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.