Resist

43 RONAN

The gymnasium is packed with the new recruits. They’re scrawny and sunken-eyed, but there are at least fifty of them, and although their bodies look weak, they are doggedly determined. “Another set! Go!” Jude bellows through a megaphone, and they’re off—climbing ropes, leaping onto vaulting horses, swinging on the rings, or jogging around the track.

Jude sees me and makes his way over. “Not bad, huh?” he says. He looks proud. He should be. I can hardly believe it.

“You managed this in a few days?” I say, as an auxiliary runs past us. Runs!

“They managed it,” he says. “See her?” He points at a girl on a balancing beam with braids twisted into buns at the sides of her head.

“What about her?” I ask.

“First time with a rifle she shot the bull’s-eye dead on. I thought it was a fluke. She repeated it three more times.”

I laugh. “She must have joined the Resistance a while ago but managed to stay off the radar.” Jude nods. “Any sign of Quinn and his friends yet?”

“I’m afraid not,” he says. A boy sprints past us and Jude claps. “Good job!”

“When will they be ready to go?” It has to be soon. I can’t keep the Resistance in my studio much longer. It’s only a matter of time before Niamh starts to suspect something.

He sighs. “It usually takes six months for the basics. I’m condensing it into four weeks.”

“That’s still too long.”

“What’s the rush?”

I haven’t said anything about hiding the Resistance in my studio. Jude would only have freaked out about the risk I was taking, and I didn’t want him to get cold feet and wash his hands of us. But it’s time for him to see how urgent this is. And he should shoulder more of the burden.

“Can you break for half an hour? I want to show you something.”

He checks the clock on the wall. “I have another unit coming at eight. And another at ten. I finish at midnight.”

“Fifteen minutes,” I say. Jude consults his pad.

“Ten,” he says. “Another set after this and then rotate!” he tells the soldiers. They don’t groan or huff or any of the things I used to do. They smile, happy to be driven hard.

I tap on the studio door a couple of times, then let myself in. Bea is standing with her arms wrapped around herself. Jude gazes at her and then at the people strewn on the floor, the table with boxes of protein bars and jugs of water arranged on it, and the pile of airtanks in the corner. “What is this?” His jaw tenses. “You haven’t . . . I thought they were living in the alleys.”

“We’re running out of space,” I tell him. Old Watson brought me another five fugitives yesterday. The studio is crammed to capacity, and there’ll be more.

“With Niamh downstairs? You’re asking to get caught, and when you are, we’re all in for it.” A few people are meditating on their sleeping bags.

“Harriet’s training us as best she can,” Bea says. “We do sit-ups and push-ups, yoga and meditation. It’s only been a few days and already I’m so much stronger. If only we could lower the levels of oxygen in here.”

Jude presses his lips together like he’s preventing himself from saying something cruel. “The buggy’s waiting. I have to get back.” He charges down the stairs.

“Have you asked him yet?” Bea asks. I shake my head and she shoos me out the door.

By the time I reach the bottom, Jude’s out of sight. I catch him as he reaches the buggy. “This is the last straw. We’ll be hanged. I should never have agreed to any of it,” he says, climbing into the back of the buggy.

I stick my head through the window. “You have to train them quicker.”

“I’m doing the best I can.” He rubs his temples.

“Can you hide a few in your house?” I whisper, keeping an eye on the driver.

Jude laughs, banging his fist against his leg. “You can’t be serious.” He pauses. “You are. You’re serious.” He laughs again so hard he coughs. When he’s recovered, his expression becomes hard as granite. “The girl doesn’t love you. If that’s why you’re doing this. If you think you’ll win her over, you’re going to be disappointed. I’ve known her since she was a child and she’s always been devoted to Quinn. And he’s been devoted to her. I don’t like it, but that’s the way it is.” He stares at me: a challenge. And I have to think about it. Is all this about Bea and some latent feelings I have for her? It’s true she makes me want to be a better person and fight for a better world. I think of her earnest round face framed by black hair. She’s pretty and smart and brave and kind, but Jude’s right—she doesn’t look at me with eager eyes. Maybe that’s why I’ve never let myself be drawn to her. I know it would be hopeless, and hopeless is not the love I want.

“Something should have been done about the Ministry a long time ago. Bea woke me up.”

Jude wipes his eyes. “I have a double garage. But with the buggy in there, it wouldn’t leave a lot of room,” he says.

“Can I give you ten people?”

“You can give me eight. But we do it at night. I don’t want Cynthia finding out. She’s close to her due date.”

“Tomorrow,” I say.

Jude leans forward and taps the glass between the backseat and the driver. “Get me out of here,” he says.

44 ALINA

Abel knows the area better than anyone, so he has been heading up the group, finding the safest route down slopes and over streams for the last three days. The rest of us stay in small groups, and we do a regular headcount, so no one gets left by the wayside.

When we left Sequoia, we scuttled along lanes and through fields for what felt like hours. And we never slowed. Not when the benefactors got weak or when those of us who are inefficient breathers had to increase the density of oxygen in our airtanks. Only when the children began to cry did we stop to feed them.

We’re huddled among a cluster of moss-covered boulders by the edge of a half-frozen lake. Mostly we’re quiet; if we hear anything, we’re ready to move again at a moment’s notice. It’s night, so we have barely enough light to see what we’re doing. When the sun is up, we’ll move on.

“What was that?” I whisper. I can’t rest and jump at the slightest crackling. When the Ministry was after me, I was afraid, but it was a faceless enemy. I can’t think of anything more horrible than being caught by Maks.

Maude stops stirring the powdered formula and water. She clicks her tongue. “I don’t hear nothing. Just these poor babies’ tummies grumbling. Mine, too. We got any more grub for the adults?” She lifts the milky spoon out of the bowl, licks it, and grimaces. I go back to rocking Lily, the child I’ve been carrying. She wriggles and reaches out to Maude. Maude pulls Lily onto her knee and forces a spoon into her mouth. “Shh, pet,” she soothes.

My stomach is knotted in hunger, and I only have one protein bar left. I break off a small piece of it and pass it to Maude, who chews and swallows it in a few seconds. I hand the rest of it to Jo. She looks down at the offering and wells up. She has plenty of reasons to cry, but I pretend I don’t notice and join Silas, who’s poring over a map. He’s put himself in charge of the route, and no one’s arguing, not even Dorian, whose clamor for control has come to a swift end. “We’ve almost no food,” I tell him. We didn’t have much in the first place, but now we’re dangerously low.

Silas points to a spot on the map. “Another day at most,” he says. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure that’s where we’ll find solar respirators. We can leave everyone there and head for the pod.”

“Great, Silas, but you said that yesterday.” He continues to study the map. “Silas?” I say, and prod him. He looks up. His eyes are deep in their sockets and he has a glazed expression, like he can’t really see me properly. I’ve always looked up to him; he’s older than me and tougher, but sometimes I forget Silas is just as breakable as any of us. “Have you slept since we left Sequoia?” I ask.

He turns to Song, who’s sitting against one of the boulders, a toddler asleep in his arms. A girl of around eight, who’s been helping Maude carry supplies, is asleep with her head on his shoulder. “Do you think there might be a way to transfer the air from the solar respirators to airtanks?” he says.

“It’s possible,” Song says wearily. Being on the run is hard enough, but doing it and carrying kids is backbreaking. Song checks the gauge on the toddler’s airtank and puts a hand to his chest to make sure he’s breathing.

Bruce has taken over stirring their formula, and Maude is busy feeding the babies. I go to him. “Bruce . . . How did you survive when you were drifting? What did you eat?”

He clanks the spoon against the bowl. “Well, it’s too cold for berries, but if we can make it back to the city, we can find us some houses that ain’t been ransacked. Plenty of supplies in houses,” he says. He pulls me toward him. “But listen . . . Maude and me were talking about it. We’ve had a good go of things. If it gets bad, and I mean stinking terrible bad, I’m happy for you to chew on my old bones.” He smiles, and when I try to pull away, he clings to my arm. “I’m serious, Alina.” With his other hand, he makes the motion of slicing his own throat.

I put my hand to my mouth, and try not to heave. Bruce pats me and laughs, but how is what he’s saying or how I feel or any of this mess funny? “Get off me.” I push him. “And if you ever say anything like that again, I’ll break your nose.”

I stomp off.

I want to be alone.

The children have been fed and most are sleeping along with the benefactors. The rest of us are huddled in a circle to stay warm. Quinn sidles up to me. I surprise myself by being pleased to have him close. He puts the opening of his blowoff valve to my ear. “We have to tell them what Vanya’s planning,” he says. I nod. He’s waited a couple of days to bring it up, but with the city in sight, he’s worrying about Bea. And if Clarice was right, we should all be worried—the pod will soon be a graveyard. “If we want to save anyone, we have to split up. The children are slowing us down,” he says. He isn’t being callous; if he were, he would have left a long time ago. And he’s right: Vanya has a zip and could be at the pod already. Then what use will a revolt be?

I drag myself off the ground. “We have to ask the group,” I say.

“I’m heading for the pod in the morning, Alina. I hope I’ll have company, but I’ll go alone if I have to.”

“You’ll have company,” I tell him. “Listen up,” I say loudly, and briefly tell everyone what we know about the brewing coup in the pod and Vanya’s demented plan to cut off its air supply.

“You kept this from me?” Silas exclaims angrily. But at least he knew half the truth. Song, Dorian, Maude, and Bruce have been kept in the dark about everything. I just figured they all had enough on their plates. Anyway, it’s too late for Silas to be upset.

“You can have a go at her another time. Tonight, let’s talk about what we’re going to do,” Quinn says, sounding nothing like the person I met only weeks ago. He’s grown a backbone. And a purpose.

Dorian snickers. “Oh sure, let’s think . . . How can we save ourselves and a load of children, join up with rebelling Resistance members, and then stop Vanya’s armed troops from irreparably damaging the pod and killing everyone in it?” I pick up a pebble and hurl it at him. The last thing we need is his sarcasm. Lives are at stake. “Who threw that?” he says, putting his hand to his forehead.

“I wish I had. Keep your trap shut for once, you dozy twit,” Maude says. “Me and Bruce know how to take care of the little ’uns and survive out here. And we got a map to help us find air. You go and save the world. Save Bea,” she says.

Song raises his hand. “We have no food, our air is low, and we have one gun between us. I’m not sure we’re in a position to be saving anyone.”

“All we have to do is warn them. Let’s try not to forget that there are thousands of lives at stake,” I say.

“And most of those people are auxiliaries. They’re your people,” Quinn adds.

“How can we warn the Ministry without getting killed?” Abel asks quietly, pretending this is the first he’s heard of Vanya’s plan. If I had time, I’d call him out on it because if Jo knew about it, so did he. But it isn’t worth wasting my breath.

“I’ll speak to my father,” Quinn says. “He’s on our side.”

“What if he isn’t? You saw what he did to The Grove. What if Bea’s wrong about him and Ronan Knavery?” Dorian asks.

“So maybe I’ll be arrested. But by then my father will know, and he has nothing to lose by being prepared.”

“I’ll go with Quinn,” I say. A baby lying in Maude’s arms squeals. She puts her knuckle in its mouth and it settles.

“I’ll go, too,” Silas says. “The rest of you help Maude and Bruce find the respirators and keep the others alive. You’ll have to carry two kids apiece.”

“Not a problem,” Song says.

“Then it’s settled,” Silas says. “Now let’s get some sleep. We’ll leave at first light.”

I drift toward the group of benefactors, looking for Lily, when Abel stops me. “The Ministry won’t welcome you. And what if Maks catches you before you get to the border?” I look deep into Abel’s eyes, wondering what it was I ever saw in him. He’s dangerously close to being a coward.

“Maks will make you pay,” Jo says. She has been quiet for most of the trip, but if there’s one thing she can speak to, it’s Maks’s vindictiveness.

“Not if I make him pay first,” I say. It’s bravado; I’m terrified. Taking a risk is all very well, but not when the odds are stacked so high against us. The rate things are going, we’ll all be dead in weeks.

And I can’t help feeling that I’m going to have a notable part to play in everyone’s destruction.

45 RONAN

After spending my second day helping Jude drill the soldiers at the gymnasium, I’m exhausted. I want to have some dinner and go and see Bea, but when I get home, Niamh is pacing the kitchen. Wendy, who is cooking dinner on the stove, shoots me a look I can’t translate as Niamh storms toward me. “Everything okay?” I ask.

“No, it is not.” Niamh has my pad in her hands, which she thrusts at me.

“Were you trying to contact me? I forgot it.” I look down. She’s managed to get into it. But what did she see? I haven’t been sending any incriminating messages or pinging anyone I shouldn’t. I’ve been very careful. “How did you open it?”

“Your password has been the same for years, Ronan. Picasso. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, why do you have a picture of Bea Whitcraft on your pad?”

I freeze. She’s right. At the station I took a photo of Bea, and she told me to delete it. Why didn’t I?

Wendy is stirring the pot furiously. “Anyone hungry?” she asks.

“Well?” Niamh says, prodding me.

I step back and open the photo application on the pad, then scroll through trying to look as nonchalant as possible. “That’s weird. Probably from school or something.”

Niamh snatches the pad from me and pulls up the picture. Bea’s fretful face is vaguely distinguishable—an orange sunset and ramshackle buildings behind her. “I checked the date and location. You took it when you were in The Outlands. Don’t bother lying. You met Bea?” I stare at Bea’s picture, not saying anything. If I look suitably ashamed, will she let it go? “So you did meet her,” Niamh says. “And instead of killing her, you took pictures. What the hell’s going on?”

“I met her, yes. But she’s no threat. She’s living like a drifter, and she’ll die out there. I couldn’t kill her in cold blood, Niamh. I just couldn’t. Could you?”

I mean it to be a rhetorical question because I don’t think Niamh has it in her to kill anyone, but she jabs Bea’s picture with her finger. “Anyone who contributed to the riots and Daddy’s death deserves to die. I’d knife her if I got the chance,” she says. Her face is steel.

“Dinner?” Wendy asks. She is trembling, and I should be, too.

I have to move Bea and the others, and I have to do it soon because if Niamh gets a sniff of who she’s living beneath, we’re all done for.

46 BEA

We’ve been cooped up in Ronan’s attic for a week, and it’s already taking its toll on the group. None of us have showered, and the occasional buckets of water Wendy sneaks in for washing quickly turn brown. The smell is acrid. Conversations are turning into debates, debates into arguments, and Harriet and Gideon are constantly forced to mediate over sleeping spaces. I keep to myself and focus on training.

Today Ronan is late, and when he arrives he’s in a hurry. “Everything okay?” I ask.

“Niamh’s only gone down to the store to get a shake. I can’t stay,” he says. He won’t look at me. Is there something he isn’t saying?

“One of the girls is sick. She’s been on the bucket all day long,” I say.

“Gideon told me. I’m going to try to bring up some loperamide later.”

“Thanks. I was worried about her.” I turn to make sure no one’s listening. “Can I take a shower?” I ask.

He looks at me uneasily. “Downstairs?”

“I need to get out of here,” I admit.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

I wring my hands. “Please.” I sound desperate, and I can’t help it.

He looks down the stairs and taps his index finger against his chin. “I have an en suite bathroom,” he says.

“Perfect.”

His bedroom is larger than the entire apartment I used to share with my parents. He has a monstrous wall-mounted screen at one end facing a set of sofas and easy chairs, and a huge bed at the other end. The adjoining bathroom contains not only a mammoth shower, but also a Jacuzzi tub and double sink. I’m irritated by the extravagance. It doesn’t fit Ronan’s character. But this is his life.

“Towels are in the cupboard,” he says.

I take a quick, hot shower, and when I emerge, Ronan is sitting on his bed rooting through his nightstand. He waves me over. “I have something for you,” he says. I sit next to him and he hands me a printed picture of me with my parents. I trace my finger across their faces. My mother’s sweet, haggard smile, and my father’s unshaven chin. Their frayed shirts and too-tight clothes. I press the picture against my chest.

“Where did you get it?” I wipe the corners of my eyes with my knuckles.

“I went to your old place,” he says.

“You never stop surprising me,” I say. He is not only a better person than I thought he could be, but he’s my friend, too.

“I looked for one of Quinn, but I couldn’t find any and didn’t want to rummage through your stuff,” he says.

I close my eyes, so I can imagine Quinn as Ronan launches himself at me. He throws me onto the bed and covers my body with his own. He presses his face against mine. My instinct is to struggle, but when I hear a voice, I know he’s protecting me.

“Ronan, we need to—” It’s Niamh. “Ronan?” She laughs. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Have you heard of knocking? Get out!” he yells. I bury my face in his pillow. There’s a scuffle and a couple of hard bangs. “She’s gone.” I sit up and he turns the lock on the door, which he should have done when we came into the room in the first place. I deliberately wipe my mouth with the cuff of my sweater. Was there no other way to stop Niamh seeing me?

“Sorry,” he says.

“You didn’t bother locking it?”

Ronan sits on the bed and turns me so I’m looking straight at him. “I’m said I’m sorry. And I’m not them. That’s not what this was.”

“I know,” I say. But every fiber of my body has stiffened anyway.

“You can’t leave until she’s asleep,” he says. I nod and he smiles. He hands me the screen’s remote control and stands. “Watch something trashy. I’ll get us some drinks.” He heads for the door. “Lock it behind me.”

I look at the door closing then retrieve the photo from the nightstand. The girl in the picture is smiling, believing anything is possible. She looks like me, but that girl is dead. And maybe it’s just as well; this world needs a new girl. Someone who doesn’t blame anyone else for her lot.

I don’t wait. I go to the door and peek outside. The chandelier in the hallway dashes the light in all directions. I hold my breath and listen for Niamh, but the house is still, so I tiptoe my way to the staircase. The first step creaks and I pause, putting as much weight as I can on the bannisters. Nothing moves. I take another step, and another, creeping my way to the top. When I reach the door, I knock gently. No one responds. I try again. Maybe everyone is asleep.

I hold my fist a few inches from the door and knock more loudly. Ronan appears at the bottom of the stairs holding a bottle. “What are you doing?” he whispers. I wave him away, irritated that he’s followed me, and knock a last time. And as I do, the door to the attic opens and a grinning man appears. I stare down at Ronan. Did he plan this? Is that why he wanted to keep me in his room?

It’s too late to find out. A sweaty hand drags me inside and knocks me to the floor.

Everyone is standing at the far end of the attic with their hands in the air, and a row of stewards have their guns aimed at the Resistance like a firing squad. Some of the younger teenagers are sniveling. I am towed by my heels to the opposite corner of the room. Harriet looks down at me and catches my eye. She is trying to convey something, but I don’t know what it is. The tall, thin man laughs. I recognize him from Ronan’s description: Lance Vine, the new pod minister. Then Niamh steps out from behind him. She is carrying a small handgun and points it at me, closing one eye as though ready to shoot. “Bea Whitcraft?” she says. She looks mildly pleased and then, as her mind makes the connection between what she’s just witnessed in Ronan’s bedroom and me standing here now, her eyes bulge.

Vine rubs his hands together as though he’s about to be served a large meal. “This is getting better and better,” he says.

Niamh stares at me for a long time, then, remembering herself, shakes her head a little and goes to a heap of blankets. She picks one up between two fingers and, keeping it at arm’s length, studies it. “This is one of Wendy’s, I think,” she says. She doesn’t sound convinced.

Vine scratches his chin. “Isn’t it just your brother whose thumbprint will read for this room?” Niamh has her back to everyone. She bites her bottom lip. It would take an idiot not to guess Ronan’s involvement. And Niamh is not an idiot. But it takes her a moment to find a defense for her brother.

“Wendy has access to the whole house, Pod Minister,” she says, which has to be a lie.

The stewards use the barrels of their guns to nudge the Resistance members toward the staircase, where they stand in a line, but they leave me where I am. I pull myself onto my feet and rest against the studio wall.

The door opens and Ronan marches in. The stewards aim their guns at him. “What the . . .” he says angrily. He waves at the stewards, who keep their guns trained at him. “Lower your weapons and someone tell me what’s going on.” The Pod Minister’s expression is inscrutable. Niamh looks doleful. Neither of them seems to know how to react to Ronan, so I know for sure he had nothing to do with this raid. Not that I really believed he’d betray us. No.

“Wendy’s been up and down those stairs twenty times this week. And then, while you were out this morning, I heard someone sneeze,” Niamh says, her voice a quiver, trying to repair the fact that she’s informed on her own brother. “That’s what I was coming to your room to tell you,” she says, glancing at me.

I am standing apart from the other Resistance members and Ronan turns to me suddenly. Roughly, he turns my face to the light. “Bea Whitcraft?” he says.

Niamh watches Ronan and me, and covers her mouth with her hand. “What should we do with her?” she asks Ronan through her fingers. “She was wandering around the house. She could’ve killed us in our beds.”

“Tried for treason. Her parents provoked the revolt,” Ronan says calmly, keeping his eyes on me. I hope he knows what he’s doing.

“When she’s found guilty she’ll be put to death,” the Pod Minister says. He is quiet and testing. Ronan doesn’t flinch. And neither do any of the Resistance. If I didn’t know Ronan better, I’d believe he was washing his hands of me.

Vine’s mouth twitches. “It doesn’t look good that it’s your studio, Ronan. But if you’re prepared to let this ugly little sub die, the Ministry will have some reason to believe you aren’t part of this.” He sweeps his arm out wide, taking in the room.

“Arrest me, if you think I’m involved. I’ll happily answer your questions,” Ronan says. His expression is cool.

Niamh looks at the stewards. “Go to the annex and arrest our servant.” The stewards look at the Pod Minister, who nods. Niamh speaks again. “And get these RATS out of my house!” She is shrieking, suddenly on the verge of hysteria.

A steward binds my wrists in plastic twine and uses the cold barrel of her rifle against my neck to drive me down the stairs behind the other Resistance members. Without warning, Niamh is beside me, grabbing my arm and spinning me around.

“You and yours are going to pay for what happened to my father,” she snarls, and pushes me down the last few steps so that I fall forward onto my face. When I lick my lips, there’s blood. I roll over and she looks down at me under the lights of the chandelier with nothing but contempt.

A few weeks ago, I’d have whimpered if Niamh touched me. Instead, I pick myself up and stand nose to nose with her. Harriet tries to pull me away, but I won’t be moved, not today. “You don’t scare me, Niamh,” I say.

“Well, you should be terrified,” she says.

I shrug. “If you have to hurt me, that’s your choice.”

But how I react is mine. And I won’t cower to anyone anymore.

47 RONAN

I’m pacing a Zone Three alleyway waiting for Jude, who’s late. I check my pad for the third time. Only a meager light steals its way between the apartment blocks. It’s as dingy as ever. I can’t believe Bea spent her whole life here.

“The senate meeting ran over,” Jude says, appearing at the end of the alleyway. He strides toward me and we shake hands. “Were you followed?”

“Two stewards. I lost them in Zone Two,” I say. “Is Bea okay? What about Wendy?” I’ve been awake all night worrying, and even though Niamh knows what’s happening, I can’t ask her. She hasn’t spoken to me since they found Bea and the Resistance in my studio. I’m just lucky she hasn’t informed on me.

“Lance Vine proposed a private trial and public execution for Wendy and everyone found in the studio. No one opposed.”

“So we’ll stop it,” I say.

Jude takes off his hat and scratches his head. “I have a family, Ronan. I didn’t come here to plot a rescue with you, I came to tell you that . . . I’m out. I’ve given the Resistance members I was keeping in my house airtanks and access to an empty apartment in Zone Two.” He is unapologetic.

How can a man charged with protecting the pod and leading the army give up so easily? I stare at him, wavering between anger and disappointment. “But the soldiers you’re training?”

“I’m discharging them tomorrow for ineptitude.”

“How can you be such a coward?” I say. I thought he’d changed.

But he isn’t hurt by my words. He puts his hat back on and straightens it. “When you’re a father, maybe you’ll understand.”

“Well, I’m not giving up,” I say.

He turns to leave when a siren whistles through Zone Three and winds its way down the alleyway. Jude punches the wall. “NO!” he shouts.

“What’s happening?” I ask. Instinctively, I take the gun I have hidden in the band of my pants and release the safety catch.

Jude pulls me along the alleyway. “It’s the border alarm,” he says. “The pod is under attack.”

Jude pings all the soldiers, Resistance and non-Resistance, and gathers them in the gymnasium. With their uniforms on, I can hardly tell them apart. The walls vibrate with uneasy chatter.

Jude puts his lips to the megaphone. “The pod is under attack. We don’t know from whom, but we have to pull together.”

Robyn has returned from The Outlands and is standing beside me. “Another joke of a war. I’m sick of it.” She’s lost weight and has dark rings beneath her eyes.

“I think this is the real thing,” I tell her. I wish it weren’t. I wish we could have used these recruits to change things in the pod instead of sending them out to fight a war that was never theirs.

“Many of you are inexperienced and scared. I would be, too, but you have to be strong. We are all going to keep it together and . . . live.” He pauses. “Are you ready?” He is shouting, trying to rally the troops like he did at The Grove. The gymnasium crackles with silence.

They aren’t close to ready. Not that it matters. We’re going out to fight. Ministry and Resistance together.

Now.

48 QUINN

The pod is still only this tiny speck in the distance when we hear blasts across the city. The horizon’s clouding over with silver-gray dust. My gut wrenches. If we’re too late, I’ll never forgive myself. Never.

“We have to move faster,” I say, and Alina picks up the pace, jumping over unstrung guitars and a ton of other trash.

I wish I could run faster. Silas and Alina keep stopping so I can catch up, which isn’t all that helpful because as soon as I do, they move on again and I never get to rest. Not that I want to. I have to get to the pod. I have to tell my father what’s happening and find Bea.

As we get closer, the pod becomes clearer, and so do the recycling stations connected to it. “They’re still working,” I call out. Four steam clouds spiral into the sky from the tops of the stations.

Alina stops. “What?” She pushes her hair out of her face with both hands. Her ears are red from the cold, but she’s also sweating from the run.

I’m too out of breath to repeat myself. I point and she nods, taking off after Silas. But no sooner has she caught him up than they both stop and stare. The air is vibrating. It can’t be. But it is.

A zip appears in the sky, guns ready. After all we’ve struggled against, don’t we deserve a bit of luck? But that isn’t how life works, and there’s no time to be a baby about the unfairness of it. We have to move faster.

Less than half an hour later, we’ve made it to within a few hundred feet of the pod’s glass walls, where we hide behind a buggy that has its hood open and engine smoking. We haven’t been spotted because the stewards normally stationed around the pod in concentric circles are protecting the border in four rigid lines. Several gurgling tanks are idling next to them and a handful of stewards are tinkering with the innards of the zips. But no one’s bothering to guard the recycling stations.

“Are we too late?” Alina asks.

“I’m not sure,” Silas says, and the zip we saw earlier appears over the rim of the pod. Without warning it fires at the lines of stewards.

“It’s Maks,” Alina shouts over the propelling zip blades.

The tanks on the ground raise their guns and fire back. The stewards scatter. Loads of them have already fallen to the ground and one of the tanks is in pieces. The zip spins around and comes back, and this time it ignores the army on the ground and fires at one of the recycling stations. A hole appears at the bottom of the station, but the tubing remains intact. A figure appears from a tank not more than fifty feet away and, lifting the visor of his helmet, holds a megaphone to his face. He barks at the stewards. “Back in line!” The voice is my father’s. But why is he keeping the army at the border? Can’t he see what’s happening? The border isn’t under threat. The Ministry zips should be in the air. Their tanks should be attacking Vanya’s zip, so it doesn’t damage any of the recycling stations.

“That’s my dad,” I shout. “We have to tell him what they’re planning.” The zip disappears and everything goes quiet.

“We won’t get a better chance,” Silas says. He pulls a white shirt from his backpack. “Let’s go!” he says. He stands up and, in full view, hurtles toward my father waving the T-shirt above his head. The soldiers who have broken ranks raise their guns. They don’t shoot, but they run toward us.

I wave my arms manically and dash toward my father, who lifts his rifle and points the muzzle at me. “Father!” I shout. “Dad!”

But before I get to him, I’m jumped by two stewards and tackled to the ground. My face hits the dirt. I look up. Alina’s facemask is pulled from her and Silas is kicked to the ground and a foot jammed between his shoulder blades. Alina doesn’t struggle. Has she learned to breathe? But I see no more because a pair of feet in scuffed black boots blocks my view.

“Quinn?”

“Yes,” I croak.

“Release him,” my father tells the stewards. I scramble to my feet and dust myself off as the soldiers dart this way and that, howling at each other and loading their guns. It’s obvious they weren’t ready for this attack.

“They’re after the recycling stations,” I tell my father. “They plan to cut off the air supply.”

“Damn,” he growls as the zip returns, blowing the ground to pieces. I throw myself down and cover my head with my hands. The zip sinks and retreats like they’re playing a game. But they aren’t. They’re just trying to hit the right target.

My father’s lying next to me. He pulls himself to his feet and helps me up. “You need to get the zips in the air,” I tell him.

“They’ve been sabotaged,” he replies. He presses the megaphone against the blowoff valve in his facemask. “Unit Bravo, relocate to Recycling Station North. Juliet and Romeo South. Zulu East. Tango West. Delta, stay at the border. Double time, MARCH!” He looks at Alina and Silas still pinned to the ground. “They’re Resistance,” he tells the stewards, who look stunned and apologetically help Silas up and hand back Alina’s airtank. They must be two of the new recruits armed to help fight against the Ministry, not for it.

“Make us useful,” Alina says.

“This way,” my father says, and we leg it to the border. We slip through the revolving doors and into the tunnel. Someone rushes us from behind and reaches for my father.

“Jude?” It’s Ronan. When he sees me he claps me on the back. “You made it,” he says.

“They want to destroy the recycling stations,” my father tells Ronan, who pushes up the sleeves on his shirt.

“What can we do?” I ask.

“If there’s air rationing, auxiliary houses and the prison will get cut off first,” my father says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bunch of keys. “The Resistance has been imprisoned and that includes Bea. Security will be lax. And Jazz is at the infirmary. You know where that is?” I nod.

“Is there any way to fit everyone with a tank as a precaution?” Alina asks.

“And we need cuttings,” Silas adds. He can’t look at my father, and I don’t blame him. I can hardly look at him myself after what he’s done.

“We keep tanks at the Research Labs.” My father rubs his forehead. “Is it just a zip they have?”

Alina shrugs. “We didn’t stay long enough to find out. But their troops are strong.”

The ground shakes again. A soldier rushes toward us. “General, some of the units are breaking up. We’re awaiting orders.”

“Make sure the south station is covered. It’s the control tower,” my father tells her. He looks at us. “D-day,” he says.

“Shall I come with you?” Ronan asks me.

“He can handle it,” Alina says. “Can’t you?” she looks at me with steely eyes. “Give us guns,” she tells my father.

“Gladly,” he says, and hands his rifle to Silas, who looks at the gun, then at my father, and nods. My father takes the steward’s gun and gives it to Alina.

He holds out his hand to me. I take it and we shake, staring at each other. “However this ends . . .” He pauses. Silas walks away. Alina follows. “You’re a brave person, Quinn,” he says. It’s not an apology, but it’s as much as he can give.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” I say, kind of joking. I pull my hand away and run into Zone One.

49 BEA

It must be at least a day since they threw me into this windowless, airtight cell. I’ve had nothing to eat or drink and my arms and legs are tied to a chair. I wet myself a couple of hours ago. The smell is odious, and I keep shifting in the chair to ease the discomfort of sitting in damp underwear and pants. I won’t snivel and give them the satisfaction of thinking they’ve broken me.

But I cough and my throat is so dry it comes out like a sandy wheeze. I’ve also managed to dribble down my own face. I try to yank my hands free but just tear another layer of skin from my red-raw wrists. I stop struggling at the sound of scraping as a guard opens the cell door.

He holds it open for Niamh Knavery, who stalks in and looks at me as though I’m something someone’s puked up. “It reeks in here,” she says. “Did you piss yourself?” I’d sit straighter in the chair if my limbs didn’t burn, to show her I’m not embarrassed. They’re responsible for the smell in here, not me.

After a brief pause, Lance Vine appears. He covers his nose with his arm. How ironic that he finds me disgusting. “Give us five minutes,” he tells the guard, who nods, the keys tied to his belt jangling as he retreats down the hallway.

“I haven’t done anything,” I say.

“Don’t give me that,” Niamh says, bristling with contempt.

“Your father killed my parents. I have every reason to hate you,” I tell her, though then I’d hate Ronan, too, which I don’t. Neither of them is to blame for who Cain Knavery was.

Vine stands next to Niamh and rubs his nose between his thumb and index finger. “If you ask me, there isn’t any point in delaying things. I’ve heard from Jude Caffrey that it’s getting worse. Time to act.” He steps in front of Niamh and grabs my face, his sweaty hand over my mouth. “We thought we hacked most of you down when we destroyed The Grove. So who’s attacking us?”

“Is there another riot in the pod?” I ask. And is Quinn a part of it? Could he be here? Hope trickles its way back into my body. “If you’re so tough, why aren’t you out there battling the bad guys yourself?”

He smacks me hard across the face. The chair teeters on its back legs and crashes to the floor. I land on my hands tied to the back of the chair and clench my jaw to stop myself from whimpering. I roll to the side and try moving my wrists.

Niamh presses her lips together. “Was Wendy behind all this?”

“Or was it Ronan?” Vine adds.

Niamh shudders. “And Wendy’s helped these new terrorists attack us, I suppose,” she says, not giving me time to answer his question. “Let’s just shut off the air to the cell and let her choke,” she says. Vine stands over me and shrugs. He couldn’t care less what happens to me.

A noise in the hallway makes me tense and another steward bumbles in. He looks at me and gulps. “They’re waiting to start the chamber meeting, sir,” he says.

Vine turns to Niamh. “Tell them I’ll be there shortly.”

“Yes, Pod Minister,” she says. She pokes me with her foot.

“I’m no different from you, Niamh,” I say. I don’t beg or plead with her to help me, I simply give her a chance to do the right thing.

“No, Bea,” she says. “We’re innately different, and that’s part of the problem: you and your RATS think we aren’t.” She leaves the cell, slamming the door shut on her way out.

Vine crouches down and strokes my face with the back of his hand. I try to bite him. He pulls his hand away and laughs. I’m like prey, and it feels far too familiar. I scream as loudly as I can, to startle him if nothing else, and only stop when an alarm blares from the speakers in the wall and a red light on the ceiling flashes and spins. “It can’t be,” he says.

“What can’t it be?”

He looks down at me. “You know very well, it’s the air siren. The Resistance must have damaged the tubing. You’ll pay for your involvement in this.”

“The tubing?”

“They should have remembered that the first places air is siphoned from is the Penal Block and auxiliary apartments.” He heads for the door.

“You’re leaving me here?” I ask. I’m not scared of dying—I’ve been faced with the prospect so many times I know it’s inevitable, and suffocating is the most inevitable thing of all—but I don’t want to die alone. Someone should witness my last moment. I deserve that, at least, don’t I?

Vine sneers and presses a bell on the intercom. He waits several moments, then pulls on the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. He clears his throat and tries the intercom again. “I’m ready to leave now,” he says into the mouthpiece, furrowing his brow.

I cough because the air in the cell has already thinned. “What if no one comes?” I ask, goading. “If there’s trouble, wouldn’t everyone be recruited to fight? Wouldn’t the stewards run scared if they thought the air was being siphoned?”

He puts his hand to his chest then thumps the cell door with his fists. “Let me out!” he bawls. He clutches his chest and thumps that too. I focus on stretching out my exhalations. My breath sounds like the ocean. Vine kneels on the floor next to me and puts his ear to my mouth. “What kind of trick is that?” he asks. His breathing is rapid.

“No trick,” I say. “I have all the air I need.”

“Get me out of here!” He blanches, going back to the door where he cranes his neck and opens his mouth wide to catch all the air he can. “It burns,” he croaks and starts hacking.

He tries his finger against the button one last time before sliding to the floor panting and then kicking the door and yowling incomprehensibly. And soon he is on his knees hyperventilating, and with very little warning, passes out. I watch his chest rise and fall. He’ll live a while longer. But only a while.

And I stay as still as I can on the floor preserving my oxygen. The air is very thin, but it’s enough to live on. For me at least.

For now.

50 ALINA

Whole regiments are surrounding the three recycling stations that have their tubing intact and snipers are positioned in their towers. “We can shoot,” I tell Jude Caffrey. He dips his head, as if to say, of course you can, and points to Recycling Station North. “Go with Ronan,” he says.

We bolt toward the station and hurdle hastily erected sandbags. A soldier on the door recognizes Ronan, lets him through, and we take the winch to the top. My heart thrums so loudly in my ears I can almost hear it over the gunfire. All I can think about are my aunt and uncle, and Bea and Jazz, who’ll suffocate if we don’t stop Sequoia’s troopers from blowing up the pod’s tubes. It’s what the Ministry always feared, what they told people terrorists might do, and at The Grove we laughed at their fearmongering.

At the top, we dash from the winch and onto a balcony, where we throw ourselves onto our stomachs and inspect the ground below through the scopes of our rifles. Vanya’s troopers have appeared from the west and are advancing on the stations. Only their helmets and shields, fashioned from old car doors, protect them. Occasionally one of them falls to the ground, but the dead and injured are trodden over and the troop continues. Ministry soldiers are taking cover behind the sandbags and firing continuous rounds of ammo; the Sequoians are undaunted.

The clunking zip appears to my right as it loops the pod. It fires again at our station and for a few seconds the building buckles. Silas, Ronan, and I gape at one another wondering, for one horrifying moment, if the whole thing will topple to the ground and us with it. But the damage is superficial and the building quickly stops shuddering.

Ronan elbows me. “What are you waiting for?” he says. He has eyes the color of steel and the bearing of someone used to war.

I look through the scope again. To avoid the debris from the station the Ministry soldiers have broken ranks, giving Vanya’s troopers time to dart forward and leap over the sandbags. Guns are fired, but all the soldiers are suddenly forced to use knives and the butts of their rifles to protect themselves. One of the Sequoians throws a Ministry soldier to the ground and repeatedly pounds his head against the ground. My stomach heaves. I take aim and fire. The trooper lets the soldier go and clutches his side. He pulls off his helmet. It isn’t a he at all. I’ve shot Wren. She falls, like a heavy lead pipe, into the dirt. Within minutes other troopers have trampled over her and if she was alive after being shot, she isn’t now.

“I’ve killed Wren,” I tell Silas.

He squints. “It’s her or my parents.” I hate the truth of this. I hate all the killing and the weighing of one life against another. When will it be over? I need it to be over. I can’t live in a world like this anymore.

“They’re too close to the tower. I can’t get a good shot,” Ronan says, standing up. “And if they break in at the bottom they could use the emergency staircase to get to the control room. We’ll never hold them off from here.”

We jump up and follow him. Was Ronan one of the soldiers I was shooting at a few weeks ago when the Ministry destroyed The Grove? I am a turncoat, I realize, fighting side by side with an enemy. But today we fight together to protect the pod and the people we love.

And that seems the right thing to do.

51 QUINN

The rationing alarm is whirring like mad through Zone One and probably all across the pod. The streets are empty. All the Premiums must have taken cover at home or in a Ministry building. How long will it be before even these places get the air cut? The death toll doesn’t bear thinking about.

In houses along the street, faces are pressed to windows. People are too afraid to come outside.

I check the gauge on my airtank. It’s running low, but it’ll be enough, I hope.

I sprint along the wide boulevard toward the Justice Building because that’s where Bea is.

And she’s okay.

She is.

I know it.

52 BEA

Lance Vine has turned blue. And it won’t be long before I look like that myself. I close my eyes and block out the thought. I block out every thought and focus on my exhalations. I count them out, only inhaling a little when I get to ten, so I can ration the remnants of oxygen lingering in the cell. The air is so fine, every breath hurts. And I have a searing headache.

I open my eyes and look at the red light flashing on the ceiling, when Niamh bursts into the cell.

“Don’t close the door!” I wheeze over the siren blasting through the speakers. She doesn’t hear me, and the door closes behind her.

“Oh no.” Niamh gapes at Vine sprawled on the floor. She nudges him with her foot. “What have you done?” She puts a hand to her chest. “The air,” she says. “I can’t . . .” She starts to cough so hard, she’s unable to finish her sentence.

She looks like she wants to hurt me, but she also looks afraid. I’m alive and Lance Vine is dead. “The guards have all gone AWOL, but we’ll fix them . . . just as soon as everything gets back to normal,” she says. She goes to the intercom panel and is about to press her finger to the button when she realizes no one’s stationed outside to hear it buzz. She looks at me and gasps, and I sigh, expecting to have to watch Niamh die, too, but as she pulls on the handle, it opens. She cries out. And so do I.

It’s Quinn.

“Oh, Bea.” He pushes Niamh aside and rushes to me. He holds my face in his hands and looks at the dead man and then at my chafed wrists. “Are you okay? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He uses a knife to free me, pulls up his mask, and kisses the palms of my hands. “I knew you were alive. Alive and kicking everyone’s asses,” he says.

“You’re here,” I say. I throw my arms around his neck and squeeze him so tight, I’m afraid I might hurt him. He kisses me on the mouth, the forehead, the neck, then puts his mask over my mouth and nose. For a moment I forget how filthy I am. “We need to find Ronan and your dad. They’ll help us,” I say.

“Leave my brother out of this,” Niamh says. She’s holding open the door and a little air from the hallway is filtering into the cell. If she leaves, we’ll both be dead. I have to keep her talking.

“Ronan’s on our side, Niamh. You know that.” I get to my feet.

“You poisoned him against us,” she says.

“No we didn’t. He joined of his own free will, and you could, too.” The alarm is still blaring.

Niamh’s neck reddens. “And become like you?” I don’t do any more to convince her. I rush forward, knocking her to the floor, and lie on top of her in the doorway to keep it from swinging shut. She scratches my face, but I don’t retaliate. I raise my hand and Quinn lifts me up and into the hallway, dark apart from the red lights.

Niamh scrabbles to her feet. “You’re going to be sorry.”

“No, I don’t think I am,” I say.

She looks like she is about to say more, but instead runs away along the hallway, shouting for a guard who will never appear.

“The pod’s under attack,” Quinn says.

“Then we better hurry up.” I grab his keys and open the cell door opposite. Old Watson is slumped in a corner. I didn’t even know he’d been caught. “Watson!” I drop to the floor and shake him. He doesn’t respond. I put my ear to his face, but I can’t hear breathing. Am I responsible for his capture, or was it his plants?

I rip the facemask Quinn gave me away from my own face, press it to Old Watson’s, and pull his legs from under him so he’s lying flat. I pump his chest, leaning hard on my hands, and Quinn tilts back the old man’s head and breathes into him.

Once. Twice.

But nothing happens.

“Breathe, dammit,” I say, and try compressions again.

Quinn stands up. “It’s not working, Bea. We have to get out of here.” He doesn’t understand: Old Watson saved me when I had no interest in saving myself. I won’t leave him here.

“I’m trying again,” I say, and lay my hands over his heart. I count out the compressions, one to thirty, and Quinn kneels back down and blows into his mouth, filling him up with air.

And it works! Old Watson gasps. I push the few strands of hair he still has away from his eyes and he opens them. “Don’t try to speak,” I say, and help him sit.

I throw Quinn’s keys back at him. “The other cells.”

“You’ll be okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Of course, I will.”

53 QUINN

Bea, Old Watson, about thirty Resistance members, and I flee the Justice Building. Auxiliaries crowd the streets, frantically darting this way and that, and most of them are carrying a weapon of some sort. I stop a boy about my age as he gallops by. “What’s going on?”

“The bastards have cut off the air to Zone Three apartments.” He pulls himself loose from me and runs away as best he can. A humanoid voice comes over the loudspeaker. “Air rationing stage three in operation. Premiums must return to their homes. Air rationing stage three in operation. Premiums must return to their homes.”

We look at one another anxiously and then Gideon, Silas’s father, turns to me. “We need airtanks.”

“This way,” I say.

“Where are we going?” he asks, racing alongside me.

“Research Labs.”

We careen along a street, which is quickly clearing as auxiliaries jump over gates and high walls to get to Premium homes. It’s complete chaos: windows are smashed and gunshots fired. I slow down. “My brothers,” I say.

Gideon shakes his head. “We haven’t time.”

“I’m getting them,” I tell him.

“Fine. We’ll meet you at the border in an hour. Give me the keys and we’ll find the tanks,” Gideon says. I throw the keys at him.

“What about Jazz?” Old Watson asks. He’s right next to me, but his voice sounds far away. He’s way paler and more hunched than he was when I last saw him. He isn’t cut out for all this. Then again, who is?

“The infirmary isn’t far. I’ll get her,” Bea says, stepping forward, her chin high.

I seize her by the shoulders. “We keep bloody leaving each other,” I say, which wasn’t part of the plan. The plan was to find Bea and never let her go.

She smiles. “Some things are more important than us,” she says, and I kiss her. There might be a million things more important than us, but I can’t think of anything more important than her. “The border in an hour,” she repeats.

The auxiliaries are pressing in on my street with broken bottles and pipes. I gallop past them and up to my house. My brothers and mother are watching the news on the screen—explosions and rising dust.

Lennon glances at me and waves. Keane does the same. Then, simultaneously realizing I shouldn’t be here, they jump up and throw their arms around me. “Quinn, is it you?” Keane asks. He jabs me in the ribs. My mother turns like a mechanical doll, and her mouth drops open.

“I told you he wasn’t dead,” Lennon says. I kiss the top of his head and hold Keane close. Man, I missed them.

My mother totters toward me using the back of the couch for support. Whoa—she’s so big, she looks as if she’s going to pop out my new brother any minute. “We’re leaving,” I tell her.

“Oh, Quinn, my darling.” She clutches my arm and looks like she really wants to feel something. But her eyes are empty.

“We have two minutes before auxiliaries come crashing in here,” I say. Something booms in the street and my mother jumps. Maybe we have one minute. “Come on.”

My mother smiles condescendingly. “We’re safe here. Don’t worry about us.” She tries to coax the twins away from me, but they cling even tighter. It isn’t right that they’d rather be with me than her. But if they leave, at least I’ll be able to save them.

“They’re coming with me,” I say. “That’s nonnegotiable. Are you coming, too?” I ask. I don’t want her to die. She’s my mother, after all.

“Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused? Your father hasn’t been the same since you—” She presses her thumbs against her eyelids, draws in a quick breath, and holds her belly.

“Mom?” Keane says. I keep a tight hold of him. She’s faking it.

“You’ve destroyed this family.” She starts to sob—big, blistery tears. But they’re not for me.

“I’m taking food and airtanks,” I say.

“Take what you want, but please leave the boys,” she whimpers. A rock hits the living room window and she screams. She drops to her knees and puts her hands over her head.

“Go get a few things! Quickly!” I push my brothers toward the stairs. “Mom, we all have to go,” I say. I can’t leave her at the mercy of marauding auxiliaries.

She looks up from the floor. “You’ve chosen your life, stop dragging us all down with you.” Another window smashes and a screwdriver lands on the couch. “What’s happening? The world’s gone mad.”

I lift her up. “The world’s changing, that’s all. And you have to change with it.”

“They’re going to destroy my beautiful home,” she says.

“You have to pack some stuff,” I say, and steer her into the hall and then her bedroom.

I sprint down the hallway and into the basement, where I snatch as many airtanks as I can carry. By the time I’m back, Keane and Lennon are standing at the bottom of the stairs, packs slung over their backs. They’re ready to leave everything behind and join me.

“Mom!” I call out.

She appears wearing a heavy coat. She doesn’t look angry anymore. She holds her stomach and winces.

“The baby’s coming,” she says.

54 BEA

I leave the other Resistance members to loot the Breathe headquarters and head for the infirmary on the Zone One–Zone Two border. The oxygen in the streets is dwindling, but it’s more than I had in the cell. I walk quickly, passing brawling groups of men and women, until I turn a corner into a quiet street where two boys are grappling over a mini-airtank lying next to them. I snatch it, cover my mouth and nose with the facemask, and speed off. They holler things after me, but I’m faster than them. Stronger. Running hurts my legs and my breathing gets short, but it feels like a small triumph against the Ministry.

When I get to the infirmary, a broad white building taking up an entire block, the security hut is empty, and the gate is open. I scamper along the lane and into the deserted lobby where the switchboard is madly ringing and blinking and cots and wheelchairs are strewn in every direction.

A doctor with a stethoscope around her neck and blood spots on her white coat stumbles from a room. “We don’t have any spare oxygen for visitors,” she says, and tries to jam me back through the revolving doors.

“I’m looking for a child,” I say.

She lets me go and rushes to the switchboard, where she mutes the ringing. “Auxiliaries have been moved to Premium wards upstairs. We’ll lose our jobs over it, but looks like we won’t have jobs anyway.” The building shudders and the doctor takes a long look me. “I have my own kids. I have to go,” she says, and scrambles through the infirmary doors and away.

I take the stairs two at a time to the third floor. The hallway is alive with brittle chatter and crammed with people coughing or hooked up to IVs. I weave my way through the throng and make out Jazz at the end of the hallway, her leg in a heavy cast, her curly red hair heaped like spaghetti on top of her head.

Thank goodness.

“Jazz!” I shout. She hops down the hallway holding her crutches.

“You took your time,” she says, and hits me hard in the stomach.

I’m unable to resist kissing her fist. “You ready to get out of here?”

“I was ready yesterday,” she says, and continues to hop all the way to the staircase. She clings to the handrail and takes the steps two at a time. “Hurry,” she says as a door at the bottom slurps opens.

I grab Jazz, ready to defend her if I have to, when Keane and Lennon appear, followed by Quinn, who’s supporting his mother. “We need a doctor,” he shouts. His mother’s bump has dropped. I don’t believe it. Today of all days.

“Stay there,” I tell Jazz, and help haul Mrs. Caffrey to the third floor. She screeches and writhes when we lay her on the floor. “Someone help us!” Quinn calls out.

“The doctors have all left,” an auxiliary with a bandage taped to his eye says.

Cynthia Caffrey howls and grips her stomach. “I have to push,” she says.

Quinn turns to me. The blood has drained from his face. “She has to push,” he repeats.

55 QUINN

Every bed in the ward is taken and the people in them avoid meeting our eyes. I’m about to flip out when a pale woman with wispy hair drags herself out of bed so my mother can lie down. “There isn’t a nurse in the whole bloody place?” I ask. Alarms start to whir all over the building.

The woman shakes her head. “All the medics who bothered to stick around have gone to deal with a burst appendix,” she says. She lifts a set of stirrups attached to the side of the bed and places my mother’s feet in them.

My mother clutches the mattress. “Get me Doctor Kessel!” she shouts.

“There are no doctors, Mom,” I say.

She tries to stand. “I won’t do this here. No. No.” And then she screams and squeezes her eyes shut.

Bea rolls up her sleeves and turns to my brothers. “You shouldn’t be here. Go and take care of Jazz, the girl who was with me on the stairs.” Keane looks like he might cry. “Be brave,” she adds, and they both run off.

“We need hot water,” I tell the pale woman. I don’t know exactly what for, but I’ve heard it said and hopefully we’ll know what to do with it when the time comes.

“Yes, yes. And other things,” she says, and rushes away.

Bea pushes my mother’s skirt up past her knees and pulls down her underwear. I hold my mother’s hand and she looks up at me. “You’ve changed,” she says. I nod; I have, but I’m not sure whether or not my mother means this as a compliment.

“You don’t need to stay, either, Quinn,” Bea says. A month ago I might have been squeamish and wanted to get as far away from here as possible, but as the alarms ring and more screams and shouts filter up from the streets, it isn’t seeing my mother give birth that’s worrying me; all I’m thinking about is how we’re going to make it out alive, and what’s going to happen if we do.

The woman returns with her arms loaded. She joins Bea at the foot of the bed. “I need something for the pain,” my mother pleads.

“Too late for that,” the woman says. She nudges Bea. “Ready?”

Bea pulls her lips into her mouth. “Yes.”

“Where did you get that stuff?” I ask the woman, looking at the gauze and scissors.

The woman waves distractedly toward the hallway. “Closet was smashed open.” My mother’s face is maroon.

“Go and get what we need,” Bea says. She doesn’t know that we’ve gathered up dozens of kids from Sequoia, but she realizes we’ll need supplies. “You have time. I don’t think babies come shooting out.”

I zigzag my way along the hallway until I find the closet. Bottles, linens, and pacifiers have been tossed everywhere. I find a sheet and spread it out on the floor, then scan the shelves. I throw all the formula I can find onto it then Band-Aids, acetaminophen, codeine, blades in sterile packets, cotton wool, alcohol wipes, and one of everything else, just in case. I fold the ends of the sheet into the center, tie them together, and as I step into the hallway, I hear my mother. She is so loud, everyone goes silent and turns toward the ward. I shudder and rush back.

Bea is staring down at a messy purple bundle in her hands. “Well, I guess he was in a hurry to see everyone,” she says.

The woman uses a towel to reveal a puckered face.

My brother—with sticky black hair and a flat nose.

He squirms and cries. Bea hands him to my mother. A part of me wants her to be indifferent, to prove what kind of person she is, but she’s crying, too, and kissing the top of my brother’s head and filled with all the love I imagine she had for me—once. Sixteen years ago I was perfect and pure and anything was possible. I just didn’t grow into the person she wanted.

“We can’t stay,” Bea tells me. “Did you get everything we’ll need?”

“And more.” I stare at my brother’s tiny toes. He has toenails. “We have to take them with us.”

My mother looks up. “I’m staying here,” she says. Despite all the noise and blood and people, she is smiling. I’ve never seen her like this—I’ve never seen her happy.

“Why?” I ask.

“The pod’s my home. I won’t leave it.”

“You want the baby to grow up here?”

A siren sounds somewhere beyond the infirmary and does battle with the alarm on the lower floors. “I doubt Premiums will be very welcome wherever you’re going,” my mother says.

Bea puts her arm around my waist. “Quinn,” she says.

“But . . .” I begin.

“It has to be her choice.”

“His name is Troy,” my mother says. She breathes him in. He scrunches his toes, and I stretch out my arms to take him from her.

“No,” Bea says, and blocks my brother from view. “It’s not okay for him to lose his mother.” And she should know. I should know, too.

I kiss Troy and my mother turns her cheek toward me, so I can kiss her, too. But I can’t. I step away.

An explosion booms through the pod and the ward of the hospital. Bea takes my hand. “We’ve done all we can,” she says.

“I just . . .” Words stopper up my throat.

“She knows you love her,” Bea says.

My mother is sniffling. Maybe she loves me, too. I take one last look at Troy, and turn around.

We have to go. There’s a war on, and we’re needed.

56 RONAN

The bottom of the tower is being pummeled from outside and the door has a sizeable dent in it. The gunfire makes my teeth vibrate. Shots are fired and the thumbprint panel on the wall sizzles and sparks. “They’re almost through,” Silas says.

“We only kill if we have to,” Alina says. Silas looks at her warily.

“We have to,” I say. I sound sure. I don’t feel it.

We reload our rifles and crouch beside the door. It’s a pack of them and three of us. In place of fear, impatience streams through me—I want us to have won already.

The locks are bombarded with bullets, the door crashes inward and with it, a band of Sequoians. They charge the spiral staircase, not bothering to check behind them and giving Silas, Alina, and me a chance to unleash a round of ammo. Shots ricochet through the tower and blood flecks my face. I keep firing. Better to shoot than to think.

Many of the rebels fall backward down the stairs, their limp bodies cracking against the floor. It’s hard to tell in the dimly lit tower which of them are dead and which injured, but they’re all young. They’re as young as I am.

Silas and Alina go to the pile of groaning bodies to collect the guns. One boy lying on a low step clings to his rifle, and as I make a grab for it, he tries to kick me with both feet. I dodge him and use my own rifle to jab one of his legs. He howls and releases his gun. I seize it and jump over him to get to two others, but they’re quite still, their eyes glinting. I look away; the last thing I want is to see their eyes.

“Ronan!” Alina calls. I join her and Silas at the door. The enemy has overpowered our inexperienced army and charge toward the door to Recycling Station East. Our soldiers are either lying dead or with their hands behind their heads, their faces in the dirt. Now I know Jude was right; you can’t train an army in weeks.

What now?

Before I can decide, Silas and Alina are gone, sprinting toward the station. I try to catch them, but they’re too quick. They leap over the station’s sandbags, use them for cover, and begin firing. I drop next to them and do the same.

Half the rebels trying to get through the door collapse under our gunfire. The rest turn their car door shields around trying to protect themselves. But the doors aren’t bulletproof and within a minute we’ve taken down all but a few. It’s easier than it should be.

Those still alive abandon the tower and make a run for it. I watch them through my scope, but I can’t get a good shot, and they escape.

“They’re heading for the south station,” Silas says. “Caffrey said it was the control tower.”

“Damn!” I say. “If that goes down . . .” I don’t need to finish. Alina and Silas zoom away again. Anyone would think they’d been training with the Special Forces. I follow, but no sooner are we away than a rebel with a thick neck and tattoos down each arm is barring our route. He isn’t wearing a helmet nor carrying any kind of shield. And he has an assault rifle trained at us. The others all had simple rifles. We stop running. We haven’t got a choice.

“Drop the guns,” he growls.

“Maks?” Alina says. Her voice quivers. But the only thing that scares me is the fact that he’s stopping us getting to the south station.

“Guns down, hands up,” he repeats, and we throw our guns to the ground and put our hands in the air. “On your knees.”

“Get on with it,” Alina says. I can feel her shaking. I’d grip her hand, but I have a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate it. And neither would this thug.

“Where are the others?” Maks asks. I look at Silas, not sure who he means.

“They’re safe,” he says.

“They won’t be when I find them,” Maks says.

“I should’ve killed you in your sleep,” Alina says, acting more like herself. She spits into the dirt. Maks laughs.

The zip fires and showers us in small rocks and shards of metal. We shrink from the shrapnel and Maks is thrown to his knees, his gun knocked from his hands. It gives me just enough time to retrieve my own and aim it at him. He puts his hands up and grins. Silas and Alina snatch up their guns, too, but they don’t shoot him, so neither do I, though one bullet is all it would take.

“You’d rather fight alongside the Ministry than fellow rebels,” he sneers at Silas and Alina.

“Thousands of innocent people live in the pod. You’re lunatics,” I tell him.

Alina approaches Maks and his chest puffs out. She rams her gun against it. She pauses, and I think she’s about to say something, but without warning, she pulls the trigger.

Maks stares at Alina in disbelief and falls forward. His face hits the clay and his green jacket darkens where the blood soaks through.

Alina looks at me. “He would have killed us.” She doesn’t have to explain; I should have done it for her.

“The south station,” I remind them, and we take off, leaving Maks to bleed into the earth.

We squat behind the sandbags again, scanning the battlefield teeming with bodies and soldiers for a safe way into the station. “Straight through,” Silas says. Alina nods in agreement as one of our tanks grinds past.

It fires and hits the zip. Shrapnel showers down and both Sequoians and Ministry soldiers are injured.

Everything stops, giving Silas, Alina, and me a chance to get to the tank. The hatch opens and a figure appears, lifting the visor on his helmet. It’s Jude. He shouts, but over the thunder of engines and distant gunfire, it’s impossible to tell what he wants.

And then a round of gunfire rattles the air and Jude reels like a spinning top. He falls from the tank. I turn to see Maks on his elbows holding his gun, smiling. Silas and Alina flog him with bullets. This time he stays down.

But Jude is down, too. A soldier is next to him. “Medic!” he shouts, and I run to them. I pull Jude’s radio from his inside pocket. “General Caffrey has been shot. Send a stretcher.” No one responds. Just static.

Silas and Alina are next to me. Neither of them tries to help, and I don’t bother appealing to them. I wrench off my jacket, and place it beneath Jude’s head.

“Is he dead?” Alina asks.

“He’s got a pulse,” the soldier says.

Jude opens his eyes, and I take a relieved breath. “It’s too late,” he croaks. “They’re at the south station. Get the people out of the pod. Get them all out.” He pulls at his collar. He’s been hit in the only unprotected place—his neck. I rip the arm from my shirt, scrunch it into a ball and press it against the wound. He can’t die. We need him.

“There’s no time to evacuate so many people,” I tell him.

“The south station,” Silas says coldly. He isn’t looking at Jude. He doesn’t know what Jude has become or that he’s spent these last few weeks protecting the Resistance.

“Go,” I say, and they are gone, as is the soldier who clambers through the tank’s hatch and rolls away. Sequoia’s zip aims for the tank, barely missing it.

Within a minute the piece of my shirt against Jude’s neck is soaked through with blood. My stomach clenches. I try appealing to whoever is on the other end of the radio again. But I may as well be talking to myself.

Jude fingers his facemask. I increase the density of oxygen, for all the good it will do.

“What now?” I ask, hoping he knows how to save himself.

He coughs. “You seem capable, Ronan. You tell me.”

57 QUINN

The blasts outside have covered the pod in a film of dust, so it’s pretty much impossible to see what’s going on. And Zone One is a mess. Alarms are ringing in every Premium building as auxiliaries loot them. There are bodies everywhere. No one’s safe, and the Ministry is visibly absent.

You’ve got to wonder if this is a bit like The Switch—people so hungry for air they’d do anything to hang on a bit longer. And in the end, they all died anyway.

I have Jazz on my back, and Bea is holding Lennon and Keane’s hands. We are on our way to the border. A figure rushes at me, and I hold tightly to my tank. I’m about to lash out, when I realize it’s Gideon. And he’s carrying a massive backpack. “I broke into the biosphere. Got bulbs, seeds, and a few cuttings: everything we need,” he says. He eyes Lennon and Keane.

“My brothers,” I say. “Where’s everyone else?”

“They went on ahead.”

We turn into Border Boulevard and stop short. A group of men with airtanks and broken bottles sees us and charges. “Keep back!” Gideon says, waving a kitchen knife. The men come to an abrupt halt a few feet from us.

“We could leave via the trash chutes?” Bea says, backing away from the men.

One of them points at me. “You’re the Premium who spoke at the press conference. They said you were dead.”

“I’m not.”

“You said we could breathe outside,” the man continues. The rest of the gang listens. A larger group—kids my age wearing balaclavas—stop and watch.

“It’s that guy from the screen,” one of them says. “Oi, everyone, it’s that Premium guy!” Within seconds we’re surrounded.

“So can we breathe out there?” the man repeats. Looking at their faces—afraid and guarded—I realize that they don’t want to attack us; they want to be shown the way out of their miserable lives.

“It’s complicated,” I say.

The crowd presses in. “What do we do?” someone demands. “You’re the one who started this.” A couple of months ago I didn’t believe I could start anything, and even now I’m not sure I can lead.

“Tell them what to do,” Jazz murmurs in my ear.

“It takes dedication,” I say. “But you can train your body to exist outside. And we can help you do it.”

“Stuff that. I’m getting out of here and joining the Resistance. They’ll know what to do,” someone says.

“We’re all that’s left,” Bea says. “The Ministry killed the others.”

“You think we’ve been growing avocadoes and beets just in case you ever found the guts to leave? Get real. You need air but you need food, too. Nonperishable food. Everything you can find. We’ll wait for you at The Cenotaph,” Gideon says.

“And be ready for it to get tough out there,” I warn them.

“Right,” the man says, and the crowd disperses. They’ll probably loot for food, but if anyone can afford to have some stuff nicked, it’s the Premiums. It’s no use worrying about them, when the poor can’t even breathe.

Harriet, Old Watson, and the rest of the Resistance are at the border waiting for us. They’re loaded down with tanks, food, and weapons. No one’s guarding the border. “It’s a war out there,” Harriet says, as we trudge down the glass tunnel. She opens her backpack and hands out a slew of guns.

“And in a couple months when we’re out of air and food?” Bea asks, speaking to me from the side of her mouth so no one else hears.

I point at the bag of clippings and seeds Gideon’s carrying. “We’ll grow it,” I say, pushing on the revolving doors at the end of the tunnel and leading everyone out into the war zone.

A solider is standing by the exit. When he sees me he gawps. “Quinn Caffrey? General Caffrey’s son?” He lets the empty stretcher he’s holding on his back fall to the ground and pulls up the visor on his helmet, so he can look me in the eye. “Your father’s been shot.” I am silent. Bea seizes my hand. “I was about to bring the stretcher. Come with me,” the soldier says.

Surely I should stay with Bea and help the Resistance escape. But when I look at her, she shakes her head. “Go,” she says.

I grab one end of the stretcher and follow the solider into the battlefield. I have to find my dad.

58 ALINA

Silas and I lie on the ground. Dust swirls around us. “Where are they?” I say, eyeing the south station for Sequoian troops.

Silas rubs the mirrored surface on the scope of his rifle and looks through it. “If they know this controls the supply for the other stations, they’ll be back,” he says. So we make for the tower, expecting to be met by defending Ministry soldiers on the other side of the sandbags. The area’s deserted.

The gunfire lulls to almost nothing.

It’s weird because Vanya didn’t strike me as a quitter. “Something’s not right,” I say. They must be planning an attack, and if they are, Silas and I won’t be able to hold them off alone. And then it dawns on me. “Oh no,” I say.

Silas realizes it as I do. “We’re cornered,” he says. “Let’s try to get into the station.”

And it’s then that Vanya’s voice rings out like she’s talking through the clouds. “I wouldn’t go near the tower, if I were you,” she says.

“The west tower,” Silas says, and points. Recycling Station West had its tubing cut long ago, and Vanya must have taken control of it. I peer through the scope. She’s standing on its balcony, a megaphone to her face.

“It’s going to blow,” she says.

“Don’t bombs need oxygen?” I ask Silas, not that he’d know.

But he does. “They only need fuel and an oxidizer. I’m sure someone in Sequoia would have thought of that.”

“She really means to blow everything up?” I wonder aloud. The biosphere is located at the south side of the pod. Could the blast be so bad it destroys that, too? And what would we be left with? A smattering of people, no trees, and no pod? It would be worse than The Switch. I can’t let it happen. I dart toward the door, Silas behind me.

Without a valid thumbprint to get inside, we have to shoot at the locks. A bullet whispers past my head and sears through the door.

Vanya’s shooting at us.

The door jiggles in the frame but still won’t open. I lie on the ground and kick with every ounce of strength left in me. Silas rams it with his body.

“Troopers!” Vanya calls out, and within seconds a band of Sequoians is pounding toward us.

But finally the door moans and falls open. I jump up as Vanya’s troopers come at us in one angry herd. Silas pulls me into the tower. “Find the bomb and do what you can. I’ll . . .”

He doesn’t finish because what can he do against almost thirty of them? He peers around the door frame and starts to shoot.

The winch squalls its way to the top, where the door to the control room is open, but it’s empty. I rush onto the balcony where four snipers are lying dead, their blood dripping over the ledge, and next to them is a solar respirator.

I lean over the railing.

The Sequoians are almost at the sandbags. I shoot wildly, unable to take a steady shot. And then I spot them—a gang in plain clothes who are following Vanya’s troopers.

I squint and can’t help punching the air—it’s Uncle Gideon, Aunt Harriet, and the Resistance, shooting and almost in line with the Sequoians.

They need my help, and I’m about to take the winch back to the ground when I glance at the respirator and see what I missed before—a box wrapped in yellow plastic with a panel of digital numbers on it has been taped to the back. Vanya’s bomb.

The numbers flash: two hundred and nineteen, two hundred and eighteen. Seconds? How many minutes is that? I haven’t time to do the math, and I’ve no idea how to disarm it. I’m not Song.

Two hundred and fourteen, two hundred and thirteen, two hundred and twelve . . .

I could leave the bomb and make a run for it, but if I survive and nothing else does, what’s the point? If I can’t defuse the bomb, I’ll have to take it with me and get it as far from here as possible. It’s too big to carry except on my back, but I can’t do that with my own airtank tied to my belt. I unbuckle it, pull off my facemask, and put the solar respirator’s filthy apparatus over my mouth. It stinks. And it’s so heavy, it’s like carrying a boulder.

The digital screen and numbers on it are now out of sight, which is probably for the best.

I scrape my way to the winch and take it to the ground. Silas has gone. When I look outside, he is restraining a trooper on the ground. My aunt and uncle aren’t far away, warding off troopers with their guns. The Sequoians are strong, but they weren’t expecting the Resistance to reinforce the Ministry soldiers.

I sprint around the back of the tower and stumble into the open land.

The air coming from the solar-powered respirator is damp, and the mask scratches my face. I’d be better off without it, so I pull it off and throw it aside. The oxygen in the atmosphere is thin, but it’s enough after my training.

A voice cries out. “Put it down, Alina! Put it down.”

But I can’t. Not until I know everyone will be safe. I don’t care how heavy this thing is, or how scorched my throat feels.

When I eventually look behind, the pod is lit by the setting sun. I think I’m far enough away to save it, so I shrug off the respirator and, without looking at how much time I have left, jump away from it. I just run. I run as fast as my lungs and legs will carry me.

The voice comes at me again. It’s Silas. “Run, Alina! ALINA!” But he doesn’t need to worry. “ALINA!” he shouts.

And I smile.

59 QUINN

A blast throws me forward and onto the ground, where I smash my face against stones and scrape the skin from my hands. The air is suddenly gray. I stand up, but the steward doesn’t, so I roll him onto his back. He groans. “You all right?”

“My leg,” he says. But I can’t help him, be with my father, and go back and deal with whatever caused that explosion.

I have to make a choice.

“Stay there,” I tell the steward, and run to my father and Ronan, who are sitting in the open by one of the stations. Ronan’s hand is against my father’s neck.

“Is he alive?” I ask.

“He’s slipping in and out of consciousness,” Ronan says. The gunfire in the distance stops. Ronan and I look at each other. Can it be over?

“Dad,” I say. “Dad?”

He pulls off his facemask and coughs blood all over himself. “Quinn?”

“It’s me.” I use the sleeve of my jacket to wipe the blood from his face. I try to move his mask back into place, but he rolls his head from side to side to stop me. Ronan lets go of the fabric he’s pressing into my father’s neck, revealing a sinewy wound.

“He was shot,” Ronan says, like I can’t figure that out for myself.

My father moans and coughs a jellied blood clot into his hand. This time he doesn’t resist when I try to refit the facemask. “The stations have faucets in them for filling tanks,” he wheezes. “Even if they manage to . . .”

“Don’t talk,” I say, seeing how the effort hurts him. “Let’s try to get you inside.”

“Quinn . . .” Ronan begins, and puts a hand on my arm.

“Help me!” I tell him, and together we lift my father onto the stretcher. On the ground beneath him is a dark puddle, dry at the edges. I’ve never seen my father bleed, and in some childish way I thought he couldn’t.

Blood pools on the stretcher, and it’s too hard to carry him because he’s struggling so much. We put it back down and I kneel next to him.

“The twins. Your mother,” he says.

“They’re fine,” I say, or at least I hope they will be. “Mom had the baby.”

My father squeezes his eyes shut and when he opens them, they’re wet. He raises a finger and gestures for me to move closer. I put my ear to the blowoff valve in his mask. “I’m not the best father,” he says.

It’s true; he’s been an awful father at times. But it kind of felt as if he just didn’t know how else to be. I pull back and meet my father’s eyes. “Ronan told me you sent him to find me. Thank you.”

A shot breaks the stillness and Ronan lifts his rifle. “We’re sitting ducks,” he says. He tries to lift the stretcher. I don’t help him. There’s no point.

“You said once that in another world we could have been friends.” I pause and wait for him to show he’s heard me. I have to know he’s listening.

“Stop,” he whispers.

“And I think you were right.” He rips the mask from his face and this time flings it several feet away. Blood trickles from his nose. His eyes are vacant.

Ronan jumps up to get the mask. But my father won’t need it.

I place a hand on his chest. He looks at the sky and then at me. “Quinn,” he says. His breath is short and soft. “Quinn,” he repeats, and closes his eyes.

60 BEA

Sequoians, Resistance, and Ministry stare at the black vapor filling the sky. I’m behind a bombed-out buggy, scrabbling to stop Jazz from joining the fray. Lennon and Keane sit on her to keep her down, and we watch Silas sprint toward the explosion. Gideon and Harriet are close behind. Alina is nowhere to be seen.

“The tower!” Vanya blares into the megaphone, reminding her troopers of their mission. And then she vanishes from the balcony of the station. She wants them to storm it, but there are too few of them to do anything. I peer over the hood of the buggy. Only four Sequoians are still standing, their backs to the tower, their hands in the air. The others are supine, Ministry soldiers and Resistance members pinning them down with their boots. If Vanya thinks she still has a fight on her hands, she’s delusional. She’s already lost.

“Charge!” Vanya screams, rising out of the dust and storming our way.

Before I can stop her, Jazz has my gun and is aiming it at Vanya. If what Quinn said is true, she’s about to shoot her own mother. No matter how crazy and dangerous Vanya is, I can’t let Jazz do it. I knock the gun from her hands and it lands next to Lennon. He looks down at it, horrified.

“The pod is mine!” Vanya screams. She has no gun, only the megaphone. Two members of the Resistance who lived in Ronan’s attic with me march toward her.

“Shoot her,” Jazz tells Lennon, reaching for the gun.

“No,” I say, and stand on it. Maybe I should tell Jazz why, but I don’t. That can wait for another day.

The Resistance members pull Vanya to the ground and stomp on her megaphone. She kicks and claws at them.

Silas, Gideon, and Harriet are specks. And I still can’t see Alina. “Stay here,” I say.

Jazz holds on to my leg. “Take me with you.”

I shake my head. “I’ll be back. Keep an eye on Lennon and Keane.” She looks at the twins, who are sniffling, and rolls her eyes.

“Fine,” she says.

I take off as fast as I can, repeating the words Alina is alive, Alina is alive in my head over and over. She is the toughest of us, and when the time comes, she’ll be the last to go.

As I reach Gideon and Harriet, a strong chemical smell penetrates my mask. The ground is covered in confetti pieces of metal. They are crouching beside Alina. Silas is standing over them. They look up at me as though I’m a ghost.

“Alina?” I say. Her face is blackened, her hair charred at the ends. I wait for her to open her eyes and say something cutting. “Alina.”

“The blast . . .” Silas says, and stops. He can’t speak for choking.

“But she’s okay, isn’t she?” I kneel next to her and touch her hand. It’s warm. There’s a nasty gash above one of her eyebrows.

“She’s gone,” Silas says.

“No, she isn’t. . . . Give her some air.” I put my hands over her chest and begin compressions, pushing hard on her heart like I did with Old Watson. It has to work—Alina’s always survived.

I lean over to blow into her mouth when Harriet lays her hand on my arm. “Stop,” she says. “Please.”

And I do. Because Alina no longer looks like herself. She’s completely serene.

She’s dead.

Gideon takes off his facemask and kisses Alina’s forehead, then uses the heels of his hands to wipe away tears.

It’s too much for Silas; he walks away and bellows into the sky.

I brush Alina’s face with the back of my fingers. Her skin is soft. The last time I saw her was at The Grove. It was the briefest good-bye. It wasn’t enough.

Tears trickle over my facemask into the earth.

I’ve felt this before, like someone was ripping out my heart, but it doesn’t make it any less painful.

I am crying so hard now, I can barely see. I squeeze Alina’s hand.

I want to tell her what’s happened. I want to tell her who she is and what she’s done. For me. For all of us.

But there’s only one thing that would matter to Alina.

So I lift my facemask and press my lips to her ear.

“I think we won,” I say.