We should never have come here.
And the only thing to do now is to get back to the pod and make it the home it should always have been.
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37
RONAN
Niamh isn’t at home, and I manage to smuggle Bea through the garden unseen. When Wendy opens the annex door she smiles and waves us inside, and within minutes of getting to know Bea, she offers up her own bed. She was the only person I could turn to.
I try to convince Bea to rest for a few hours, but once she’s eaten and showered, she’s back in the steward uniform and ready to find the Resistance. “I’ll sleep when I don’t have to do it with one eye open,” she says. She might not have trained with the Special Forces, but she’s every bit as fired up to fight as I ever was.
Bea presses the buzzer on Old Watson’s door. “You stay hidden or he won’t let us in,” she says. She takes off the steward’s jacket and hat and stands back from the peephole so he’ll get a good view of her.
“Watson,” Bea says, as he opens the door wide and grabs her hands.
“What in Mother Earth’s name are you doing here? And what’s with the bloody uniform?” Old Watson says. He’s about to pull her inside, when he spots me. He lets go of Bea’s hands and tries to close the door, but Bea has her foot wedged in it.
“He’s on our side,” she says.
We follow Old Watson as he retreats into his dingy flat and sits on a lumpy couch. I peer into the room’s dark recesses and gasp. He has rows and rows of what look like real plants growing in his living room. “What are those?” I ask, stunned he’s managed to achieve something like this right under the Ministry’s nose.
“They grew from clippings from the biosphere,” Bea says matter-of-factly. And she never thought to mention it? I go to the plants, pull a leaf from a one of them, and rub it between my fingers. It’s waxy and green on one side, rough and gray on the other.
Bea sits next to Old Watson and gives him an awkward, sideways hug. I clear a stash of cups and glasses from a side table and sit on it. “Do you know where the Resistance is hiding?” Bea asks.
Old Watson scratches his head. “No idea what you’re talking about,” he says, and looks at me.
“The Grove’s gone,” I say. “The only option for people now is to fight back.”
Old Watson’s chin trembles. “What about . . . Silas and Alina?” he stutters.
Bea takes his hand. “They made it out. And Quinn’s bringing them here. Together we’re going to free everyone, Watson.” She sounds certain, but before he even hears the plan, Old Watson drops his head in his hands and groans.
“You haven’t been here since the riots, Bea. It’s pointless trying to win.”
“We have Ronan now, and Jude Caffrey,” Bea tells him.
“Jude Caffrey? Why would you trust him after what he did to his own son?” Bea swallows hard. There’s no need to remind her about Quinn or what Jude Caffrey’s capable of. “And why would you trust Cain Knavery’s son?” he says like I’m not in the room.
“Caffrey’s going to recruit auxiliaries as soldiers,” I tell him. “The Ministry’s going to arm people who will turn around and destroy it.”
Old Watson stares at me and then at Bea as he digests this plan. “You serious?” he asks. Bea nods.
Old Watson breathes through his nose loudly and hobbles to the balcony doors, where he opens a pair of threadbare curtains and looks down into Zone Three. “If Lance Vine finds out you’re plotting against him, you’ll wake up with your guts wrapped around your throat.”
“Are you willing to take a chance like that, Ronan?” Bea asks.
“I am,” I say.
Old Watson snatches up a tattered cardigan hanging on the back of a dining chair. “I’m getting too long in the tooth for this,” he says.
The existing Resistance members are scattered through the pod to prevent them all being captured in one lucky raid, but Old Watson knows where Harriet and Gideon are hiding. He guides us through the alleyways of Zone Three to a particularly dilapidated block of auxiliary flats. The winch is broken and we have to climb twelve flights.
Old Watson wheezes and raps on a door three times, then rings the bell twice. It’s immediately opened by a tall women with her hair slicked back into a bun. Right away she spots me and pulls a handgun from a belt at her waist.
“He’s with me, Harriet,” Bea says, stepping in front of me.
“Bea?” Harriet says, lowering her gun and taking in Bea’s uniform.
“It’s a disguise,” Bea says. “Can we come in?”
Harriet leads us to the kitchen, where we sit and explain. Harriet and Gideon listen patiently. They wait for us to go through everything at our own pace, and when we’re through, Gideon goes to the sink and fills a pot with water from the boiling tap. He throws in a few teaspoons of dark brown powder, stirs, and plunks it on the table along with a few chipped mugs. Old Watson pours himself a helping and sips. Like his place, the flat is packed with plants and cuttings steeped in water. All other available space has been used to store sleeping bags and pillows.
Gideon sits down and leans back in his chair. “Jude Caffrey is a scumbag who finished off his own son.”
“Quinn’s alive,” Bea says, and lowers her gaze.
Harriet folds her arms across her chest. “Well, we can’t apply,” she explains, “we’re wanted fugitives.”
“But you can persuade others to apply. It shouldn’t be hard to find auxiliaries willing to rebel,” I say, speaking up for the first time. Bea and I have discussed the plan, but maybe we’re being delusional. Bea nods encouragingly. “The riot didn’t make a dent because it was impromptu. This way, the Resistance will begin to get training, and more importantly, weapons. We’ll have bigger numbers and better organization.”
“With all the nightly raids, we’ll be lucky to last a few more days without getting caught,” Gideon says. “We’re only alive because we’re always on the move. As soon as the meters show an empty apartment’s using oxygen, they come for us.”
“So what are you saying?” Harriet asks her husband.
“The border’s closed, as is the biosphere. They’ve shut us down,” he responds.
“Not yet, they haven’t. Just stay on the move and if we can get hold of any air tanks we’ll get them to you,” Bea says. “You continue to grow, and we’ll all recruit and keep training to breathe with low oxygen.”
Old Watson yawns and drains his mug. “So whatever way you look at it, it’s either a war, or capture and death,” he says.
“That’s right,” Bea says. “Now let’s get on it.”
I ensconce Bea in Wendy’s annex and head into the house. The toilet flushes and Lance Vine comes into the kitchen zipping up his fly. “Ronan,” he says. He wipes his hands on the front of his pants, which are an inch too short for his spindly legs.
“I didn’t expect to see you here, Pod Minister,” I say. He’s the last person I expected to see. I focus hard on his face, so I don’t spontaneously look out at Wendy’s annex.
“Really.” Vine pauses, giving me time to respond, but I stand stolid. “Niamh’s been helping me type up a new bill. I’ve been admiring your lovely home, actually. Real marble?” He touches the kitchen counter and whistles. “Don’t think any of the ministers live in such splendor. But then, Cain was always a bit of a hedonist.” He opens a cupboard and peers at the array of glasses and tableware. He smiles. “So no signs of the RATS, then?” I shake my head. “Time to get the zips fired up, I’d say.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I say—Jude will have to deal with Lance Vine. “What’s the bill you’re working on?” I take out my pad and scroll through the messages, so he won’t think I’m too interested.
“We’re siphoning oxygen from empty apartments or tenants who don’t pay their taxes. It’s only fair.�
�� He watches me.
“People will die,” I say.
“RATS are squatting and using air for free.”
“You’re back!” Niamh is standing beaming under the doorframe, but she doesn’t go so far as to rush at me for a hug.
“Your brother seems unsure about the new bill,” Vine tells her.
Niamh tuts. “He acts tough, but Ronan’s a softie.”
“Is that so?” Vine asks.
“Only where the innocent are concerned,” I say, hardening my gaze. He doesn’t frighten me half as much as my father could.
“Well, RATS are far from innocent,” Niamh says pointedly, trying to prove to Vine that we’re safely on his side.
“How can you know that for sure?” Vine asks. Niamh hesitates, frowns, and is about to respond when Vine smiles playfully. “Just kidding,” he says, and throws his jacket on. “It’s late. I’ll let you both get to bed.” And without another word, he heads out the back door.
Niamh sits on the stool next to me and lets her head flop onto the countertop. “He thinks I’m stupid,” she says. She groans and closes her eyes. “I bet he’ll sack me.”
I make her sit up and look at me. “What are you doing working with the ministry anyway?”
She stares at me like she’s trying to remember who I am. “The RATS killed Daddy.”
“Vine isn’t going to bring him back,” I say gently.
“Lance Vine was Daddy’s friend.” She goes to the window. “I want to be useful.”
And I understand that. I want to be useful, too. But why must we be on different sides? Why can’t she see what’s happening?
“You should go to bed,” I say.
“I’m glad you’re home,” Niamh says. She fills her water glass and strolls out of the kitchen.
I’m fooling myself if I think I can convince Niamh that our father was responsible for his own death.
And I can’t be her conscience; it would be pointless to try.
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PART III
THE BETRAYAL
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38
QUINN
Bea’s running, being chased by armed stewards, and my father’s at the head of the hunt, carrying one of those old-fashioned muskets. Eventually Bea falls and I’m there, too, rooted to the road and peering down at her. “Anything’s better than this,” she says, but before I can save her, Ronan is dragging her away. All I can do is retreat slowly into the shadows like a coward. She looks up at Ronan and smiles. Then she kisses him.
I wake with a start, feeling penned in.
Clarice has her arm draped over me. She’s snoring. I peel her away and sit up, untangling the air tank’s tubing, which has somehow managed to wrap itself around my neck in the night. I wish I’d stop having these nightmares.
I get out of bed, bringing the air tank with me. I’m still in my pants, but pull on the sweater I left on the nightstand.
Clarice stirs and turns over to face me. “This is a bit awkward,” she says through a yawn, which is the biggest bloody understatement ever. “But don’t worry. We’ll get used to each other.” She seems harmless, but I feel too guilty to go as far as to like her; it should be Bea lying next to me, and I would have put my arm around her waist and my face into her neck during the night. As it was, I lay dangled over the edge of the bed in case I accidently touched Clarice, keeping one eye open for as long as I could in case Vanya or Maks stormed in.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask.
“Four years. I used to live in the pod. Glad to be out of there. Especially now with what’s going on.”
“Yeah,” I say. I go to the door, where two pieces of gray paperlike sheets have been pushed under it during the night. They’re identical apart from our names. I throw Clarice hers and read mine.
SCHEDULE FOR QUINN B. CAFFREY
STATS - Immunity: Level 7 Fert: Level A IQ: 152 Ox Con: Excellent Blood Type: A+
PARTNER – CLARICE BIRD
6:30am Meditation – Room #12
9:30am Academics’ breakfast – Annex
10:00amCardio – Room #20
1:30pmAcademics’ lunch – Annex
2;30pmYoga – Room #7
5:30pmStudy – The Main House library
7:30pmDinner – Sitting 1 – Annex
8:30pmShots – Room #4e
9:00pmMeditation – Room #12
10:00pmLights out
NO CHANGES SHOULD BE MADE TO THIS SCHEDULE WITHOUT DIRECT APPROVAL FROM VANYA. ANY PERSON UNABLE TO COMPLETE DUTIES SHOULD REPORT TO A SENTRY NO LATER THAN 30 MINS PRIOR TO A SCHEDULED START TIME. SICKNESS SHOULD BE REPORTED TO NURSE JONES, NURSE LAYAVITCH, OR DOCTOR MARCELA.
ENDEAVOR TO REMAIN IN YOUR PAIR AT ALL TIMES.
“What time is it?” Clarice asks.
“Almost six,” I say, looking at the clock above the bed and wondering whether Bea’s made it back into the pod yet.
“This is the only free time we’ll get all day,” Clarice says. She sighs and gets out of bed wearing only a short shirt. I make myself busy looking elsewhere.
“And it’s hardly free,” I remind her. I scan the list of daily activities. Could I skip the study period without being noticed? I can’t spend another night in that bed. And Alina definitely can’t spend another night with Maks. We’ve all got to get out of here as soon as possible, if we want to help Ronan and Bea with their plan to take back the pod.
“Sometimes, when people are disappointed with a pairing, they leave. Is that what you’re going to do?” Clarice asks, watching me. She piles her hair on top of her head and holds it in place with what look like chopsticks.
“’Course not,” I lie, and smile, lacing up my boots good and tight.
“That’s good,” she says, “because anyone who tries to escape usually ends up dead, and I really don’t want you to die. Not before we breed, anyway.”
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39
ALINA
Maks is with me every minute of the day, making it impossible to plan an escape. And the only part of my day that isn’t hellish is trooper training. Running, punching, throwing, and dodging are things I’m keen to practice, and even Maks seems impressed when I shoot at cans and bottles suspended from wires, pummeling every one. “Not bad,” he says. Maybe he believes I’m training to help Sequoia, but I’m just making sure I remember how to defend myself when we get back to the pod.
Whenever I see Silas, Wren is a few feet away, gazing at him longingly, and when I try to speak to him, Maks physically drags me away. And Sugar is attached to Abel. He tries to get my attention at lunch, but Maks watches as I spoon each morsel into my mouth and gives Abel several baleful looks. Whatever Abel knows about what’s happening to Maude and Bruce, Maks doesn’t want me to find out. Which makes me even more worried.
After working on our marksmanship in the morning, we’re given backpacks weighed down with rocks and forced to hike. Even the veterans are given air tanks. “Use them sparingly,” Maks warns, and leads a hundred troopers out of Sequoia and along a dirt track to a mountain dotted with rocks, dead grasses, and parched animal bones.
We hike for hours in the pouring rain. Never slowing. Our clothes and shoes are soaked through. I turn up my oxygen, but even then, it’s too much: the new recruits, me included, fall behind. I’m alone at the back, Maks up front, when Abel hangs back. Sugar slows, too, but not enough to be right on top of us. Abel tugs on my sleeve and says something, but with the noise of my breath in my ears, the rain, and the thudding of boots, I can’t hear him. He holds on to me to slow me down. The group races
ahead. We are side by side, and he lifts up his face mask. “Maude, Bruce, and Jo,” he says.
“What’s been done to them?” I’m guessing that the body Silas and I saw Crab bury belonged to a benefactor. Do they all end up out the back in unmarked graves? But why?
Abel lets his face mask spring back against his face and raises his voice. “I’ll take you to see for yourself tonight. We have to act quickly. Every hour that goes by is an hour too long.”
I trip on a rock and let out a yelp. Abel catches me and Maks, who is almost a hundred feet ahead, spins around and stops. He allows the pack of hikers to pass him and waits until we’ve caught up. He hikes next to us.
“Her gauge was stuck. She couldn’t get any air,” Abel says, sidling up to Sugar again.
“Stay. With. Me,” Maks says, and yanks my arm. Pain shoots along it. I wriggle out of Maks’s hold, and he lifts his hand as though about to strike me, then thinks better of it. “That’s enough for today,” he announces to the group, then wheels around and gallops down the mountain.
“Tonight . . . Wait for me in the hallway after you’ve had your shots,” Abel manages to mutter.
Silas finds a seat next to me in the dining hall. “Where’s Maks?” he asks. I tilt my head toward the stage where Maks is sitting next to Vanya but eyeing me. “Stalker,” Silas says. He spoons a portion of cockroaches onto his plate. “So how are we going to get out of this place?”
“Quinn told me there’s about to be a revolt in the pod. We have to go back and help.” I take a slice of protein bread and push it into my mouth. It’s dry and sticks to the back of my throat.
“Is he sure?”
“He seems to be. But there’s something’s else. . . . Maude and Bruce are in danger. Abel’s going to take me to them tonight.”
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