Breathe (28 page)

“You’ll fall!” Dorian calls. I pretend I can’t hear him. The blinds haven’t yet been closed for the night. I stretch out, looking up at the black sky flecked with tiny winking stars. I can’t remember the last time I saw the sky like this.

My breathing slows and I allow myself to be right here, in the moment, savoring the peace. All the millions and millions of stars remind me, too, how small and fragile I am. And unimportant, really. If this branch were to creak and moan and break under my weight, and I were to plummet to the ground, the stars in the sky would continue to decorate the world. And even if every last tree disappears from our planet, the stars will still be up there. Flickering their good-nights.

No one speaks. We lie in our own trees for a long time, waiting for the sun.

“We took three trams to get here. Your dad was worried we’d be followed,” Mom says, brushing my face with her hand. Her hair is white. I don’t remember it turning this color.

I am sitting between her and Dad on the couch and Old Watson is in his bedroom listening to music, the volume politely blaring so he won’t overhear any of our conversation.

“Why didn’t you tell us before, love?” Dad asks.

“I planned to. I just didn’t want to worry you as soon as I got back. You’d been through enough. Quinn and I were sure we’d figure something out,” I say.

“Well, border stewards can always be bribed,” he says, as though this is something he’s accustomed to doing.

“You have no money.” I smile so he knows I’m not accusing him.

“People need transplants and I only need one kidney. And one eye. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, Bea. I won’t have my only child hunted,” he says. Mom starts to fidget with the seam on her skirt. She knows it’s no plan at all. It’s true that people do sell their organs, but the process takes months, and only people under thirty-five are allowed to be donors.

“I really believed that you and Quinn were in love. But all you were doing every evening was homework and training. I thought—” She can’t go on. This was her dream for me, that I would marry a Premium.

“He does love me. We did more than train.” I blush, embarrassed. Mom smiles and so does Dad, but I don’t know why since my marrying Quinn and living safely in the pod is out of the question. I’m about to remind them of this when Mom throws her arms around me.

“That fool. It only took him forever to notice you.”

“I’ll never be a Premium,” I say.

“No, you won’t,” she says, and reaches over me to touch my father’s face.

We hear something shattering in the next room and within a couple of seconds Old Watson hobbles in and begins rummaging though a stack of remote controls.

“Turn on the screen. Turn on the screen. The screen!” he demands. When he finds the remote, he presses a large red button and the screen comes to life.

I watch and wait, wondering what can be so important, when the Justice Minister appears.
“This is a Ministry announcement: Tomorrow morning we will be hosting a special live interview with Quinn Caffrey, who recently found himself kidnapped, tortured, and blackmailed by a dangerous terrorist cell.”
The screen displays a photograph of a much younger-looking Quinn; he must have been about twelve when the photograph was taken.

“What’s going on?” Mom stares at me as though I’ve organized this myself.

“Shh,” I say, turning up the volume.

“The special event will be held at the Justice Building and spectators are welcome. Extra tram services are scheduled. We hope to see many of you there to support this victim and the Ministry’s fight against terrorism. An antiterrorist march will follow the press conference. Good night,”
the Justice Minister says. The screen goes black before brightening again with an advertisement for a new brand of aerosol soap.

“Why would Quinn agree to do that? Well?” Mom is almost shouting, and Old Watson has to remind her to keep her voice down.

“He knows exactly what he’s doing,” Dad says calmly.

“And what
exactly
is that?” Mom wants to know.

“A message was sent to my pad from Lennon Caffrey’s code just before you showed up,” Dad says, looking at Old Watson.

“And?” I ask. I hold my breath.

“I didn’t understand it at all when I read it. I thought it’d been sent by mistake. But the message wasn’t from Lennon at all. It was obviously Quinn who sent it. He wrote
Please come down to hear me speak tomorrow
. Or something like that.”

Mom stands up and puts her hands on her hips. “So
what
?” she says. Dad looks at me, giving me a moment to work it out.

“So he’s telling us to gather a crowd for tomorrow,” I say as a thread of Quinn’s plan starts to sink in.

“Exactly,” Dad says. “Whatever he plans on saying, he’s asking for some kind of backup, and what better than loads of auxiliaries?”

Old Watson steps forward and leans on my Mom for support. “I’ll get out tonight and spread the word to as many people as I can. Door to door.”

Mom nods. “We will, too.”

“Help plan the crowd, but don’t go down there tomorrow,” I beg.

Dad stands up. “No more being pushed around, Bea. Now’s the time. We have to do this. For you.”

He’s right. It might be our only chance. Quinn has practically asked my parents to get involved. And even if they didn’t, the Ministry would soon get bored searching for me and target my parents.

“We should go now,” Mom says. She thanks Old Watson and moves to the hallway, my father behind her.

“Be safe,” I say, as Mom opens the door.

“We will,” they say together.

“And we’ll be back tomorrow after the interview,” Dad tells me, and pats my arm. I kiss him lightly on the cheek and then my mom.

“Sleep well,” Mom says, and turns away, her eyes tearing up. They step through the door and it closes with a beep.

Old Watson rummages in a cupboard and pulls out a walking stick.

“They never wanted to fight before,” I say.

“They never had anything worth fighting for,” Old Watson says. “Until now.” And with that, he opens the door again, leaving me alone with nothing to do but imagine the fight.

We are dozing when a piercing whistle slices the air. I sit up, throw my legs over the branch, and look down. “What’s that?” I call out. I’m still half asleep, but Dorian and Jazz are already scampering down the trees.

“It’s the zips,” Dorian shouts. “They’re back! Why didn’t anyone close the blinds?”

And so it’s started. If I’m really prepared to fight, today’s the day to prove it. I take a deep breath and climb down the tree.

It’s useless hiding in the bunkers. They’ve found us, and we’ll be buried alive if we go underground. It’s time to fight. There are people running in every direction, some of them already holding guns, others so taken by surprise they’re still pulling on their boots.

I vomit. Without even waiting for me to wipe my mouth clean, Jazz pulls on my arm and starts to tug me toward a staircase. “I never trained!” she squeals. “I never trained! Oh, help me, Alina.”

“It’s too late, Jazz,” Dorian says. He glances left and right, then looks back at me and we stand staring at each other, neither of us certain what happens now.

At that moment Silas comes running from the lookout post, his eyes hell-stricken. He is pulling on a bulletproof vest and when he sees Jazz he grabs her. “Find Petra! We need everything and everyone. Rouse the sleepers, Jazz. And if you see Levi or Roxanne, tell them it’s time to ignite that stolen tank. Go!” Jazz nods and dashes away, her small running figure a blur against the dawn. Silas turns to me and Dorian. “Get every remaining weapon we have in the shooting range. I’ll gather everyone. This is it.” Dorian runs away as Silas moves off in the opposite direction. I follow Silas.

“We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?” I ask.

Silas takes me by the shoulders. “Fight with gusto!” he says, and bounds off along the corridor, leaving me alone.

Dorian returns with a load of guns, drops them at my feet, and I begin distributing them as he goes to get more weapons. When Silas returns, he directs people into position.

At last Petra appears. She is carrying an Uzi and holding a megaphone. “No mercy!” she hollers.

So we take our positions and wait.

I can’t eat breakfast, and even the hot drink Old Watson brews for me goes cold in the cup. I spend the morning pacing the apartment and switching channels on the screen, looking for coverage of the interview. Not that I need to; when the time comes, it’s on every channel. “I should come down there with you,” I say as Old Watson is patting his pockets and getting ready to leave.

“You should be rational,” he replies, meaning I’m being emotional. But what he doesn’t know is that I’ve never been very rational when it comes to Quinn. “If you disappear from the apartment, I won’t know where you are and I’ll have to form a search party to find you. So stay here,” he says. I nod. Old Watson looks like he might be about to hug me, but thinking better of it, he nods brusquely and rushes away.

I turn to the screen as the voice-over comments on the impressive turnout and the exclusive interview about to come. I pick up the cold cup and finally take a few sips from it.

As the camera pans over a row of people sitting behind a desk on an elevated stage, Quinn appears. I put down the cup again and pull a chair close to the screen. He is dressed in a shirt and tie and sitting next to the Justice Minister—a round, red-faced old man who looks like he is about to fall asleep at any moment, despite the hoopla going on around him. Quinn is sitting quite still, his face looks gray, and his glare is fixed on some distant object beyond the crowd. He unfastens the top button of his shirt. Instinctively I unzip my cardigan a couple of inches.

“To those of you just joining us, welcome to Pod TV Channel 4,” says the announcer. “The atmosphere here is electric and in a few minutes we should be hearing from the Pod Minister and Quinn Caffrey. After that, stay tuned for footage of the march.”

Several pockets of spectators are holding anti-RATS placards aloft and cheering every time anyone on stage moves. I try to locate either my parents or Old Watson, but it’s impossible; there must be a couple of thousand people down at the Justice Building, Premiums and auxiliaries all mixed in together. It isn’t often this happens, and for a moment, I find myself smiling, until I’m startled back into the moment by a blast of high-tempo music.

I hold my breath as the Pod Minister parades onto the stage like he’s a rock star, grinning and bowing as the cheers swell. He takes a purple handkerchief from his breast pocket and waves it in the air. “The Pod Minister is known for his candid interviews, but it’s a rarity to see him appear at a public event like this. And the crowd is
loving
it,” the announcer observes. As the music fades, the Pod Minister takes his place beside Quinn, ruffling Quinn’s hair playfully as he sits down. He raises his hands and the crowd hushes. “Looks like it’s about to begin,” the announcer says, in case we’re all such idiots we can’t interpret anything that’s happening for ourselves. Although maybe it’s so we
don’t
interpret anything for ourselves.

The Pod Minister taps a microphone hidden somewhere in his lapel and a noise like a drumbeat echoes over the airwaves. It makes me jump. The Pod Minister smiles. “These are trying times, my friends, trying times indeed,” he proclaims. “Every day, our way of life, our very existence, comes under attack from the mindless barbarism of terrorists who seek to instill fear into our hearts. These people are fanatics whose beliefs we do not share and whose values are corrupt. They seek to destroy the pod and compromise our safety, hoping only to expose us once again to the horrors of life as it was during The Switch. And then there are those among us”—he gestures to the captivated crowd, the camera, and everyone at home, and the people sitting with him at the desk—“who wish to save this place and protect the life within it. Will we be tyrannized by the few? I know I won’t. And I know you won’t either. No. Together we will stand against our enemies and beat them down. Despite our differences, we will rise as
one
and proclaim our right to life. Our right, as humans, to breathe.”

As he finishes his speech, he runs his hand through his hair and looks down at Quinn coldly, almost challengingly. I remember this look and I do not like it. Quinn lays his hands flat on the desk in front of him and stares at them. A few people in the crowd have thrown up their arms in celebration and are chanting the Pod Minister’s name over and over.
“Knavery! Knavery! Knavery!”
He nods, and in that small gesture is the confidence of his supremacy.

“I gather you here today, my friends, to listen to a story of evil. This young man, a personal friend of mine, was stolen from us and tortured. He will tell us what he knows, and through his story you will see the face of our enemy.” The Pod Minister sits down and turns to Quinn. “Would you please start by telling us a bit about yourself?” he says, pulling a small silver flask from his jacket and taking a drink.

My stomach lurches. Quinn looks so much smaller than I remember—the Justice Minister sitting on his one side, the Pod Minister on the other. He is trapped between them. What can he possibly do now? What can he say?