“Don’t be jealous. You can use my room any time you like.” He winks playfully and I blush, not sure what he means.
“Quinn!” I slap him gently. He holds his stomach like he’s mortally injured and begins to moan. Then we both crack up and only stop tittering when a woman in the seat in front turns and shushes us.
“I’m trying to listen to the news,” she complains, nodding at the screen. We both look up. It’s another terrorist report. Someone has been caught trying to interfere with the air-recycling system. This is the worst thing anyone can imagine. If the pod ran out of air, we’d be stuck, and we’d be dead. I shiver.
The news report continues:
“Suspected terrorist Abel Boone, a member of the Rebel Army Terrorist Sect, was found dead today. It is believed he ran out of air attempting to cut through the rubber tubing that connects the Air Recycling Station East to the pod. Various RATS arrests are expected to be carried out within the coming days. The Pod Minister has asked for calm.”
Right on cue, a solemn Pod Minister appears on the screen with a journalist beside him. “Luckily we avoided a major tragedy, and I am grateful to the stewards for their haste in dealing with this matter. The Ministry will continue to work around the clock to provide safety for all people. We will not allow mindless acts of terrorism against tens of thousands of innocent civilians to go unpunished. I urge all citizens to remain alert.”
“And your message to the terrorists, Pod Minister?”
“To the terrorists, I say run. Run.” He looks straight into the camera and grins because a running citizen is an arrested citizen, unless the runner is a Premium with a tank, of course, and the journalist laughs, too, and even the woman sitting in front of us laughs. But I do not. I do not like the joke.
With that the screen goes black before a typically interminable commercial break begins.
When the tram reaches our stop, Quinn stays in his seat. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go speak with the professor?” he says.
“I’m sure,” I say, knowing it would be pointless to speak to anyone: once academic decisions have been made, they are impossible to reverse. We get off the tram, walk up to the camping shop, and choose a bright blue tent and two extra-warm sleeping bags for our trip. Quinn tells me I’ll need boots, a coat, a hat, a scarf, and gloves, and he insists I choose from a Premium selection hanging in the women’s department. I can’t look at Quinn as he pays for everything, as the simpering cashier swipes his father’s card.
“I’m nervous about leaving the pod. I didn’t think I would be,” I admit on our way back to the station. “No air? It’ll be so strange.”
“Don’t worry. Look, with all these terrorist attacks, we might find we’re better off out there anyway. And if we’re going to suffocate, wouldn’t it be fun to suffocate together?” He pinches me lightly, trying to put some humor between me and my fear. But what he doesn’t realize is that I would want to be with him at the end. If I were to die, I’d rather die out there with him than in the pod with anyone else.
6
QUINN
“My clever boy!” my mother announces, throwing her arms around me as soon as I get home. I pull away, embarrassed.
“Hey,” I manage. My father steps forward and claps me on the back. “I’m here!” I say, knowing my homecoming can’t possibly be the reason for their sudden interest in me.
As I walk into the living room, I see immediately what’s going on: standing with one hand behind his back and one holding a glass of something is the Pod Minister, Cain Knavery. During the interview on the tram screen a couple of hours ago, he’d looked serious and purposeful. Now he looks jolly. Jolly-well drunk. He’s standing next to the mantelpiece where, I notice, my parents have taken down our old oil painting of a seascape and put up a portrait of the Pod Minister in its place, so that Cain Knavery looks like he is standing next to himself. They replace the artwork, as well as their personalities, whenever he visits.
“Ha-ha! He has arrived. Well now, Caffrey Junior,” the Pod Minister says, and stretches out a hand. He has at least one gold ring on every hairy finger. “Congratulations. You are a credit to your parents.” He points at my mother and father, like I might not know who they are.
“Thank you,” I say, and shake his clammy, jeweled hand.
“How old are you now?” the Pod Minister asks, still squeezing my hand.
“I’m sixteen, sir,” I say.
“Sixteen! Ha! Well, you’re a fine specimen. You could be twenty-one. Jude, get this man a drink,” he says, finally letting go of me and gesturing to the whiskey bottle on the sideboard. My father scurries over and pours a little of the amber liquid into a clean tumbler. “Is that it? Ha! Don’t be a miser, Jude,” the Pod Minister says, and laughs through his nose. My father chuckles, too, and fills my glass to the top. My father is usually gruff and stoic, so seeing him grovel for the Pod Minister is always fascinating. In fact, the whole scene is sort of preposterous, but why not take advantage of it? I swipe the whiskey from my father and take a large gulp. That’s when I notice the twins, Lennon and Keane, both ten, sitting on the gray couch holding their own measures of whiskey and giggling. Lennon raises his tumbler and mouths the word Cheers!
If Bea were here, she’d probably sidle over to the twins and, with a stern look, grab their drinks from them, though she’d definitely take a sip herself. She won’t believe it when I tell her about it later.
The Pod Minister clears his throat and my father hurries to refill his empty glass.
“Good man. Ha!” the Pod Minister says. “And your wife? Cynthia, you won’t have a tipple?” I wonder how drunk the Pod Minister must be not to notice that my mother looks like she’s swallowed a balloon.
“A little one on the way, Cain.” My mother rubs her belly. I have to turn away. I can’t look at her at all now that she’s pregnant. Whenever I do, a picture of my parents comes to mind, and it’s not a picture I like. “Anyway, this is Quinn’s day,” my mother says, coming toward me.
“I don’t think he knows. Why don’t you tell him, Cain. Go on, do the honors,” my father says, delighted. He is smiling so hard I can see his back teeth. The ass-kissing is too much. I take another gulp of whiskey.
“What’s new?” I ask no one in particular. They’re all so happy they must have something unreal to tell me, like I’m pregnant, too.
“Well, young man, I’m happy to report that you got through round one of the Leadership Program, and you did so well, Professor Felling is promoting you to the final exam without making you go through the other four stages first,” the Pod Minister says. I’m sipping as he’s speaking and can’t help spitting out what I have in my mouth. What am I going to tell Bea? She was so upset today she couldn’t even talk about it.
“My carpet!” my mother yelps, and rushes into the kitchen.
“Well, what do you say, Quinn, my young protégé,” the Pod Minister asks, clapping me on the back so hard I stumble forward and spill even more whiskey as my mother waddles back into the room.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” she says, and kneels down in front of me to soak up the mess.
As I look into my father’s beaming face and my brothers’ grins and the Pod Minister’s bloodshot eyes, I know they are all waiting for me to throw up my arms and hoot. They’d probably be thrilled if I performed a one-man can-can routine.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” I manage to say. My mother gasps. My father’s smile vanishes.
“Excuse me?” the Pod Minister says, his eyes narrowing.
“I was okay. But Bea Whitcraft was better. And she failed. So I can’t have passed.”
“There has been no mistake,” my father says slowly. My brothers peel themselves off the couch and sneak into the hall. Even my mother backs out of the room.
“Scruples! Ha-ha!” the Pod Minister shouts, and slams me on the back again. I catch hold of the mantelpiece to steady myself. “I love a man with scruples!” I look at the Pod Minister and try a
gain.
“Bea deserves this. I think there was a miscalculation.”
My father strides across the room and has me by the collar before I can defend myself. “Did you hear what I said? There. Was. No. Error.” It isn’t easy to breathe with my father holding my neck. I wrangle with him for a moment until I realize he’s not looking for a fight—he’s looking for my assent, that’s all, so I nod and he lets go. “The mistake may have been your friend’s,” he says.
“We want leaders we can trust,” the Pod Minister says, ignoring the ruckus going on between my father and me. “And, well, when we looked at the footage of the debate, we had to conclude that the Whitcraft girl is not necessarily a person to trust.” Bea can’t be trusted? Have they forgotten that I was in the debate, too? I heard everything she said. I’d tell them that, too, if my father wasn’t giving me the stink eye. “Your friend is what we affectionately call a ‘tree hugger,’” the Pod Minister says. “Although tree huggers have also been called less affectionate names. Ha!”
“Like RATS,” my father says.
“You think Bea’s a terrorist because she argued for the trees?” I say. The idea is ridiculous; Bea is so moralistic, it’s like doing the right thing has been programed into her. The Pod Minister and my father exchange knowing looks and I begin to feel nervous. Is it possible Bea has been added to a suspect list?
My mother tiptoes back into the room. She stands rubbing her swollen tummy again. “Would you like another drink, Cain?” She picks up the whiskey bottle and moves toward the Pod Minister.
“I would love another. Sadly my children are expecting me and I’ll be whipped if I don’t make it home soon.” He laughs. “So, I’ll wish you all a good night. Especially you,” he says, addressing me. “You have a bright future ahead, Quinn.” He is smiling and then he is not. He moves closer to me, takes me by the elbow, and hisses, “Tree huggers beware. Ha!” I stand back and stare at him. I don’t want to be his enemy, and I don’t want Bea to be his enemy. I nod. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.” He points his two index fingers, like guns, at my father.
My parents send him off and I’m alone in the living room, still holding the glass of whiskey. I sip some more, then set the glass on the coffee table, hoping to make it up to my bedroom before my parents get back from the front doors. But when I look up, they’re both standing there, and they’re both scowling.
“He got fat,” I say. It’s obviously a joke, but it’s not funny and pretty much irrelevant. My father settles himself into an armchair and gestures for me to sit down, too. I collapse onto the couch.
“You don’t seem happy,” my father says.
My mother balances herself on the arm of my father’s chair. “He doesn’t seem grateful, either,” she says. Why should I be grateful? If anything, I should be furious. I only passed because my father is a director at Breathe. Bea needed this. She deserved it. Yet her failure and my success were both fixed. As usual, I can’t be allowed to achieve anything on my own.
My father is scrutinizing me, and when I look directly at him he smiles and dips his head, ever so slightly, as though to say You’re welcome. “I don’t want this. I want to pass because I’m good enough, not because you threatened some examiner.” And I wanted to attend the Scholastic Institute with Bea, I think, but I don’t say it.
“Oh, grow up, Quinn. I watched the footage. That friend of yours completely thrashed you,” my father says. He seems mildly jubilant, as though my inadequacies are cause for celebration.
“So why would the Pod Minister want me to train with the leaders? Why would you want me to do that?” I never know what my father wants from me. Sometimes he ignores me completely, so I assume he doesn’t care what I do, and at other times he won’t get off my case. I think what he really wants is to create a miniature, muffled version of himself.
“Oh, my lovely boy,” my mother says, and comes to sit next to me on the couch. I hate the feel of her dry hand against my face. I brush her away. I’m not a child anymore. She can save the stroking for the baby.
My father continues. “You are my son and connections matter. This is life, Quinn. You can’t help it that your father knows the Pod Minister, and Bea can’t help it that her parents are subs.”
“Father!” I shout. I’ve never heard him use this slur before. I shake my head and jump to my feet.
“Don’t be so dramatic, son.”
“Sir, I—”
“You may go,” he says, and abruptly stands up. So I leave the room, bumping him with my shoulder as I storm out. Lennon and Keane are sitting cross-legged at the foot of the stone staircase. They aren’t drunk, but they’re not what you’d call sober either.
“Poor Bea,” Lennon says.
“I love Bea,” Keane adds. This is true. Keane’s loved Bea since he was a toddler. And she loves him. “What are you gonna say to her?” he wants to know. I shrug. “She’ll cry,” he says.
“For certain, she’ll cry,” Lennon agrees. I imagine Bea as they do: her lips pinched together, her nostrils twitching as she listens, too proud to cry in front of me.
I don’t even need to make the Leadership Program; whether or not I succeed in politics or business or anything else doesn’t affect anyone, whereas Bea’s success could save her whole family. I’m ashamed. I pat the tops of my brothers’ heads, warn them to go easy on the whiskey, and head upstairs to my room.
I lie on my bed, turn on my pad, and flick to the tracking menu. Bea’s active and I can see that she’s at home. I want to call her, tell her everything and tell her I’m sorry. Instead, I lie awake worrying about it.
On cue, a message comes through from her: You heard from the professor yet? I lie staring at my pad, wondering how to respond. After several minutes, I tap out the words No, not yet. This is the truth: I haven’t heard from the professor.
I turn off the pad and toss it onto the floor. Then, still fully clothed, shoes and all, I pull the covers over me, ease into the alcohol, and go to sleep.
7
ALINA
The apartment is silent. The lights are out. And in the living room Silas is on the couch with his head in his hands. My aunt and uncle are in there, too, sitting on either side of him. Something so awful has happened that no one is screaming. No one is shouting. All they can do is sit.
“Silas,” I murmur. I’m afraid of upsetting the stillness. My aunt looks up and dashes toward me.
“Where in hell’s name have you been?” She hugs me then stands back to check I’m okay. “They found Abel,” she whispers. Though I know I’ve heard her correctly, I can’t believe it. My parents have been missing for a year, and there’s been no news. I want to ask where they found him, as though he might have been hidden under his bed, or in the bathroom taking a shower. But I know that what I’m really asking is how he died because if he were alive, no one would need to whisper.
So I say, “When did they find him?”
“This morning,” Aunt Harriet says. “It’s been all over the news. The poor boy was found between the pod and the recycling station. They say he was cutting the tubing.”
“Yeah. With no airtank. He ran half a mile holding his breath,” Silas mutters.
“So they scratched him from the system, then found him again just so they could kill him? Why?” I ask. Silas shrugs.
Uncle Gideon stands up. “Silas told us what happened at the biosphere. He must have been flagged.”
No one is looking at me now. Do they think it was my fault? It was my decision to bring him along on the mission. And I forced him to throw the second rock. He didn’t want to. He didn’t even want to throw the first one. Was it worth it? How can working for the Resistance be more important than our lives? So we’ll manage to steal a few tree cuttings, smuggle them out, and replant them somewhere—it hardly constitutes saving the planet. When the trees make a comeback, Abel will still be dead. We’ll all be dead.
I must be shaking because Uncle Gideon and Aunt Harriet are standing on either side of me
holding me up. If I hadn’t liked Abel so much, he would still be alive. Don’t get involved with each other, Petra warned us. She warned us again and again. Why didn’t I follow the rules?
Silas is watching me. It’s possible he guessed how I felt about Abel a long time ago. He won’t say anything though; he won’t put Abel’s death on me. He turns on the screen, turns up the volume, and jumps up from the couch. “You have to leave the pod. Even if you weren’t spotted, we can’t be sure he didn’t betray you—in the end. You have to go to Petra.”
My breath quickens. I have no airtank to help me breathe outside the pod and even if I did, I’d never make it through Border Control with the Ministry after me. Silas sees my panic. “Pack a bag, Alina. They’ll be coming for you.” He marches into his own bedroom. “Now!”
My aunt and uncle look at each other frantically and then, without speaking, spring into action. Uncle Gideon dives into the recesses of a kitchen cupboard and pulls out a large airtank and facemask. “For emergencies,” he says. Aunt Harriet is packing a bag with food and water.
Only two days ago I was celebrating with Abel, and now Abel is dead and I’m going on the run. My gut turns and suddenly I am on my hands and knees retching. I can’t stop myself. Aunt Harriet rushes to me and holds my hair out of the way.
“You’ll be fine,” she says, smiling as though she really believes it.
“Alina, get moving!” Silas hollers.
“I’ll clean it up,” I tell my aunt.
“Just hurry,” she says. And then we hear it. The thudding on the apartment door that can only mean one thing: the Ministry has arrived.
“The plants,” my uncle whispers. Silas runs to the balcony and throws open the door.
“Come,” he says. I take the bag Aunt Harriet has half filled for me and dash out onto the balcony with him. We both stand there for a moment, terrified, desperately looking at the plants and then at the street ten stories below. It’s time to dump the plants.
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