I’m sure they’d happily kill one another.

I’ve made a mistake.

I back away from the road and through the station doors, but when I spin around the third man, the one with the pitchfork, is standing staring at me. “Well, well, well. Look at the treat we’ve got here,” he says, and rubs his belly.

I dip to the side as the man swings for me. Luckily he’s half-starved and carrying a solar respirator and isn’t fast enough. I hurtle up the stairs and into the restaurant. “Ronan! Ronan?” I call.

But he’s disappeared.

“Get back here, you stupid cow,” one of the men hollers. The others hoot.

I jump over broken chairs and overturned tables, smashed plates and glasses, and when I get to the kitchen door, push on it. I expect it to swing open, but it doesn’t budge. Something’s blocking it on the other side. I scan the restaurant. There’s no other hiding place or way out unless I dive off the balcony. I find a broken bottle and hold it by the neck as the men saunter in, their eyes gleaming.

Earl swings his baseball bat, and they all grin. He comes closer and I try dodging him, but he’s quicker than the man with the pitchfork. He leaps at me and knocks me to the ground. Earl pulls me up straight using my hair. His face is flecked with scars and his thinning hair is greasy and matted. “Annoying,” he says, “but comely. What do you think, Getty?”

The man with the pitchfork throws down his weapon and steps up. “She’ll do,” he says. He unbuttons my coat and ogles me.

Brent shuffles forward. “Dibs on her airtank,” he says, loosening it from its belt.

“Leave that ’til we’re finished,” Getty says, shoving him.

I try to thrash free, but when I do, Earl, who’s standing behind me, pulls my hair harder. “Settle down,” he croaks.

It’s obvious what these savages are planning, and I can’t endure it. Anything but this. Anything.

I whimper, wishing I’d let Ronan shoot them. Where is he now? And where’s Quinn?

Getty holds my face next to his, and licks my cheek. Even through the mask I can smell his rotten breath. I cry out, and they laugh. “Please don’t,” I say, looking into his eyes, but he’s too far gone to see my humanity.

He throws off his heavily stained jacket and scrapes his finger along my collarbone. “I’m first,” he says. And I decide, in that moment, that I will shut down and think of Quinn and my parents and Maude and anything else that is not this, is not now.

“Ready?” Earl asks.

I shut my eyes. “Quinn!” I shout. “Quinn!”

But he doesn’t hear me.

No one does.

22 QUINN

I dream about Bea and wake up in a sweat, my mind whirring with images of her body on the tracks of an old railway line being pecked at by hungry drifters, their mouths like beaks. She was calling my name over and over even though she was already dead. It was horrible.

I’m stuffing things into my backpack, ready to find Alina, when Vanya barges into my room. “How did you sleep?”

“I had nightmares,” I say, still feeling the effects of the dream.

“It’s always hard to sleep in a strange bed,” she says with this weirdo smile on her face. She flutters by me and throws open the curtains. “A glorious day!”

“Not for my friends, it isn’t. They need help before it’s too late.” I move to the door. “Do you have a buggy?”

“A buggy? Of course we have a buggy, Quinn. This isn’t The Grove.” She sits on the end of the bed and pats the spot next to her. I stay where I am.

“A child’s bleeding to death,” I say quickly, pointing out the window.

“Sounds serious.” She shifts her weight on the bed and the springs creak. The more composed she is, the more my limbs jitter. If she isn’t interested in helping, then what does she want?

“Is there a doctor or nurse? All I need is a buggy and medic . . . please.” I’m not used to begging anyone for anything, but I’d gladly get on my knees and lick her shoes if it meant she’d help. In fact, I’d do absolutely anything.

“No one’s leaving here,” she says, and grins like this is some kind of joke instead of a person’s life we’re talking about.

“I won’t let my friends die!” I shout.

She rises and comes to the door, where she stands ridiculously close to me and speaks slowly and quietly. “This is not a hotel, Quinn. You can’t pop in and then leave when you’ve showered and had a good meal and long rest. Abel should have explained that to you. I’ve arranged for you to complete some tests this afternoon. If you want to live here, I suggest you comply with our requests. I’m more than a little irritated by all the disruptions.”

“I’m not hanging around here while they’re out there. What kind of crazy woman are you?” I seize her arm and, like a wild drifter, she spins around and punches me on the ear. She’s stronger than she looks.

“Never lay your hands on me,” she snarls.

I push past her and out the door into the hallway. “Going somewhere?” Maks says.

Vanya cracks her knuckles and a vein in her neck pulses. “Take him to the lockup. Give him a few calmers and administer the physical tests,” she says. And with that, she turns away.

“You’re worse than Petra,” I say.

Vanya spins around. “I take that as a compliment,” she says.

“So that’s it? Jazz is going to die?” I push Maks off and step away from him. He’s beefy, but I’m fast. If I make a run for it, I might get away.

“Jazz?” Vanya says slowly.

“Yes. She’s just a child.”

“Well, that changes everything. Come with me.”

I’m wasting precious time sitting in what can only be described as Vanya’s boudoir while Maks is sent on an errand. Vanya isn’t cool and creepy anymore, she’s flustered. She keeps firing questions at me: “Who is this Bea? How old is the child? Where was she born? Who are her parents? How did she end up at The Grove?” I don’t have any answers—and the less I give her, the more Vanya frets.

Eventually Maks drags Alina and Dorian into the room. “What’s going on?” Alina asks.

“You said everyone from The Grove died. You lied.” Vanya says.

“The place was decimated,” Dorian says. He looks at Maks who, denied the opportunity to beat me up, may have his sights set on him.

“Quinn tells me there are more survivors,” Vanya says.

“How would he know?” Dorian spits. “His father was the one who destroyed The Grove. What’s he doing here, anyway?”

Alina elbows Dorian in the gut. Maks smirks. “We can trust Quinn,” she says. “If he claims there were survivors, then there were. We didn’t know.”

Vanya goes to the oxybox on the wall and takes a lungful of air. “So people were in there when you ran for it?”

“We tried to get Petra out,” Dorian says. “She refused. She climbed a tree and wouldn’t come down. We have no idea what happened to the others because we were all stationed at different locations. But Petra—she was determined to die.” Dorian is rambling and making himself breathless.

“Quinn found a child,” Vanya says. “Who could that be?”

Alina and I have already gone through this, but Alina pretends she’s working it out. “Jazz was the only kid at The Grove,” she says pointedly. “We tried to save her, but she wouldn’t leave Petra behind.”

Vanya taps her chin and studies me. “I don’t like this,” she says.

“Help me find them,” I say.

Vanya turns to Maks. “Get the zip ready.”

“A zip? Thank you.” I sigh.

“I’m not doing it for you,” Vanya says. “I’m doing it for my daughter.” She marches into the adjoining bathroom, leaving all of us gawking after her.

Maks is standing with one hand on Dorian’s shoulder, the other on Alina’s. He pushes them aside and takes after Vanya. “Jazz is your daughter?” he asks.

“Yes,” Vanya calls from the bathroom. “Now go and find her.”

23 RONAN

By the time I make it through the back exit of the station and around the front, hoping to take the drifters by surprise, they’ve vanished. And so has Bea. She’ll have run, and I hope she has the sense to go back into the station as it’s the only building not on the brink of collapse. “Bea!” I yell, hopping over fissures in the road and hurtling back through the doors.

I hear them braying before I see them. “Get on with it, Brent, don’t be a sissy. If you’re not in the mood, let me have a go.” I finger my gun and climb the stairs. When I peer through the glass in the restaurant door, they have Bea trapped by the balcony, prodding her like a cold dinner. “Don’t,” she peeps. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

“We know you will.” They hoot. Bea sobs. She’s no longer wearing her shirt. She is trembling in her bra and pants.

I slink into the restaurant, planning to be on top of them before they notice, but in my haste I don’t look where I’m stepping and glass breaks under my foot. The men spin around. And they don’t waste a second. Two of them dive toward me and only hesitate when I raise my gun, ready to shoot.

“Careful, hombre,” one says.

“Let’s talk about this,” the other suggests.

“Down on the ground,” I say. They snicker like this is the silliest thing they’ve ever heard.

“Shoot them,” Bea says, her voice eerily calm. The man still holding her smacks her. Bea’s knees buckle, and I fire.

One man falls without a sound. I fire again to be sure he’ll never get up and the others grab their weapons. The one holding Bea presses the pitchfork to her throat.

“Try that with me, you little bastard, and I’ll rip her open,” he barks. “Now hand your gun to Earl.” The drifter with the baseball bat eases toward me.

“Stay where you are,” I say.

“Don’t give him the gun. We’ll both be finished if you do,” Bea says. “Shoot him.”

“Can’t you shut her up?” Earl says, turning. The guy with the pitchfork knocks the side of Bea’s head with the heel of his hand.

I close one eye, focus on the forehead of the man holding Bea, and pull the trigger. I am driven back only a fraction. The drifter crumples to the ground and as he does, Bea seizes the pitchfork from him and rushes at the last man. He turns, but it’s too late: the last thing he sees before he dies is Bea thrusting the prongs of the pitchfork into his chest.

She lets go of the weapon, watches him slide to the ground, and collapses. The delicately ridged track of her spine is clear through her chalky skin.

Her shirt and sweater have been trampled into the carpet, and when I shake them, glass and dirt cling to the fibers like a razor-edged reminder of what’s happened.

I throw them aside, remove my coat, and pull my own sweater over my head.

A sob comes from deep inside her belly as I touch her gently on the back. She covers her chest with her arms. “Here,” I say, and turn away.

“I should have listened to you,” she says. “I was trying to be strong. Now I’m a killer.”

I turn back around and crouch beside her. “It was him or you.”

“I thought you’d left. I thought I was alone.” She can’t say any more. She’s crying too hard.

“I’d never have left you,” I say. I watch her and breathe in the deathly silence of the station. My gun is still warm. I fasten the safety catch. The men I killed are sprawled across the carpet. Perhaps I should feel a shred of remorse, but I don’t.

All I care about now is getting back to the pod. And I’m going to have to convince Jude to find a way to help Bea instead of Quinn.

Because she shouldn’t have to live out here.

No one should.

24 BEA

Ronan leads me to one of the green chairs, turning it to face the windows, so I don’t have to look at the drifters. He opens up a compartment in his backpack filled to the brim with protein and nutrition bars and hands me one. I pull away my mouthpiece and take a small bite, which is all I can stomach. “You have to keep up your strength,” he says.

He’s watching me for signs I’ll break down, but I wish he wouldn’t. Every time I catch his eye I see the pity and horror of what might have been. And I’m ashamed. It was my own fault. I wanted to prove to myself how strong I’d become. And I wanted to prove to Ronan that everything he knew about drifters was untrue. Except it wasn’t.

“What are you even doing in The Outlands, Ronan? Isn’t there a servant at home waiting to run you a hot bath and cook you a meal?”

“Yes,” he says. “But I told you, I’m looking for someone.” He pauses. “For Quinn Caffrey. His father sent me. Do you know where he is?”

I want to trust him, and after what he’s just done for me, I probably should, but if Mr. Caffrey’s the one looking for Quinn, it must mean trouble. “I haven’t seen Quinn since the pod.”

Ronan studies me. He knows it’s a lie. “Well, I have to find him,” he says. “Will you help me?”

“I wish I could.”

“I’m a member of the Special Forces, Bea. I was at The Grove. I know what the Ministry did because I was there fighting for them.”

I sit up, pull off the sweater he gave me using one hand to keep my facemask in place, and fling it at him. How could he have destroyed all those trees? And killed so many people?

He doesn’t have the face of an enemy, but that’s what he is—he’s his father’s son. “You. Make. Me. Sick,” I say, and head back into the restaurant, where the three dead men are still bleeding into the carpet.

Ronan runs after me and forces me to look at him. “I didn’t know what we were doing until it was too late. I know the Ministry is full of crap. I want out, and Jude said he’d help. If I find Quinn for him, he’ll change my identity and I can leave the Special Forces. He’ll do it for Quinn, too. . . . And you, I’m sure.” But he doesn’t sound so sure. No Premium father would want his son involved with the likes of me.

I scratch Jazz’s dried blood from my hands. “I don’t want to go back,” I say simply. “And how could you, after you’ve seen what’s possible?”

“I’ll become an auxiliary. I’ll be like you.” He says this like it’s the most magnanimous gesture in the world. It’s all I can do to put my hands behind my back to stop myself from punching his puffed-out chest.

“Do you know what it’s like to be an auxiliary? Do you like running or dancing or kissing or anything remotely normal? Because once you become like me, every breath will cost you. You think that’s a life I want to go back to or one I’d want for Quinn? Leaving the Special Forces and living in Zone Three isn’t going to solve anything. You’ll be in hiding, that’s all. A coward in hiding.” I stop. I’ve been shouting, and my throat hurts. I didn’t hit Ronan, but from his guilty expression, I might as well have.

“I don’t want to hurt people anymore,” he whispers, looking at the floor.

“So fight to make things better.”

Now it’s his turn to be angry. “And how will I do that? The Resistance worked for years to steal cuttings and build a new world. I’m one person. It’s not like I could overthrow the government.”

Maybe I’m being hard on him, but that’s because it’s only people in his privileged position who can change things. “What if we could overthrow the government?” I ask.

He stomps on a glass bottle and it smashes into a hundred pieces. “How?” he asks.

I don’t know yet. But at least I know that he’s willing. And if he is, we’ll find a way.

25 QUINN

Sequoia’s zip looks like it was dragged kicking and screaming from a swamp. The paint’s peeled away and the blades are covered in rust. I’m not sure it’s even going to make it off the ground let alone into the city and back again, and I’d refuse to get in if I had another choice. Maks sees my expression and slaps the side of the zip. “Found this beauty at an old RAF barracks,” he says.

I climb into the back next to some dude whose nails are bitten to the quick and the skin around them raw and peeling. When he sees me looking, he curls his hands around his rifle to hide them.

Maks sits next to the pilot. “Here,” he says, and throws two pairs of enormous earphones into the back. “We’re ready,” he says, his voice crackling through them.

The zip comes to life, the blades rotating so hard I’m rocked from side to side. The pilot sniffs and speaks: “Sequoia control. Takeoff direction: zero seven. Flight plan: eight hundred feet. Ready for immediate departure.”

“Sequoia station. Copy that. Clear to takeoff,” I hear.

“Roger that.” The pilot pulls back the steering column, and the zip lifts away from the tarmac. It creaks like hundreds of unoiled door hinges, and I grip the seat, scared witless that the whole thing’s going to come to pieces in the air.

The pilot pushes the column forward and the zip’s nose tilts forward with more creaking and groaning. But soon we’re high above the ground looking down at a land dotted with gray and black mounds of rubble and impassable, ruptured roads. I’ve never seen anything like it before and I want to take it all in, but I’m too worried about Jazz and Bea to enjoy the scenery. I hope we aren’t too late.

We lurch to the left, and I hold on to the door handle to stop myself from sliding along the seat. We careen over a wide river and sunken dock.

“Bit of wind. Nothing to worry about,” the pilot says, righting the aircraft.

Maks swivels in his seat to look at me. “You scared?” he says. I shake my head—no. He raises his eyebrows. “Maybe you should be: I wouldn’t want to be you, if Vanya’s kid’s croaked it.” He laughs at the idea and turns away.

I look out at the fields again and think about Jazz. She already had an infection when I left. By now there’s every chance it’s killed her, and if it has, Bea and I won’t have anything to sweeten Vanya’s fury.

How will Bea be coping with the loneliness? Will she have stayed in the station? “How long until we get there?” I ask, but my earphones aren’t miked, so no one hears me over the noise of the blades.

All I can do is wait.

26 BEA

Ronan and I have been pacing for an hour. Out onto the balcony and back inside, brainstorming ways to take the Ministry down. But every idea we hit on is full of holes. After everything that’s happened, we need a watertight plan.

“It’s useless,” he says at last, falling into a chair on the balcony. “If there was a way, someone would have thought of it by now.”

I don’t agree. Just because no one’s managed something in the past, doesn’t mean the future’s lost. I’d be no good at hand-to-hand combat or shooting guns, but I’m smart. And I’ll figure this out.

“You told me that the army’s numbers were down since The Grove.” I sit next to him and focus hard on a window with its glass knocked out.

He shakes his head. “Not enough to weaken the pod’s defenses. And anyway, Jude’s recruiting more.”

A fork has found its way outside. I pick it up and fling it across the street, where it disappears through the broken window. Ronan laughs. “Good shot,” he says.

The seed of something is coming to me. I lean with one hand on the railing. “If it’s true that Jude’s done some kind of turnabout, he’s the key,” I say.

Ronan shrugs. “He’s just as much a puppet as I am.”

“If he is a puppet, he’s a puppet with power. They trust him to run the army, don’t they?” I pause and turn to Ronan. The solution is coming . . . it’s coming.

And I have it.

I grab Ronan’s hands and pull him to his feet. “You said . . .” I take a breath. I’m scared that if I don’t say it, the idea will evaporate. “You said Jude Caffrey was recruiting. What if . . .” Could it work? Would Quinn’s dad do it? “What if he only recruited auxiliaries sympathetic to the Resistance? They’d be given training and guns and be privy to inside information. It could work, Ronan. Couldn’t it?”

He thinks for a moment, squeezing my hands and gazing at me. Then he smiles. “Holy hell . . . I think it could.”

I am about to throw my arms around him and tell him that Quinn’s coming, that all we have do is wait, when a noise I recognize too well makes the hair on my arms prickle. The station vibrates and the sky thunders like a vicious storm is passing overhead. “You sent for zips.” I drop his hands and back away.

Ronan shakes his head frantically. “I swear I didn’t.” He doesn’t seem to know what to do.

“Take your clothes off,” I say, raising my voice. A look of understanding washes over him as he watches me undress and does the same. I untie my laces. “We need to be cold so the thermo-sensors don’t find us.”

“Yes, yes. But don’t cut your feet,” he warns. I leave the laces untied and pull my trousers off over my boots. He’s already seen me in my underwear, but I still feel exposed. I swallow down the embarrassment and focus on staying alive.

I dash onto the balcony and lather myself in handfuls of slush still frozen in its corners and so does Ronan. I can’t help noticing how athletic his body looks. And dark. Next to him, my skin looks bleached and scrawny. He rubs snow over himself and shivers.

The zip appears, weaving between buildings on its approach. It’s much smaller than the one I saw when I was with Alina and Maude, and flying low. “It’s coming from the west,” Ronan shouts over the noise of the blades. “The pod is east.” Which means it’s coming from the wrong direction.

“Then who?” I shout. Could it be Quinn and Alina? She stole a tank—maybe she’d steal a zip, too. But how would she pilot it?

We hurry inside and foolishly, I cover my head with my hands. The roaring of the propeller blades dwindles, then intensifies again as the zip circles overhead. “They know we’re here,” I shout above the noise.

“This way!” We don’t have time to get back into our clothes, so we stuff them into Ronan’s backpack and sprint down the stairs. The noise is deafening. The zip is landing on the road. The whirling blades send debris flying in every direction. “Quick!” Ronan urges. I follow him through the station, jumping over human bones, and onto a road strewn with poles, their old electrical wiring still attached. Ronan heads left toward a clock tower with its hands missing.

He runs ahead and before long there’s a distance between us. I stop as the sound of the zip finally abates and everything is still. Ronan gestures for me to follow him, but my heart is pounding, and I can’t shout to tell him, so I scuff onward and when I reach him, he takes my hand and drags me along. “What’s the matter?” he whispers.

“I wasn’t a Premium.” He looks confused and then he touches his earlobe. Still keeping hold of my hand, he leads me down an alleyway.

“Breathe slowly,” he says. I stop and take in deep lungsful of air. While he clambers back into his trousers, shirt, and coat, I focus on keeping my heart from bursting through my ribs.

“Here!” a voice nearby calls out. Ronan takes my hand again and we hide behind a stinking old wheelie bin. He opens his coat and wraps me up in it. I feel his chest next to my back and sink in deeper for warmth. He rests the hand holding his gun on my stomach.

“Okay?” he whispers. My teeth are chattering. I am too cold to nod.

Ronan squeezes me tighter as someone prowls the alleyway. Garbage crunches and squelches under the weight of a boot. The barrel of a gun comes into view. And a face.

Quinn.

“Bea?” He stares at me, wrapped up with Ronan.

There are more footsteps and a voice in the alleyway. “See anything?”

Quinn looks away. “Nothing. I’ll keep looking. They can’t be far.” The footsteps recede.

I struggle out of Ronan’s embrace and throw my arms around Quinn. He stays still and stiff. “Quinn,” I whisper, bending down, picking up Ronan’s sweater and pulling it over my head. My legs are bare. Quinn looks away and so does Ronan. I feel tears at the corners of my eyes, which I wipe away with the back of my hand.

“Ronan Knavery?” Quinn says. “And where’s Jazz?”

“Your father picked her up,” Ronan says. “She’s safe.”

“My father?”

“He wants you back. He’s going to protect you,” Ronan says.

Quinn squints. He’s as suspicious of Ronan as I was. “Let’s go, Bea,” he says, taking my hand.

“Where are you going?” Ronan asks.

“None of your business.” Quinn begins to pull me away, but I stay rooted.

“I think your dad is really looking for you, Quinn.” I press my hand against his cheek, so he’ll look at me.

And it works. “You believe him?” he asks. But it isn’t about whether or not I believe Ronan, it’s about Quinn having a chance to reconcile with his father. If someone told me I could see my dad again, I’d listen to what he had to say.

“We have a plan to get rid of the Ministry, if we can convince your dad to help.”

“He’ll listen to you, I’m sure,” Ronan says.

“Me? He hates me. Just go home, Ronan.” Quinn’s tone is belittling. But Ronan doesn’t deserve it. He’s only been kind, and Jazz and I would be dead if he hadn’t shown up.

“Come back to the pod, and we’ll change things together,” Ronan says, pounding his palm with his fist. “Why struggle out here?”

Quinn laughs. “The only thing that’ll change the pod is if every one of those ministers croaks,” he says.

“So let’s see to it that they do,” Ronan says.

This gets Quinn’s attention. He prods Ronan in the chest. “Like you’d give up your fancy house and art studio for the likes of Bea.”

“He isn’t lying,” I say, though how can I be one hundred percent sure? I only know what he’s told me.

“Where are they?” someone shouts from the road. Quinn blinks and looks at me.

“Auxiliaries wouldn’t trust Jude Caffrey or Cain Knavery’s son. I need you both,” Ronan says.

“Vanya’s going to tear out your liver and have it for dinner,” the voice shouts.

Quinn holds my face in his hands. Oh, I missed him. “Is there any chance of this working?” he asks.

I nod. “Your dad took Jazz. I think he’s changing, Quinn. If there’s any chance at all, shouldn’t we take it?”

“Vanya’s nuts. We’re dead if we go back there without Jazz. She’s Vanya’s daughter,” Quinn says, more to himself than to Ronan and me. Suddenly he takes Ronan by the coat collar. Ronan doesn’t flinch. “This better not be a trap,” he says, and steps behind the wheelie bin so he’s out of view of the street. “Now we have to get out of here,” he says.

“This way,” Ronan says without another second’s discussion, and runs to the end of the alleyway. We follow, but as we reach him, he turns around, his eyes wide.

“It’s blocked,” he says, reloading his gun. “Only way out is past whoever you came with.”

“Quinn, let’s get moving. Where are you?” the disembodied voice calls.

Ronan puts a finger to his lips and holds his gun ready.

“QUINN!”

Quinn looks at Ronan’s gun. “Unless his shot is spot on, this could go very badly,” he whispers to me. I open my mouth, about to tell him that Ronan is a perfect shot, when Quinn releases my hand. “Go to the pod with Ronan and I’ll follow. If this is going to work, we should gather everyone to help. I’ll get the others and join you.”

I feel lightheaded. “I need you,” I tell Quinn, hoping he knows how true this is. It was true even when we were only friends.

“Alina and Silas have to be part of this. It’s their fight,” he says. “Besides, they’re the ones with the connections and skills.”

“But . . .”

“Hide.” He pushes me toward the wall, where I hunker down behind a pile of garbage. “You, too,” he tells Ronan, who shakes his head and keeps his gun pointed. “Protect Bea,” he says. Ronan hesitates for a couple of moments, then dives next to me. I must be breathing loudly because he puts his hand over the blowoff valve in my mask.

Quinn fastens the top button of his coat and readjusts the strap of his rifle. “Stay hidden,” he says.

“Anything?” the voice booms.

“Nope,” Quinn says.

“Then let’s get out of here. The drifters must have taken them. Vanya isn’t going to like this. I wouldn’t want to be you when we get back.” The man behind the voice snorts.

Quinn stands motionless, and once the man has retreated, looks at me. My hands are still covered in Jazz’s blood. My frame is thinner than it ever was. I haven’t washed in a long time. I look exactly like someone who needs to be protected. “I love you, Bea,” he says, and before I can protest or tell him I love him, too, he takes off down the alleyway and is gone.

27 ALINA

Vanya wouldn’t hear of me going along with Quinn in the zip, so we have to sit tight. Maude and Bruce have been put to work in the greenhouse. The rest of us are in a cardio room doing interval training with a girl and guy we don’t know.

Terry, who sat with us in the dining hall last night, comes into the room carrying a handful of papers. “Just the newbies,” he says. We stop the treadmills, and he hands us each a list printed on heavy gray paper. I rub it between my fingers.

“Is this stone?” Song asks, turning the schedule over in his hands.

Terry nods. “Yep. We finally managed to make up a batch.”

“Limestone and resin,” Song says. “At The Grove we never tried. Too busy with the trees.”

“What is this, anyway?” Dorian asks, reading.

“Schedules for tomorrow. You’ll get your permanent ones soon.”

I eye the schedule. Morning activities are pretty standard: cardio, meditation, breaks for food. But the entire evening is consumed by something called a Pairing Ceremony.

Dorian waves the paper at Terry. “Pairings?”

“You’ll be told your vocation, get paired, and move into the main house. Most of you, anyway. Some people just get given a vocation and the pairing comes later.”

Silas, who’s breathing heavily after hiking hills for almost an hour, repeats Dorian’s question. “Paired?”

Terry fidgets with the schedules still in his hands. “Didn’t Vanya explain?” Silas shakes his head. “You’ll be given your permanent partners,” Terry says.

“Like work buddies,” Song says. “I saw people going about in pairs and I wondered.”

“Sort of.” Terry smiles and makes to leave.

Silas holds him back. “So I could be partnered with Alina?”

“Well, you’re cousins, so no,” Terry says. He shifts from one foot to the other. “You have to be genetically compatible. You know?” Silas scowls. Dorian and Song, who are standing side by side, frown. But after the tests they’ve done on us, we aren’t completely shocked: Not only will Vanya choose what each of us spends the rest of our lives doing, but she’ll also select our mates. It’s almost enough to make me pine for the pod. Almost. “Breeding’s encouraged and most pairs have children who might actually survive . . . this.” Terry waves his hand around the room, but he means the world beyond it—Earth. “Comes naturally, I suppose.”

“Naturally?” Silas says through gritted teeth.

“So where are the children?” I try to keep my voice steady, remembering the girl in the attic, the fear in her eyes, the sweat on her forearms, and the doctor cool and detached as she counted her own contractions. Will motherhood be my fate, if we stay here?

“We keep them in a nursery and train them from birth,” Terry says.

“You take away the girls’ babies?” I ask, stepping closer to Terry. He doesn’t make the rules here, but I have an urge to hurt him anyway.

“I have no intention of breeding. Ever,” Silas says. Having loved Inger and lost him, I’m not surprised by Silas’s outrage.

“But you want to join us. This is what we do,” Terry says simply.

Silas sits on the end of his treadmill with his head in his hands. We huddle around him. We’re too stunned to ask any more questions, and it’s clear Terry has no power, so we ignore him sneaking out. “It’s a baby mill,” Silas says. “No wonder she’s not interested in Maude or Bruce.” He glances at the couple training in the room. They’re gushing with sweat and probably haven’t much energy to pay any attention to us, but Silas waves us to the other end of the room just in case. “We have to get away from here.”

“And where would we go?” Dorian asks.

Silas glowers at him. “Does it matter?”

“Maybe we’ll all get paired with someone normal,” Dorian says. Is he serious? Does he know what he’s saying?

“Yeah, cool. Maybe you’ll get some hot concubine,” Silas says. “Think about it from Alina’s perspective.” But I wish they wouldn’t—I don’t want the decision to be about me being a girl. It has to be the best thing for all of us.

“Leaving has to be our last resort. There’s no air out there. We’ll be dead in a week,” Dorian says.

“After this ridiculous ceremony, we’ll be forced to . . .” Silas nudges a water bottle on the floor with his foot. I put my arms around him to stop him trembling. He pushes me away. “Inger’s dead and I’m supposed to get over it and get it on with some girl?” Silas and Dorian are standing eye-to-eye, ready to wrangle. Song pushes them apart and stands between them.

“We can’t do anything until we know what the deal is with Quinn, Bea, and Jazz,” I say.

“Then we wait,” Dorian says.

Silas rolls his eyes. “If we wait, we might not get another chance to talk about it. Sorry, but which bit of this sickening thing don’t you understand?”

Dorian’s eyes widen, and he lifts his fists as though about to hit Silas, when the door opens again.

It’s Abel. “Don’t leave,” he says, looking at me and shaking Silas’s hand. “Terry said you were in here and that you were pretty upset about what he told you.”

“We thought you were dead. As well as other things,” Silas says.

“You know each other?” Dorian asks. His hands are still fists.

“Remember when I got to The Grove I told you that Abel had been killed? This is him,” I say. I can’t look at Abel for more than a second.

“But you’re not Resistance,” Dorian tells Abel.

Abel ignores him. “You’ll be shot before you make it past the fountain. Besides, where would you go? If you don’t suffocate, you’ll starve. And Vanya doesn’t make life easy when you return, which you will.” I’m troubled by the idea of pairings, but I can’t help wondering how I’d feel if I knew I’d get Abel. Would that change things?

“That’s exactly what I’ve been telling them,” Dorian says, as though Abel’s his best friend. He folds his arms across his chest. The rest of us look to Silas. If he and Dorian don’t find a way to agree, the group will come apart, and that can’t happen; we’ve already lost too many people.

“Whatever we do, we do it together,” I say.

“Then we’re staying,” Dorian says.

“We’re leaving,” Silas corrects.

“Give it a week,” Abel suggests. “If you decide I was wrong, I’ll help you escape.”

“What’s in it for you?” Silas asks.

Abel pauses and looks at me. “What the Resistance was doing was worthwhile. Together we might persuade Vanya that there’s something to replanting trees.” I study him. Is he patronizing us?

If he is, Song doesn’t seem to notice. “But Vanya as good as told us she left The Grove because she didn’t see a point to planting,” he says.

“We have to show her she’s wrong,” Abel says.

Silas lets out a long, heavy sigh and throws his head back. “Three days,” Silas says. “But we still need to talk, Abel.”

The building shudders, and we are silent. “The zip’s back,” I say.

28 QUINN

The seat next to me is empty when Bea should be sitting in it, her leg pressing against mine. My body clenches as I think of her head resting against Ronan Knavery’s chest, and the zip lands with a clunk.

We pull off our earphones and jump out of the aircraft.

Maks takes me to an outbuilding and kicks open the door. “Tell Vanya we’re back,” he tells the pilot, who walks off. I’m yanked along a passageway into a space divided into four prison cells. A girl of about fifteen or sixteen with olive skin is in one and next to her is a guy the same age. She looks up, afraid. “We didn’t steal anything,” she says.

“Why would we?” the boy adds.

“Please let us out of here.” She presses her face between the bars.

“Pipe down,” Maks says, and the girl immediately eases herself away from the bars and into a corner. He turns to me and points at an empty cell. “In there,” he says.

“What have I done wrong?”

He raises one eyebrow. He’s so big, it would take nothing for him to squash me, so I just do what he says.

He hasn’t even closed the door when Vanya blazes in, heading straight for my cell. “Where is she?” she asks, prodding my chest with her finger.

“They were probably kidnapped. We found three dead drifters in the station. Looks like there’d been a struggle not long ago,” I say. Vanya pinches the tube connecting my airtank to the facemask, completely cutting off my air supply. I pull off my facemask and try taking a breath. It’s no good. It’s like swallowing boiling water. I cough and splutter. Vanya lets go of my tubing. I hold the facemask back over my mouth and nose and suck in as much air as I can manage.

“I’m extremely disappointed,” she says.

“He isn’t lying. There were three bodies in the old railway station and blood everywhere,” Maks interjects. “Freshly dead, I’d say.”

Vanya rubs her head and paces. “Let me ask this: Is it possible Jazz was never with you? Is it possible you knew she was my daughter and decided it would be a clever way of forcing me to look for your friend?”

“Jazz was the one who knew the others were heading here and could lead us.”

“My daughter was leading you here,” Vanya says, her eyes losing some of their hardness. Maks approaches her and gently rubs her back. She steps away from him. “If what you’ve told me is true, Jazz is as good as dead and you’ve proven yourself to be useless.”

“He’d fit in okay,” Maks mutters.

“Would he?” Vanya says, heading for the exit and disappearing.

Maks shuts the door to the cell and attaches a heavy padlock.

“Why are you locking me in?” I ask again. And for how long? I need to tell the others the plan to get back to the pod and overthrow the Ministry.

Maks laughs. “Makes no difference whether you sleep in here or the main house: You’ve been a prisoner since you arrived.”

29 ALINA

It kicks off in the cabin after dinner. “You want to throttle me? Go ahead!” Dorian shouts. He rips off his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt.

Song is standing between them yet again, so they don’t rip each other to pieces. “Calm down,” he says.

Maude and Bruce are lying on their bunks with their hands behind their heads. “Let’s have a good ol’ fashioned boxing match. Ding-ding—Round One!” Maude says.

Bruce laughs but gets up and stands between Dorian and Silas, too. “Not sure what’s going on, boys, but you can’t be having it as hard as us,” he says. He shows us his blistered hands. “So what is the point of all this squabbling?” Bruce asks.

Silas goes to the window and opens the blinds. It’s already dark. “This place makes my skin crawl.”

“Silas has forgotten that real revolution means sacrifice,” Dorian says.

“And Dorian has forgotten that we don’t sacrifice our friends,” Silas snaps back. He tries pulling open the window, and when it doesn’t budge, he goes to the door and jimmies the handle. “Can you get me out?” he asks Song.

Song crouches down and examines the lock.

“Where you going?” I ask, joining Silas at the door.

“The zip came back, but Quinn wasn’t at dinner. Neither were Bea or Jazz,” he says. “I’m going to look for them. I want to know what’s going on.”

“You’re determined to get us in trouble,” Dorian says.

“Well, I’m sorry if I’m the only one who gives a crap about them,” Silas says.

“Hey!” I push him. If anyone’s worried about Quinn and Bea, it’s me; I know them better than anyone, and I’m the one who got them wrapped up in this mess to begin with. “I’m coming with you,” I say.

“Lemme help,” Maude says, springing up from the bed. She roots around in her hair and hands Song a pin. He straightens it out and sticks into the lock. We all watch and wait, and after a few minutes the lock clicks.

But Song isn’t the one who’s opened it. Wren, the girl we met at dinner with the icy eyes and headscarf, stands in the doorway. She’s carrying a heavy load of red fabric over her arm.

“I come bearing gifts,” she says, stepping into the cabin and throwing the folds of fabric onto my bunk. We gather around. She lifts up one and shakes open a long, red robe with snaps down the front. “For the ceremony. One size fits all.” She offers one to each of us. Maude and Bruce watch carefully. We haven’t told them about the Pairing Ceremony.

“Am I finally being made a dame? If so, I’d like to request a transfer to the royal chambers and a servant to do my gardening for me,” Maude says. “Also, I need a foot rub.”

Wren looks down at Maude’s knotted feet, frowns, and passes her a robe. “For you,” she says.

Maude beams and slips the robe straight over her head. Silas and I share a glance. If they’ve been invited, then it can’t just be about breeding. Silas’s face relaxes a fraction, and he holds his robe out at arm’s length to look at it.

“Did Maks and Quinn find anyone?” I ask Wren.

“Don’t think so,” she says. “All dead apparently. Murdered or something.”

“Even the girl? Even Bea?” Maude asks. Wren shrugs unsympathetically. I bite down hard and clench my jaw. Bea murdered? After everything she endured?

I don’t believe it.

“And where’s Quinn now?” Silas asks.

“He’s been taken to the lockup.”

“Lockup?” Silas pushes.

“Yep,” Wren says, and with no further explanation goes to the door. “I finally got a robe today, too. Can’t wait to meet my other.” She beams, showing her yellow teeth, pulls the door closed behind her, and locks it.

“Ugly-looking bitch,” Maude croaks, clutching for a joke. “I’m ancient. At least I got an excuse.” She returns to her bunk and flops down.

“We should talk about it, Maude,” I say.

“About what? I ain’t got nothing to say,” she whispers.

Bruce sits next to Maude and kisses the side of her head. “Maddie?”

“Jazz was a pain in the butt, but she was just a kid,” Dorian says, sounding more like his old self. He folds up his robe. “How many more of us need to die?” He’s speaking to himself, but we all nod.

“And now Quinn’s been imprisoned,” Silas says.

“Because Jazz couldn’t be found, and Vanya needs someone to blame,” I say.

“We have to speak to him. We have to find out what happened,” Silas says.

Song returns to the door. He tries again to pick the lock with the hairpin. When he can’t, he slumps on the floor. “It’s useless,” he says.

Maude is on her back. She points upward. “Go through the roof,” she says, and we all look up to see what she’s pointing at: the skylight.

30 BEA

Ronan and I are in a room on the second floor of an old hotel not far from the station. The floorboards creak, and the walls are ready to fall in on themselves. Ronan uses a finger and thumb to make an opening in the crooked blinds. “What can be taking him so long?” he wonders.

He sits next to me on the bed and sinks into it. We aren’t using a flashlight in case an opportunistic drifter sees the light, but even in the gloom, I can make out the wrinkles in Ronan’s brow.

It’s freezing again and I can’t stop trembling or thinking about Quinn. I curl up to keep warm. “How will they escape from Sequoia, if it’s so terrible there?” I say. “And what makes Quinn think they can just stroll back into the pod to help?”

I wish I’d tried harder to persuade him to stay. I just watched him leave. And he never mentioned Maude. Does that mean she never made it to Sequoia?

Ronan rubs his eyes. “I don’t know, Bea. But what I do know is that Jude asked for Quinn, and what I’m giving him is a sick kid and his son’s outlawed girlfriend. Let’s concentrate on winning him over, and then worry about Quinn, okay?”

He’s right: If I’m going to be any use to Ronan, and if my parents’ deaths are to mean anything, I have to focus on what we’re about to do. “We just tell the truth: Quinn was here and then he left. Jude Caffrey knows what Quinn and I mean to each other, and he’ll know I wouldn’t return to the pod if Quinn wasn’t following.”

“You seem very confident,” Ronan says. He stands up and peers through the blinds again.

“I’m not,” I say. I’m terrified of returning to the place where my parents were killed and attempting to collude with a man responsible for countless deaths at The Grove.

But if I want to stop others from spending their whole lives under the Ministry’s iron thumb, I only have one choice—I have to throw my shoulders back and fight.

31 ALINA

Song gives me a leg up, but when I push on the hatch it doesn’t budge. “There’s a latch,” Song says.

I pull it to the left and the piston lets out a gentle puff. Then I haul myself up onto the roof and sit low in case a patrolling guard spots me. Down in the cabin, Song and Bruce are helping Silas. His two hands appear at either side of the opening and then he’s pulling himself up through it. He sits on the opposite side of the hatch. “It might not be true. About Bea,” he whispers into the night.

My stomach heaves. “I think it is.”

“Well, let’s wait until we talk to Quinn,” he says. “We can’t know that anything these people say is true.”

I don’t want to dwell on it. What’s the point? What does thinking ever change? I crawl to the edge of the roof and turn onto my belly. I dangle a moment before letting go and land awkwardly. No floodlight is activated, and I crouch in the stillness. Silas lands next to me with a thud seconds later.

We stay hunched and sneak behind the cabins. As clouds cover the moon, we’re bathed in complete darkness, and I feel Silas hold on to the tail of my jacket to make sure he doesn’t lose me. When we reach the last cabin, and our eyes have fully adjusted, we stop. The annex is to our right, in front of the main house, the other outbuildings to our left. Between the outbuildings and us is an expanse of open land, and if it’s protected by motion sensors, we’ll be discovered.

The clouds shift, and the moon dispenses a little light. Silas looks quickly from left to right. “That must be the lockup. Narrow windows,” he says, pointing to a squat building in the distance. He’s about to speak again when we hear low voices. We flatten ourselves against the wall as Vanya and Maks come into view. I breathe as slowly and quietly as I can.

“I’m sorry about your daughter,” Maks says.

“She was dead to me a long time ago,” Vanya responds.

“Well, maybe she isn’t. I don’t trust any of them,” he says. “They’re too clever.”

Vanya smiles. “So what? How many brainy traitors have we buried?”

They are tittering when the area erupts in light. I pull my face around the corner and instinctively take Silas’s hand. He puts a finger to the blowoff valve of my facemask. Like he has to warn me to be quiet.

“What are those idiots doing?” Vanya says. “Go and shut down the floodlights.” Maks gallops away.

“It’s Vanya,” a new voice says.

“What are you playing at? What if someone sees you?” Vanya hisses, and the floodlights dim to nothing. I poke my face around the corner. Silas stands over me and does the same. In Maks’s place is a pair of men carrying a long object wrapped in plastic. They put down their load and stand panting.

“The buggy broke down,” one of the men tells Vanya. “Had to carry it ourselves.”

“Just get this garbage out back where it belongs. And if I ever see you two trying something like this again, it’ll be you rolled up in plastic.” Vanya kicks the load violently and strides away, the men watching her go.

“Hormonal or what,” one whispers. The other snickers. As they reach down for their bundle, Silas pulls on my elbow. “We have to follow them,” he says.

“What for?”

“Do you want to guess what’s in that plastic or shall I?” he asks.

“What about Quinn?” We need to make sure he’s okay, and find out what’s happened to Bea.

“What if that is Quinn?” Silas asks. I stare at the bundle. If Silas is right, then it doesn’t matter what Abel says; we can’t stay one more day.

“You don’t think that,” I say.

“He wasn’t at dinner.”

“Let’s check it out.”

We follow the men at a distance, stooping low and sticking as close to the outbuildings as we can. They chat, back and forth, and groan under the weight of the load. “Should’ve waited ’til tomorrow,” the one says.

“Best get it over with.” Eventually we reach the back wall marking Sequoia’s border. Like the front, the top is garnished with broken glass. With a sigh, the two men drop the bundle and stand huffing and puffing. “Need air,” one says, coughing.

“Too right. Soon as we’re done with this, I’m gonna set up camp next to an oxybox.” He roots in his pocket and pulls out a heavy, jangling set of keys, which he inspects in the moonlight. “Got it,” he says, and shuffles to the wall with a tiny steel door built into it. He rattles the key in the lock, and the door opens.

The two men let out long breaths as they bend down to retrieve the bundle, and once they have it, they scoot through the door, one walking backward, the other directing from the opposite end.

We spring at the door as quickly as we can, glance around it to make sure the men have moved on, and creep out of Sequoia.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Quick,” Silas whispers.

The men are already way ahead, plodding along the uneven ground and sidestepping heaps of junk abandoned on this side of the wall, where no one has to see it. The moon disappears again, which is fortunate, because there are no buildings to hide behind, only the odd boulder or rusting car, and if the men were to turn, they’d surely see us.

They stop for the final time, and we drop behind an upended, rotting wooden table. Silas nudges me. I lift myself up beside him. There is another figure next to the two men now: a scrawny man with a long beard and wearing a facemask. “The hole doesn’t look big enough,” one of the men complains.

“Gimme a look,” the bearded man grumbles, and knocks the bundle with the handle of a shovel. The men let it drop to the ground and unwrap it.

I lift myself higher to see, sprawled on the ground before us, lifeless and stiff, the body of a man. His head is swollen and his eyes are bulging. I slide back down behind the table and cover the blowoff valve in my mask with my hand.

Silas’s eyes reflect a sliver of light. “Not Quinn,” he whispers, which makes me feel a little better, but not much.

“He’s too wide,” the bearded man says. The shovel hits the ground as he digs a bigger hole. “I’ve another spade over there,” he says.

“You do your job, Crab, we’ll do ours.”

There’s a pause and one of the men speaks again. “Hungry?” he asks the other. We hear something being unwrapped and slobbery chewing. I gag. How can they bury someone and eat at the same time?

And that’s when I notice the ground: it isn’t naturally uneven—it’s become that way from the bodies buried here. And though some mounds have already been concealed by rocks and debris, and are almost flat, others are still plump, the earth barely sunken in next to the body.

I poke Silas. “Graves everywhere,” I whisper.

“Who the hell are they burying?” he says. We stare at each other, not knowing what else to say.

“There you are,” Crab says. We peek over the edge of the table and watch Crab throw his shovel onto the ground.

The two men who carried the body throw aside what remains of their food and stand. “You take that end,” one tells the other.

“Why should I touch the head?” his workmate barks.

“He won’t bite.”

“You take the head then,” he says, and the other man is forced to swap ends.

“One, two, three,” he says, grimacing, and they lift the man by his arms and legs, swing the body, and launch him into the hole where he lands with a crack.

Crab twirls the end of his beard around his finger. “Shall I fill it in?” he asks, nodding at the grave.

“Well, we don’t want it stinking.”

“Doesn’t seem much point if you’re gonna have another delivery for me any day.” Crab picks up his shovel and sticks it into the heap of loose earth.

“Not your place to keep track of these things, Crab,” one of the men says. Crab snorts and covers the dead man with earth. The two deliverymen head back.

“We should’ve run from Sequoia ages ago,” Silas whispers.

“The back gate gives us an escape route. We didn’t know about it until now.”

Silas rubs his head with both hands. The two men are out of sight. If we want to catch them and make it through the door before them, we have to run.

We pick our way through the junk, veering to the right to bypass the men. It’s so dark it’s difficult to see where we’re going, and we’re sprinting so fast, I stumble several times and my boots clank against old metal pipes. Finally the wall appears, and we slam against it, almost knocking ourselves out. I use my hands to feel for the open door. Silas points at it about fifty feet away, but we’re too late. The men saunter out of the scrub and seconds later slip though the door, slamming it behind them. We run and I try the handle. “Locked. We’ll have to climb over the wall,” I say.

“I’m not sure it’s possible,” Silas says, and I’m about to argue when there’s a bang and he crumples to the ground.

I scream and jump just in time to dodge the gravedigger who is aiming his shovel directly for my head.

“Drifters!” Crab yells, grappling for my facemask. I kick him in the chest with both feet and knock him to the ground, giving me a few seconds to grab his facemask. I pull it so hard the tubing comes away from the airtank, and he lashes out. But he isn’t as adept at breathing as the others, and after a few seconds he stops fighting, hacking instead, as the sinewy atmosphere attacks his lungs.

“Give me my mask, you dirty br-brat,” he sputters.

I dash to Silas, refit his facemask, and shake him violently. “Wake up.” I lift his head to see if he’s been injured, but I can’t see much in the dark, and suddenly there’s a rustle behind me and my own facemask is pulled off. I jump up and turn, and as I do, Crab, who looked done for only moments before, puts his hands around my throat. His eyes bulge as he squeezes.

Neither of us has enough air, and together we crumple to the ground.

His hands are clamped so firmly there’s no way he’s letting go. It feels like he might snap my neck. I dig my nails into his hands and scratch his face, fighting, fighting for life. And then a shadow appears above us.

Silas.

Crab releases me and tries to scurry away but Silas has the shovel. Crab covers his eyes with his hands, as though this will protect him, and Silas smacks the shovel against Crab’s head. Crab doesn’t utter another sound and drops to the ground. I shudder and stare at Silas.

Silas throws me his facemask, then retrieves mine and puts it over his own mouth and nose. “He’s dead,” I say.

Silas lifts Crab’s head. “Yes,” he says. A dark, thick liquid oozes from his head onto the earth. A stabbing of regret trickles into me, but I sweep it away: it was him or us. Right?

“No one can find him,” Silas says. He pulls me to my feet.

“What does it matter?” My throat is still stinging.

“They’ll suspect us. I don’t want to be next.”

I bend down and lift Crab’s legs. Silas takes his arms. Blood drips from the gravedigger’s fractured skull.

Quickly, we carry Crab to the hole he dug himself and throw him on top of the other body. “I’ll get the shovel,” Silas says. I stare down at Crab, lying cheek to cheek with the other dead man, their limbs bent all out of shape.

Silas begins filling the hole as soon as he returns, and when his muscles ache, I take over. We work like this until we’re done. “We’re murderers,” I say, wiping my sweaty hands on my trousers.

On our way back we use stones and loose earth to cover the track of Crab’s blood. “Let’s stash the airtank. We may need it later,” Silas says, leaving me by the wall for a few minutes while he finds a good hiding spot.

We still have the problem of how we’re going to get into Sequoia. There don’t seem to be any cameras at this rear exit, but there’s the glass on the wall; it won’t go unnoticed if we turn up to breakfast gashed to pieces from climbing over it.

“Alina,” Silas mutters. He’s on his knees. “A way in. Or out,” he says. I squat next to him and look.

Someone has furrowed a narrow tunnel underneath the wall.

“Can you fit?” I ask.

Silas answers by crawling into the tunnel headfirst. He has to wriggle from side to side to get through, but he does it, and soon after I am through, too, covered from head to toe in dirt. “Hopefully the flood lights are still off,” Silas says.

Tonight we have achieved nothing more than killing a man, and as we head for the cabin, one word repeats itself in my head: Murderer. Murderer.

That is what I have become.

32 QUINN

I’m awoken by arguing. “Quit nudging me!” the boy groans from his cell.

“But you won’t stop snoring,” the girl says.

“I can’t help it.”

I turn over on the hard slab of concrete. They’re standing face-to-face and grappling with each other through the bars. The girl sees me watching and stops.

“What did you do?” she asks. I stand up and dust myself off.

“Nothing,” I say. “But seems like that’s enough here.” The girl squeals with laughter. She hits the boy as she continues to titter. It’s not a genuine laugh: she’s hysterical. “Is there a way out?” I ask. There’s a sliver of a window by the roof, but that’s about it.

“I wouldn’t try to escape, if I were you,” the boy says. He pulls up his shirt to show me his chest, which is covered in bruises.

“Maks?” I ask.

He nods and puts his hands between the bars to pull up the back of the girl’s shirt. Her skin is crisscrossed with red welts. “He beat me and whipped her,” he says. “Because we stole an airtank. That was it.”

I dry heave. I miss Bea, but thank goodness I didn’t bring her here.

Keys rattle in the lock and Maks pushes open the door. The boy and girl scuttle to the backs of their cells and watch as he approaches me. “Exciting news. Vanya’s forgiven you, which means you have a busy day of exams ahead.”

“Exams?”

“Just get a move on,” Maks says, pulling open the cell door and grabbing me by the back of the neck. I don’t struggle, because I could be in for it if I do. Besides, I have a better chance of finding Alina and getting out of here and back to the pod if I’m not locked in a prison cell.

The boy and girl watch me go. They look afraid.

And I should probably look afraid, too.

33 ALINA

I wake in a sweat, sure someone has his hands around my throat. Silas is sitting on my bunk. “It was a dream,” he says.

I push my hair out of my face. “What time is it?” I ask. Everyone else is up and dressed.

“Six in the evening. We’re getting ready for this stupid Pairing Ceremony,” he says.

“I’ve been asleep all day?”

“I told Vanya you had an iffy stomach,” he says.

I think of Crab’s foaming mouth as he tried to kill me and I am breathless again. “Did you tell them?” I whisper. I can’t remember anything that happened after we snuck back into Sequoia. Silas had to half carry me to the cabin.

Silas slides closer. “They know we saw a body being buried. We’ll tell them what we did, if we have to. Keep it together, Alina. You’ve killed before.” I shake my head to contradict him. “At The Grove. You think none of your bullets hit those soldiers?”

But it was easier then—the troops were far away; I couldn’t see their faces, and I didn’t have to bury them.

Silas turns to the others. “Seeing the body last night leaves us in no doubt. . . . We need to get out of here. Our main concern is oxygen. Song?”

Song bites his lips. “I can find a way to store oxygen and pump it into an airtight space, but we need trees to produce it or the formula for manufactured air . . . plus the chemicals.”

“Well, that’s impossible,” Silas says. We’re all silent. Our options are meager. “I have the map that Inger was putting together, which has the locations of solar respirators on it. We can survive on those and wait for Song to design something better.” He looks at each of us in turn. I want to have a better idea, but I don’t.

“We was fine on solar respirators before you lot showed up,” Maude lies. If it was fine, she wouldn’t have tried to kill me for my airtank the first time she saw me.

Dorian puts his hands on his hips. “We buried people at The Grove, you know. I don’t know why this dead body should change anything.”

“This wasn’t a one-off, Dorian. There were dozens of graves,” I say.

Dorian pulls his red robe over his head and faces us, defiant. “I don’t agree with pairings any more than you, but I’m not spending the rest of my life drifting and barely clinging to life.”

We all watch Silas and wait, willing him to find a solution to Dorian’s fears. Fears that are ours, too. But he has no answer for this. “We have to leave Sequoia now,” is all he says.

“We won’t make it a mile before they’re on top of us,” I say. I don’t mean to contradict Silas, who is glaring at me, but we have to bide our time, run when they least expect it. Besides, if we run now, they’ll know we were the ones who killed Crab. “We found a way out. It’s a narrow tunnel under the wall at the back, about fifty feet from a steel door. Anything heavy goes down, we leave that way and wait for one another on the other side. There are only a few places back there to hide,” I say.

Song goes to the door, takes the rest of the robes from the hook, and hands them out. The sleeves are too long, eating up our hands.

Silas goes to the wall and punches it. Dorian pulls up his hood and it covers his entire forehead, right down to his eyes. “Red ain’t my color,” Maude says. She tries to struggle out of the robe, but Bruce stops her.

“It’s just for an hour or so, Maddie.”

Somewhere beyond the cabin a shrill whistle sounds.

“Pairings,” I say.

Before being led into the orangery where the pairings will be performed, we’re held in a waiting room with narrow benches running the length of it. Silas is on my one side, Dorian on my other. Apart from those of us from The Grove, around ten people are with us. Abel sits opposite me. When he smiles, I smile back. He’s always been able to make me do this, even when things were dire.

I scan the bench and the faces of the other boys. They don’t look particularly menacing; I’d be willing to fend off any one of them.

A door opens and another candidate is pushed into the room. “Quinn!” I say, and go to him. “We were worried,” I whisper.

“I’ve just had a three-hour test followed by the most humiliating physical exam of my life,” Quinn says.

“Where are Bea and Jazz?”

He edges closer. In the past I might have moved away, but he isn’t flirting. “They’re alive,” he says, and suddenly joy and hope fizz through me. If Bea’s alive, and Jazz too, there’s no excuse for any of us to give up. “Bea was with Ronan Knavery. They’re planning a new rebellion in the pod. They have my father on our side this time and think they can take control of the army. But we need you.”

“Cain Knavery’s son?” I ask. He nods. It’s a lot to take in, and I have a hundred questions, but I haven’t time to ask any more because a bell rings, and Maks enters from the opposite end of the room wearing a skintight red shirt.

“Excited?” he asks. He rubs his hands together. I don’t like the gesture, or his leering expression. After what I saw in the stairwell, I pity poor Jo and her life with him. “Let’s do this,” he says. My gut tightens and I pull back the lower half of my facemask, so I can bite my nails.

“So the first civil war in the pod didn’t achieve anything?” I ask, taking Quinn by the arm.

“Well, it was enough to make my father and Ronan turn against the Ministry. Will you come back with me?” he asks.

“Yes,” I tell him. “Of course, I will.”

The orangery is an enormous conservatory attached to the east wing of the main house. Along three sides are rows of Sequoians gawking at us, and on the remaining fourth side is a stage decorated with a red banner that reads For Air, We Pair. It doesn’t even make sense: the only way to re-oxygenate the planet is to grow trees.

Vanya is standing under the banner wearing a red robe, although hers has no hood and plunges at the neckline where it’s held in place with a metal pin. Maks steers us to some empty chairs, then steps up onto the stage and stands next to Vanya.

We sit.

“A Pairing Ceremony is our most valued celebration,” Vanya says. “Through pairings, we preserve the human race from extinction. Along with pairings, these candidates will learn their vocations. They will become troopers, responsible for the group’s physical needs; academics, responsible for the group’s mental needs; or benefactors, responsible for the group’s spiritual needs.” I look around the room. I haven’t met anyone here who seems particularly spiritually enlightened, and she must have forgotten that humans and overpopulation was the reason for The Switch in the first place. Cut down the trees to feed the people—what a good plan that turned out to be.

“I marvel at what we have achieved,” Vanya continues. “We’ve made mistakes and sacrifices along the way, but we are stronger for it, and unlike other groups who have fallen, we prevail.” Vanya looks down at our group and I nearly give her the finger. It isn’t our fault The Grove perished. “Many of the candidates are refugees. Sequoia is the last stronghold against the Ministry and we defend our right, not only to breathe, but to breed a new people invincible to the elements.” The audience cheers. I look along at Silas, but he’s focused on the floor, his cheeks burning, his hands curled into fists. I wouldn’t put it past him to start something right now, but we can’t win if we try to battle these people. There are too many of them. When we leave, we should simply sneak away.

Vanya calls forward a set of candidates. “Song Jackson, Dorian Chasm, Juno McIntire, Martha Spencer, Quinn Caffrey, and Clarice Bird, please come onto the stage,” Vanya says. Dorian is the only person to stand. “All of you,” Vanya says.

“Here goes nothing,” Quinn says, and files onto the stage with the others. Most of them seem petrified, or at least nervous, but not Dorian. Since when did he decide that this was what he wanted?

“I present to you . . . our academics,” Vanya announces. There are cheers, presumably from other academics. “Please cover your heads,” Vanya directs. The hoods completely shroud the top halves of their faces. “The pairings have been scientifically chosen to ensure each person in Sequoia has a mate who is a true fit.” Vanya consults a list. “Please hold out your hands.” Vanya takes Song and another person’s hand and guides them to the front of the stage. “Presenting Song Jackson and Martha Spencer,” she says. They are made to kneel, then Vanya places a hand on each of their heads and closes her eyes. “Future generations will mark these days. May your union assist humanity. And may you strive for the greater good.”

“For the greater good,” the room chants. Vanya bows as though she’s performed a magic trick and pushes back the hoods on their robes. Song and Martha look at each other for the first time. Is he trembling? Vanya forces them to hold hands, and Song stumbles as they stand. Martha holds him up. After what happened to Holly, I’m surprised he’s been so composed about the process until now.

Vanya chooses another pair: Quinn and the girl called Clarice. Quinn’s the only one on stage wearing a mask, and I can sense the audience staring at him. He and Clarice kneel before Vanya who gives her speech and unites them.

Dorian is next, and once he has been paired, he leads his partner, Juno, to the side where he immediately lets go of her hand. Now he’s seen her, a round-faced, plain-looking girl with mild acne, he doesn’t look as keen on conforming. He leans as far away from Juno as he can.

Maks directs them to a set of seats at the back of the stage. There’s nothing funny about the pairings and nothing funny about Sequoia either, but seeing Dorian disappointed, his illusions shattered, makes me smile.

Vanya announces that there will be another group of academics. She calls out names I don’t recognize, and more robed candidates mount the stage. I blot out her voice and gaze through the glass ceiling at the black sky dotted with blinking stars. It looks just like the night I slept in the trees at The Grove—before the whole world came crashing to the ground. The peace I felt in those moments was like nothing else, curling up in the thick silence of space.

It isn’t long until my name is called. “Alina Moon, Silas Moon, Wren Darson, Sugar Collins, and Abel Boone, please come up.” And I am facing a hundred Sequoians shifting impatiently in their seats. Those who are paying attention are peering at Silas and me peculiarly, because, like Quinn, we’re wearing facemasks. But they can go screw themselves—they know nothing about who we are or what we’ve sacrificed to be here.

Apart from Silas, who can’t be my other, the only other male is Abel. It shouldn’t make me happy—none of this is right—but I’m glad for the facemask and hood, so no one will see my relief.

“Let me present the troopers,” Vanya says, and then Silas’s name is announced along with Wren’s. I can’t imagine what he must be thinking or feeling. Losing Inger is bad enough, but now this. Now her.

And Vanya speaks again. “Presenting Abel Boone and Sugar Collins,” she says. My chest tightens. I pull back the hood a few inches and watch Abel and Sugar hold hands and awkwardly step aside. Senseless jealousy ripples through me. There is a murmuring in the audience because I am the last candidate. Does this mean I won’t be paired? It feels like a blessing not to be, and yet. . . . My stomach knots.

Vanya forces me to kneel and places a hand on my head as she did with the others. All I can see from under my hood are the feet of the audience. Vanya clears her throat and this is enough to silence the murmuring crowd. “A person gets paired once. This has always been our rule. But what if a pairing goes wrong? What if, when we check the test results, we discover an error? Jo Rose fled Sequoia and returned to us a few days ago. Why did she flee? She knew she was wrongly stationed, and as a result we have retested her and discovered that she never should have been made a trooper nor paired. Jo has been reevaluated and will become a benefactor, and like all benefactors, she will be our conscience. She will spend her days in a meditative state and attract good energy to Sequoia. This is a role only a select few are cut out for, and it is a role many find difficult to understand. Jo is desperately needed.” The audience is silent, soaking in the news. “Jo’s other will be re-paired today.”

No . . .

I bite on my tongue, and the floor creaks as he kneels. The blood pumping through my ears thrums. Silas and I should have escaped last night when we had the chance, or this morning like he suggested.

We’d seen enough.

My hood is removed and Maks is smiling at me using only one side of his mouth. He offers me his hand. I have no choice but to take it and join the others at the side of the stage.

Maks puts an arm around my waist and tries to pull me close. “Don’t!” I say, but he leaves his hand resting on my hip. So I pinch it—hard.

All he does is laughs and moves his hand to the back of my neck, where he pulls on the straps of my facemask. “Careful,” he whispers.

Vanya is speaking again, inviting Maude and Bruce onto the stage. They are pronounced benefactors. “That’s about right. Always been generous, me,” Maude says, which gets a laugh.

The ceremony comes to an end and we’re escorted out. The audience is on its feet applauding, but I can’t help noticing that some of the faces look irredeemably sad.

Someone stands on the hem of my robe, and when I turn, Abel is shuffling after me holding Sugar’s hand. He has the same terrified stare he had when we were stealing from the biosphere. “I’m sorry for asking you to stay. I had no idea you’d get him,” he whispers. Thankfully, Maks is several paces ahead and can’t hear.

“It’s too late for apologies,” I say, though this isn’t really his fault.

Abel lets go of Sugar, who squints when he presses his mouth close to my ear. “Maude and Bruce are in trouble. And so is Jo,” he says.

“What?” I stop walking.

“They could die. We have to—” He stops as Maks pushes back through the crowd to get to me.

“Alina,” Maks growls. “Come on.”

“Abel?” I say, but he can’t tell me any more because Maks has my arm and is dragging me away.

34 BEA

The sound of an engine puttering to a halt in the street below wakes me. And then Jude Caffrey’s voice. “RONAN!”

Ronan tears out of the room as I crawl off the bed. By the time I get to the window, he’s already with Jude Caffrey, standing next to the buggy. Jude puts his arm over Ronan’s shoulder, and for a moment I imagine it’s Quinn. My nose tingles: Ronan, Quinn, and I have all lost our fathers.

It’s dawn and the buildings draw thick belts of golden light across the street. I step away from the window. I’m really doing this—I’m teaming up with Jude Caffrey.

Footsteps knock on the stairs and Ronan appears. “Ready?” A shaft of light illuminates the top half of his face. His eyes are bloodshot, dark circles beneath them. He must have been up all night.

“Did you tell him?” I ask. He comes to the corner where I’m scooping my things into a backpack and takes my hand. I snatch it away. “Does he know about me?”

“He knows.”

“He’ll help? He’ll protect me and recruit Resistance members to the army?”

“Yes,” he says, and beams. I throw my arms around him, unable to contain my own joy. “Oh, Ronan, do you think we can really oust the Ministry?”

“We’re about to try,” he says.

He pulls several packets of nutrition and protein bars and two spare airtanks from his backpack and throws them on the floor. I frown. “You said some drifters were harmless. They need them more than I do,” he says. He tugs on the backpack’s drawstrings and throws it over his shoulder. We stand facing each other. After today, we probably won’t get many more moments alone, but I can’t think what to say.

Jude calls up from the road, and Ronan looks at the window, then at me, and finally at the door. He fiddles with the straps on his facemask. “Come on,” he says.

Outside, Jude Caffrey looks me up and down and sighs. “Bea Whitcraft . . . I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“You mean you didn’t want to,” I respond.

“No. No, I probably didn’t,” he says. “But here we are.” Jude stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth. He looks at my disheveled appearance and then at Ronan. “Sorry I couldn’t get here yesterday. Things are hectic in the pod.”

Ronan shrugs. “You’re here now. I wondered whether you’d come at all.”

Jude allows himself a small smile. “You sure you want to come back?” he asks me, and I nod. “If the ministers get a hold of you, you’re in deep shit,” Jude says. “We’re all in very deep shit.”

“They won’t find her,” Ronan says, leading me to the buggy. “Take the front seat,” he says.

And sit next to Jude for an hour? I shake my head. “I’ll be fine in the back,” I say, and climb in.

Soon the buggy is bumping along the road. None of us talk for a long time. And then Jude turns around and looks at me. “Quinn is alive, isn’t he?” he asks. “You wouldn’t make it up.”

I’ve never heard him speak like this—with feeling for his son.

“He’s alive,” I say. “And he’s coming.”

35 RONAN

The pod has plenty of exit-only doors so rebels can be ejected. Jude guides Bea to one of them, where she waits in the dark.

Jude and I enter through the official border gates.

A steward is scrolling through a pad. When he sees me, he stops. “Welcome back, Mr. Knavery. I’m sure you did your best,” he says. He looks at his colleague and smirks.

I’m so tired, I react immediately, resting my index finger on the hollow of the steward’s chest. He steps back and I follow him, keeping my finger where it is. “Be careful.”

His nose twitches. “I only meant—”

I interrupt. “I know what you meant.” He looks at his colleague. I could easily sidestep him. I decide not to. “Move,” I say, and he does.

Jude is close behind. We clamber into the waiting buggy. “What does that girl do to people?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Bea Whitcraft turns boys into men.”

Every few blocks there’s a checkpoint, but the stewards only have to catch a glimpse of Jude, and wave us through. “Security hasn’t been relaxed then,” I say.

He snorts. “Nightly raids on auxiliary homes began two days ago. More speed cameras, and there’s a call to ban auxiliaries from Zone One altogether.”

We pull up in front of the Justice Building. Jude climbs out of the buggy, and I follow him up the steps into the foyer. A gaggle of ministers squint when they see me. I’m the first of the Special Forces to return.

“Have you heard from any of the others?” I ask Jude. “Has Rick knifed anyone yet?”

“He radioed in and told me that he’s about to rappel down a well because he’s convinced he can hear people.” He laughs. “I get a feeling the others will be back soon. Robyn knows she’s out there for nothing.”

“She’s as disillusioned as I am,” I say.

“You’re not to involve her in what we’re doing. The more Premiums who know, the more chance we have of being betrayed.”

We scan our pads and walk down a hallway lined with doors. The light bulbs flicker. A moan comes from somewhere, and I stop. Jude keeps walking. “We’ve made over thirty arrests since you’ve been away. Suspected RATS mostly. That’s a hunger pang you’re hearing,” he says.

“Why are you starving them?”

Jude stops. “The ministers believe they’ll talk when they’re hungry. Your sister comes down daily to goad them with smoothies and cakes.”

“My sister?”

“She’s working as Lance Vine’s assistant. Seems to be enjoying it.”

I can hardly believe it. Niamh has taken a job?

Jude pushes open a door marked CAUTION—AirtankS REQUIRED. He steps outside and a rush of cold air fills the hallway. He returns with Bea. “In here,” he says, jangling a heavy set of old-fashioned keys and pushing us into an empty cell with condensation running down the walls. “I just want to go on record as saying that pod ministers come and go, but the Ministry has always ruled. They won’t give up power without a fight.”

“And that’s exactly what they’re going to get,” I say. I make it sound easy, though it will be harder than anything I’ve ever done. “Have you advertised for soldiers?”

“We’ve had hardly any applications. The lure of living with the other civic workers in Zone Two doesn’t attract anyone anymore. Not now they suspect what’s going on.” He scrapes his hair back with his fingers.

“In a few days, you’ll have hundreds of applicants. Maybe thousands. Bea and I are going to find what’s left of the Resistance and explain the plan. They’ll get people to sign up.”

Jude chews on his thumbnail. “I’m endangering my family,” he says.

“But you’re already involved.” I raise my voice without meaning to and Jude puts a finger to his lips. He can’t back out now—we need him. “You’re harboring a wanted terrorist.”

He looks at Bea and hangs his head, defeated. “I know,” he says.

“Where’s Jazz?” Bea whispers.

Jude rubs his temples. “She’s recovering in the infirmary.”

“And her leg?” she asks.

“She almost lost it, but she’s okay.”

“Did they question her?” I ask.

“She said she was a drifter’s daughter and her parents died at The Grove fighting the Resistance. She claims to hate the Resistance for killing her parents. She’s quite the actress.”

Bea laughs and we both look at her, surprised by the sound. “She’s a performer,” she explains. “Can I see her?”

“I don’t think so,” Jude says. He opens a metal locker in the corner of the cell. He pulls out a steward’s uniform and hands it to Bea. “You’ll have to wear this,” he says.

“We also need to find a way to keep the Resistance who are on the Ministry’s hit list out of jail,” I say.

“Old Watson will know where they are,” Bea says.

“Who’s Old Watson?” Jude asks. Bea presses her lips together and inspects the steward’s uniform. She isn’t ready to trust him.

He rolls his eyes. “Where are we hiding you, anyway?” he asks.

“We’re taking her to my house,” I say.

36 ALINA

The room I’m to share with Maks contains a double bed, a couple of nightstands, and a dresser. He closes the door, locks it, then runs his eyes up and down the length of my body. Whatever I’m expected to do isn’t going to happen, so I turn my back on him, take off my robe, and stuff it into the trash can. “Anything else you’d like to take off?” The floor creaks, and when I wheel around, he’s so close, his breath is warm against my forehead. “You don’t have to be frightened,” he says. He pushes my hair away from my face, and I shudder. I don’t want him near me. I push him back and try to look tougher than I feel.

I do a quick scan of the room in case there’s anything I could use as a weapon, and hone in on a clock with a stone base. If he tries anything, he’ll get it to the back of his head. “Stay on that side of the room,” I say, pointing. He rubs his mouth, and before I can get anywhere near the clock, he grabs the back of my head and pulls my face close to his.

“You think I’m going to pop your cherry without permission?” he says. With his free hand, he untucks his shirt from his pants.

Is it that obvious I’m a virgin? I stay very still. “I don’t want you,” I say. Regardless of how scared I am, I mustn’t let him see it.

“Oh, come on. I’ve noticed the way you look at me.”

I hold his stare. “Where’s Jo?” I ask.

He licks his top teeth and sucks on them. “You heard Vanya. She’s a benefactor now.”

“Her and your baby?”

He releases me, goes to the window, and throws it open, breathing in the night air like I never have. “You think you’ve got us figured out. Well, you don’t. If anything, you’ve got us all wrong.” When he looks back at me his eyes are watery, but I don’t buy it. I saw him manhandling Jo. And Silas and I saw his lackeys burying a body. It’s impossible we’ve got them wrong.

“I’m sleeping on the floor,” I say.

“Fine,” he says. “Jo did that for a year. Eventually she jumped into bed with me, and it had nothing to do with the cold.” He pulls his shirt over his head and reveals his chest. Maybe he thinks I’ll be won over by his body. I look away and lie down on the floor.

We should never have come here.

And the only thing to do now is to get back to the pod and make it the home it might have always been.

37 RONAN

Niamh isn’t at home, and I manage to smuggle Bea through the garden unseen. When Wendy opens the annex door she smiles and waves us inside, and within minutes of getting to know Bea, she offers up her own bed. She was the only person I could turn to.

I try to convince Bea to rest for a few hours, but once she’s eaten and showered, she’s back in the steward uniform and ready to find the Resistance. “I’ll sleep when I don’t have to do it with one eye open,” she says. She might not have trained with the Special Forces, but she’s as fired up to fight as I ever was.

Bea presses the buzzer on Old Watson’s door. “You stay hidden or he won’t let us in,” she says. She takes off the steward’s jacket and hat and stands back from the peephole so he’ll get a good view of her.

“Watson,” Bea says, as he opens the door wide and grabs her hands.

“What in Mother Earth’s name are you doing here? And what’s with the bloody uniform?” Old Watson says. He’s about to pull her inside, when he spots me. He lets go of Bea’s hands and tries to close the door, but Bea has her foot wedged in it.

“He’s on our side,” she says.

We follow Old Watson as he retreats into his dingy flat and sits on a lumpy couch. I peer into the room’s dark recesses and gasp. He has rows and rows of what look like real plants growing in his living room. “What are those?” I ask, stunned he’s managed to achieve something like this right under the Ministry’s nose.

“They grew from clippings from the biosphere,” Bea says matter-of-factly. And she never thought to mention it? I go to the plants, pull a leaf from one of them, and rub it between my fingers. It’s waxy and green on one side, rough and gray on the other.

Bea sits next to Old Watson and gives him an awkward, sideways hug. I clear a stash of cups and glasses from a side table and sit on it. “Do you know where the Resistance is hiding?” Bea asks.

Old Watson scratches his head. “No idea what you’re talking about,” he says, and looks at me.

“The Grove’s gone,” I say. “The only option for people now is to fight back.”

Old Watson’s chin trembles. “What about . . . Silas and Alina?” he stutters.

Bea takes his hand. “They made it out. And Quinn’s bringing them here. Together we’re going to free everyone, Watson.” She sounds certain, but before he even hears the plan, Old Watson drops his head in his hands and groans.

“You haven’t been here since the riots, Bea. It’s pointless trying to win.”

“We have Ronan now, and Jude Caffrey,” Bea tells him.

“Jude Caffrey? Why would you trust him after what he did to Quinn?” Bea swallows hard. There’s no need to remind her about Quinn or what Jude Caffrey’s capable of. “And why would you trust Cain Knavery’s son?” he says like I’m not in the room.

“Caffrey’s going to recruit auxiliaries as soldiers,” I tell him. “The Ministry’s going to arm people who will turn around and destroy it.”

Old Watson stares at me and then at Bea as he digests this plan. “You serious?” he asks. Bea nods.

Old Watson breathes through his nose loudly and hobbles to the balcony doors, where he opens a pair of threadbare curtains and looks down into Zone Three. “If Lance Vine finds out you’re plotting against him, you’ll wake up with your guts wrapped around your throat.”

“Are you willing to take a chance like that, Ronan?” Bea asks.

“I am,” I say.

Old Watson snatches up a tattered cardigan hanging on the back of a dining chair. “I’m getting too long in the tooth for this,” he says.

The existing Resistance members are scattered through the pod to prevent them all being captured in one lucky raid, but Old Watson knows where Harriet and Gideon are hiding. He guides us through the alleyways of Zone Three to a particularly dilapidated block of auxiliary flats. The winch is broken and we have to climb twelve flights.

Old Watson wheezes and raps on a door three times, then rings the bell twice. It’s immediately opened by a tall woman with her hair slicked back into a bun. Right away she spots me and pulls a handgun from a belt at her waist.

“He’s with me, Harriet,” Bea says, stepping in front of me.

“Bea?” Harriet says, lowering her gun and taking in Bea’s uniform.

“It’s a disguise,” Bea says. “Can we come in?”

Harriet leads us to the kitchen, where we sit and explain. Harriet and Gideon listen patiently. They wait for us to go through everything at our own pace, and when we’re through, Gideon goes to the sink and fills a pot with water from the boiling tap. He throws in a few teaspoons of dark brown powder, stirs, and plunks it on the table along with a few chipped mugs. Old Watson pours himself a helping and sips. Like his place, the flat is packed with plants and cuttings steeped in water. All other available space has been used to store sleeping bags and pillows.

Gideon sits down and leans back in his chair. “Jude Caffrey is a scumbag who finished off his own son.”

“Quinn’s alive,” Bea says, and lowers her gaze.

Harriet folds her arms across her chest. “Well, we can’t apply,” she explains, “we’re wanted fugitives.”

“But you can persuade others to apply. It shouldn’t be hard to find auxiliaries willing to rebel,” I say, speaking up for the first time. Bea and I have discussed the plan, but maybe we’re being delusional. Bea nods encouragingly. “The riot didn’t make a dent because it was impromptu. This way, the Resistance will begin to get training, and more importantly, weapons. We’ll have bigger numbers and better organization.”

“With all the nightly raids, we’ll be lucky to last a few more days without getting caught,” Gideon says. “We’re only alive because we’re always on the move. As soon as the meters show an empty apartment’s using oxygen, they come for us.”

“So what are you saying?” Harriet asks her husband.

“The border’s closed, as is the biosphere. They’ve shut us down,” he responds.

“Not yet, they haven’t. Just stay on the move and if we can get hold of any airtanks we’ll get them to you,” Bea says. “You continue to grow, and we’ll all recruit and keep training to breathe with low oxygen.”

Old Watson yawns and drains his mug. “So whatever way you look at it, it’s either a war, or capture and death,” he says.

“That’s right,” Bea says. “Now let’s get on it.”

I ensconce Bea in Wendy’s annex and head into the house. The toilet flushes and Lance Vine comes into the kitchen zipping up his fly. “Ronan,” he says. He wipes his hands on the front of his pants, which are an inch too short for his spindly legs.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, Pod Minister,” I say. He’s the last person I expected to see. I focus hard on his face, so I don’t spontaneously look out at Wendy’s annex.

“Really.” Vine pauses, giving me time to respond, but I stand stolid. “Niamh’s been helping me type up a new bill. I’ve been admiring your lovely home, actually. Real marble?” He touches the kitchen counter and whistles. “Don’t think any of the ministers live in such splendor. But then, Cain was always a bit of a hedonist.” He opens a cupboard and peers at the array of glasses and tableware. He smiles. “So no signs of the RATS, then?” I shake my head. “Time to get the zips fired up, I’d say.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I say—Jude will have to deal with Lance Vine. “What’s the bill you’re working on?” I take out my pad and scroll through the messages, so he won’t think I’m too interested.

“We’re siphoning oxygen from empty apartments or tenants who don’t pay their taxes. It’s only fair.” He watches me.

“People will die,” I say.

“RATS are squatting and using air for free.”

“You’re back!” Niamh is standing beaming under the doorframe, but she doesn’t go so far as to rush at me for a hug.

“Your brother seems unsure about the new bill,” Vine tells her.

Niamh tuts. “He acts tough, but Ronan’s a softie.”

“Is that so?” Vine asks.

“Only where the innocent are concerned,” I say, hardening my gaze. He doesn’t frighten me half as much as my father could.

“Well, RATS are far from innocent,” Niamh says pointedly, trying to prove to Vine that we’re safely on his side.

“How can you know that for sure?” Vine asks. Niamh hesitates, frowns, and is about to respond when Vine smiles playfully. “Just kidding,” he says, and throws his jacket on. “It’s late. I’ll let you both get to bed.” And without another word, he heads out the back door.

Niamh sits on the stool next to me and lets her head flop onto the countertop. “He thinks I’m stupid,” she says. She groans and closes her eyes. “I bet he’ll sack me.”

I make her sit up and look at me. “What are you doing working with the Ministry anyway?”

She stares at me like she’s trying to remember who I am. “The RATS killed Daddy.”

“Vine isn’t going to bring him back,” I say gently.

“Lance Vine was Daddy’s friend.” She goes to the window. “I want to be useful.”

And I understand that. I want to be useful, too. But why must we be on different sides? Why can’t she see what’s happening?

“You should go to bed,” I say.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Niamh says. She fills her water glass and strolls out of the kitchen.

I’m fooling myself if I think I can convince Niamh that our father was responsible for his own death.

And I can’t be her conscience; it would be pointless to try.