Resist

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