Resist b-2

by Sarah Crossan

  “Should I wait for you to call me, or should I—”

  “Just get out,” I say.

  “Huh?”

  “Leave,” I bite out.

  “Why are you being such a jerk?” Niamh asks.

  “I’m going anyway. No worries,” Todd murmurs, and steps out of the room.

  “I’m telling Dad,” Niamh says. We’re both practically adults, yet when I look at her, I see my baby sister—the six-year-old who ten years ago, wearing a yellow knit dress, was told her mother was dead and clung to me for weeks. She would’ve clung to my father if he hadn’t spent every day either in his room with a bottle or at the Ministry. He was never the same again and committed himself completely to work.

  I sit back down and gaze at Niamh, who is glaring at me. How can I be the one to tell her our father is never coming back? Why should I be the one to destroy her world?

  “Please tell me what’s going on,” she says.

  Jude looks at me seriously. “I’ll go and let you two talk,” he says.

  Niamh frowns. “Talk about what?”

  4

  QUINN

  While Bea and Jazz get some kip, I scout the station for drifters, climbing the escalator to the upper concourse—a glass atrium bursting with light. The sky is this amazingly bright blue, and if you didn’t know any better you’d think it was a summer morning.

  At the end of the concourse, where the light is brightest, is a jumble of discarded solar respirators. Hell, even the drifters have legged it.

  I stoop over one of the solar respirators, a metal box that looks like a rusty mini-fridge, and turn it on. It sputters to life, then hums loudly. I pull my facemask from my nose and mouth to test the one attached to the respirator. The air coming from it is humid, but I can breathe all right. A tightness I didn’t even know I had in my chest relaxes; at least we aren’t going to suffocate anytime soon. With Bea I’ve tried to be more positive than I feel, but that’s only because she needs me to be strong. She’s lost way more than I have, and she hasn’t given up. Not completely, anyway.

  I refit my facemask and pull my father’s long coat more tightly around me.

  Maybe he thought that saving my life made him a model father or something, but it doesn’t. Anyone would have done the same, or more. And if he could see me now, he’d know that sending me into The Outlands to fend for myself wasn’t far from a death sentence anyway.

  Who am I kidding? Of course he knew that.

  But at least I can walk, which is more than I can say about Jazz, and if we don’t do something soon, we’ll have to watch her die because there’s no way we can treat her leg ourselves. If only we’d managed to make it to Sequoia unharmed.

  I slump on the floor and nudge a solar respirator with my foot. Maybe I should go there alone and bring back help. Bea could take care of Jazz in the meantime. They have air and water. And this station is as good as it gets for shelter out here.

  It’s probably the worst idea I’ve ever had, but when I hear Jazz call out, I figure I don’t have any other option.

  5

  BEA

  I wake up on the cold station floor, and Quinn is missing.

  “Petra,” Jazz mutters, and tries to sit up. She lets out a screech, crumpling back onto the tiled floor. I slide closer and elevate her leg using Quinn’s backpack. This should help stop the bleeding. Then I take her head in my lap. “I thought it was only a nightmare,” she says. She begins to cry, and I can tell from her eyes that it has nothing to do with the pain in her leg.

  After a few minutes, a noise echoes through the station. “Quinn?”

  “Coming!” And he’s with us again. “I heard a scream,” he says, and lowers a rusting, dented solar respirator onto the floor.

  “It was me,” Jazz admits.

  He pushes his hair away from his eyes and crouches next to her. “How bad is it?” he asks. Cautiously, he presses his hand to her forehead.

  “I’m fine,” she says, and leans away from him. Her eyelids flutter as she courts unconsciousness again.

  Quinn turns to me. “I found a ton of those respirators. This place must have been swarming with drifters. But there’s no one here now. You’ll be fine.”

  He smiles, but it looks forced. “What are you talking about?” I swallow hard.

  “Hear me out, Bea.”

  “No,” I say.

  “We can’t carry her across the country.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “One of us has to get help, and I won’t let you go out there alone.” I don’t want to be without him. Not again. Not ever. I try to speak, but the words get trapped in my throat, and I cough. He pats me on the back. “Give me the map and let me go,” he says.

  “Where? Where will you go, Quinn?” My voice is a squeal.

  “I’ll find Sequoia. How hard can it be to locate a building big enough to house a whole movement? Someone will be able to help, and I’ll be back. Alina will be there.” He lowers his voice. “Jazz doesn’t stand a chance if we all stay here.”

  “There has to be another way.” Now I do cry as the weight of what’s happened and what will happen crashes down on me. I want to be stronger, I just don’t know how.

  He wraps his arms around me, holding me up as much as embracing me. “I’ll be back. I promise,” he says.

  My parents made a promise like this, and it was the last time I ever saw them. I let him hold me. But I don’t believe him.

  “They work. I checked,” Quinn says, unloading another respirator, and pressing his hand against the solar panel bathed in light from above. He turns a knob on the top, nudges it with his foot, and we listen to the old thing grind to life. “And they’re mobile, so you can carry them . . . if you have to.” I nod even though the respirators are enormous; I’d never even be able to lift one. “But you should stay here, so I’ll know where to find you,” he says.

  Beside me, Jazz mewls and turns over in her sleep.

  “What day is it?” I ask. I want to feel grounded to something reliable, predictable. And unless I know when he left, how will I know when to expect him back? When to stop waiting?

  Quinn blinks and calculates using his fingers. “Monday,” he says. “Or Tuesday. Let’s say Monday. Look, every time the sun comes up, throw something in there.” He points at a tarnished water fountain attached to the wall.

  “And when should I stop counting?”

  “Bea.” He sighs. “I’ll be back.”

  “Don’t go,” Jazz says, waking up. She winces with pain. “Can’t you give me a piggyback? I’m light. I’m really light.”

  She’s already sweating a fever, though she’s shivering. “You need to conserve your energy,” I tell her.

  Quinn buttons up his coat. “Tell me this is for the best,” he says. “Please tell me I’m doing the right thing.” I don’t answer but follow him outside into the derelict city. The sunshine has melted some of the snow. The air is still frigid. I tuck my chin into my chest.

  “Your air won’t last long,” I say.

  “Stop it,” he says.

  “You stop it.”

  “Bea . . .” He takes my wrist, lifts his mask, and pushing back my sleeve, kisses it. I close my eyes, and he takes off my glove and kisses the palm of my hand. Eventually he has to put his facemask back in place, so he wraps me up in his arms. I rest my chin on his shoulder. “I can’t read you,” he says.

  “I can’t read myself anymore.” I take a deep breath and push my hair away from my face. “If Jazz dies, and you don’t come back, I’ll head for Sequoia,” I say.

  He looks up at the rows of broken clerestory windows set into the red brick of the station and nods. “Give me two weeks. You can survive here for two weeks.”

  “Yes,” I say, but we both know Jazz won’t make it that long.

  We stand for a few moments longer, holding hands and looking at our boots in the sludge.

  “Why did it take me forever to see you?” he asks. He puts his hands around the ba
ck of my neck and pulls my head toward him so that our foreheads touch. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

  I nod, but I don’t tell him that I love him, too. Maybe he’ll be back, maybe he won’t; my love won’t change what happens.

  6

  RONAN

  Niamh is admiring herself in my bedroom mirror. She’s dressed in my father’s black mourning robe, and it should look weird, but Wendy’s taken it in so it fits, and Niamh wears it as though it were made especially for her. Usually I’d make a snarky comment, but I just watch her. “What do you think?” she asks.

  I climb out of bed, pulling on the pants I left draped on the chair next to it. “I think I’d appreciate some privacy.”

  “You should be up. I don’t know how you can sleep.” Today the ministers will pay their respects in the chamber. But that probably isn’t what Niamh means; ever since she found out our father died, she has spent all night in his bedroom, sobbing into the pillows. I let her grieve—someone should.

  “You feeling better?” I ask.

  “No, Ronan,” Niamh says. “Our dad is dead. I feel like crap.”

  I stand behind her. My eyes in the mirror have dark circles beneath them. I look older than I did a week ago, which shouldn’t really surprise me.

  I pull a sweater over my head and push my hair away from my eyes. Wendy bustles into the room with a tray.

  “Morning,” she says.

  “Hey,” I say. Niamh doesn’t bother looking at her. Wendy sidesteps Niamh, balancing the tray on her hip, and as she brushes past me, I have a feeling she wants to give me a hug. Wendy brought us up after our mother died and was the closest thing I had to a parent. But my father didn’t want her trying to replace my mother, so she stopped cuddling us. Maybe my father threatened her, and I was too shy to admit that a hug now and then would have been all right.

  Wendy puts the tray on the dresser. “Toast and tea,” she tells me. “Have it while it’s hot.” On her way out, she stops in front of Niamh. “You look lovely.”

  Niamh shrugs. “I know,” she says, though Wendy is already out of the room. “And it would be nice if you made some effort too, Ronan.”

  “Give me a minute’s peace, and I will,” I say.

  “Well, we leave in ten minutes, so hurry up.” She blows me a theatrical kiss and sweeps out of the room.

  Niamh and I make our way up the marble pathway to the senate. The whole area’s been cordoned off and stewards are lining the streets to prevent anything from kicking off, though the pod’s been pretty quiet since everyone was anesthetized. No one’s interested in challenging the Ministry now—not when consciousness depends on compliance. I turn to Niamh, about to reassure her, but she has her head up and eyes fixed on the entrance. She doesn’t look one bit afraid. So why am I?

  The antique wooden doors to the senate swing inward and a group of stewards bows. A dimly lit lobby ends in a broad, winding staircase. “Ms. Knavery. Mr. Knavery,” the stewards mutter, each one bending lower than the last.

  We’re led up the stairs, down a pink-tiled hallway, and into a sealed cavity between the outer door and the Chamber of Governance. Our fingerprints and faces are scanned, and we’re given swabs so we can provide saliva samples. It takes a few minutes for the screen to come to life: Niamh Jean Knavery, Ronan Giles Knavery —Authorized.

  The Chamber is a golden walled amphitheater with tiered seats set around a central platform. Down in the well of the gallery is a row of solemn officials perched in high-backed chairs. The room goes quiet as we shuffle along an empty row at the back. Anyone wearing a hat takes it off, and a few people stand. I recognize most of the ministers from dinners and parties my father dragged us to. Back then they were all smiles—not today. And the stoniest face of all is Lance Vine, the new pod minister, though why he looks so grim is hard to tell.

  Jude Caffrey is one of the ministers sitting on stage. He catches my eye and nods. I nod back. It’s good to have a familiar face I know to focus on, should I need it.

  Vine approaches the lectern and clears his throat into the microphone. When he’s satisfied everyone’s listening, he begins. “Welcome,” he says. For such a thin man, his voice is surprisingly deep, and any ministers still standing or murmuring quickly shut up. “I stand before you today as your newly appointed pod minister. Yet this position comes at a price. Today we honor the memory of Cain Knavery and, as a mark of respect, offer a moment’s silence in the presence of his children. Thank you for coming. We are deeply sorry for your loss.” Niamh sits up straighter. I bite the insides of my cheeks. I’ve no interest in being eyeballed and even less in being pitied. Vine lowers his head. The ministers mirror him.

  And the silence is under way: time to think about my father. How many nights he came home steaming drunk, needing to be placated to stop him from smashing up the kitchen. Or the times he had to be carried to bed. Or the day he chased me up the stairs with a belt for daring to contradict him. A tear trickles down Niamh’s cheek. What does she remember that I don’t?

  “Thank you, ministers,” Vine says. “And now to today’s agenda. Item one is pod security.”

  “Is that it?” Niamh hisses. “Our dead father gets one minute?”

  I shrug, and Vine is continuing. “We must restore order. Our authority must not be challenged again.” He bangs his fist against the lectern, and the chamber booms with the noise of it. The ministers applaud. “We have reports of RATS escaping via the trash chutes during the riots, and of new terrorist cells in The Outlands. We must not allow the grass to grow under our feet.” He simpers. This is a joke, and the handful of ministers who get it titter. “We will deploy the army to finish the job.”

  The chamber goes silent, and I freeze. I can’t go out there and kill innocent people. I won’t.

  Jude jumps up. “May I address the chamber?” he asks. Vine nods and steps away from the lectern as Jude approaches it. “The army was severely damaged during the last campaign. We lost too many soldiers, and depleted our fuel supply for the zips. I can’t vote for an immediate deployment of troops.” The ministers shift in their seats.

  “So we let them get away with it?” someone calls out.

  “We let the RATS escape?” another voice adds.

  “We need to find another way,” Jude says, and seems to stare at me. “We could send scouts on a reconnaissance mission. Young people the RATS would trust. I could have the junior Special Forces ready in days.”

  Niamh prickles up. “Does he mean you?”

  Jude keeps his mouth straight and his hands clamped to the lectern. I should have known better than to expect any compassion from him—a man who sent his own son into The Outlands to die. How could he do that? I know by now that Quinn was the one who started the riot in the pod—but even I didn’t want him dead, not when all he did was tell the truth.

  The chamber is heavy with silence and all eyes rest on me. Some ministers look troubled, but most are beaming, delighted by the scheme. Jude’s expression is impenetrable.

  “Tell them you’ll do it, Ronan. For Daddy. Those bastards are responsible for this.” Niamh tugs on her black mourning robe. I take her hand and squeeze it.

  But I won’t advocate for this mission. Besides, I hardly think that what I say matters. They’ll send us whether I agree to it or not. Niamh pulls her hand out of mine and does start to cry.

  “And in the meantime, you’ll recruit and train a new army?” someone asks. “If this is a reconnaissance mission, we have to be ready to attack once they’re found.”

  “Of course,” Jude says. “I’ll begin recruiting today.” Is he smiling? I want to tear onto the stage and throttle him.

  “Thank you, General,” Vine says, and moves on to item two on the agenda.

  Because item one has been resolved: I am going into The Outlands again, whether I like it or not.

  7

  ALINA

  Silas lowers the anchor for the final time. He wipes his brow with his forearm and ties the roping in
place. The deck moans as it collides with the jetty. We’ve come as far as we can in the boat: the river winds west, and it’s time to head north.

  Song unbolts the gate in the railing, slides a narrow gangplank between the boat and landing, and steps ashore. “Mind your step,” he says. His eyes are dull.

  We haven’t talked about The Grove, and with Holly gone, we have something else to blot from our memories. Not that we can.

  “You’re sure it’s north?” Silas asks Dorian.

  Dorian nods. “Not far now. A couple of days at most.” It doesn’t sound like much, but we left The Grove over a week ago. We’re freezing and hungry and our air is dwindling quicker than we thought.

  “Make sure we’ve got all the airtanks and weapons,” Silas says. He stands with his hands on his hips, his chin raised. He’s good at this—appearing unbreakable. And that’s what we need now: someone to pretend everything will be okay.

  Maude steps up to the gangplank and holds the rail. She coughs loudly. “Haven’t you got anything warm to put on?” I ask her. A persistent drizzle has replaced the pouring rain.

  “What do you care?” she asks, elbowing me out of the way. She totters down the gangplank, then pulls an old, damp blanket around her like a cape.

  “You don’t look too toasty yourself. Stick that on, love,” Bruce says to me, holding out his coat.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, even though I’m so cold I can no longer feel my toes or the tips of my fingers. He shrugs and puts on the coat himself.

  I follow Maude down the gangplank and onto the jetty where the solidity of the land makes me wobble.

  “I wish we could hide it,” Dorian says, looking up at the towering masts of the boat.

  Silas tuts. “Let’s get a move on. Everyone stay close,” he says.

  We march along the jetty and onto the riverbank. “It looks the same everywhere,” Song says. We’ve left behind the city’s high-rises and cathedral spires that seem to pierce the clouds, but all along the riverbank is the usual desolation: tumbledown buildings, smashed-up cars, warped roads, and toppled lampposts. Bones are scattered among the debris; animal or human, it’s hard to tell. In the distance are folds of hoary, barren fields.