Sarah Crossan - Resist

“I knew something like this must have happened,” I admit. I take large gulps of air as the words dead and forever spin in my head. I wasn’t my father’s favorite, and we weren’t friends. Still, I didn’t want this.

“At the press conference, Quinn started a—well, your father was mobbed and attacked, but it was a heart attack that killed him. By the time the medics arrived, it was too late.”

“What should I do?” I ask. I need him to tell me what life looks like now—what comes next.

But Jude’s an army man; he thinks I’m asking how we catch the perpetrators. “Well, you know we’ve been chasing the Resistance inside and outside the pod. We’ve nearly got them all rounded up. You can help with that.”

“Me? No . . . I want nothing more to do with the Special Forces.”

He squints. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to talk about it tomorrow. I want out. Those people weren’t terrorists. They were gardeners , Jude. And most of them were my age.” I’ve tried not to think about those we killed, but it comes back to me now: the faces of boys and girls, only a handful of them wearing bulletproof vests, not one of them holding an automatic weapon. They had rifles and shotguns. It wasn’t a war at all—it was a massacre.

“Those people are responsible for your father’s death.”

He knows the only reason I joined the Special Forces was for my father’s approval. But strangely, now he’s dead, I couldn’t care less if he rolls in his grave. I have no interest in working for the Ministry and spending my life subjugating people for no good reason.

“No. The Ministry’s lies are responsible for that riot, and I won’t be a part of that anymore.”

“You don’t really have a choice. Do you know how much your training cost?”

“I’ll pay back whatever it cost. We have money.”

Jude sighs. “None of us have money, Ronan. This house, the buggy, your housekeeper, dammit, even your air supply . . . who do you think pays for it all?”

“But my father had shares in Breathe. A pension.”

“Perhaps,” he says. “But Special Forces soldiers don’t quit. You’re one of the Ministry’s most dangerous weapons. They aren’t going to let you loose. Who’s to say you won’t defect?”

“But you can cut me loose.”

He smiles. “If only that were true. I’m as much a slave to them as anyone.”

“I’ll refuse to fight,” I say. They can’t make me.

“Get real. What do you think they’ll do to you . . . and to your sister? Have you forgotten what happened to Adele Rice?”

“She was killed by—” I stop and stare at Jude, who nods slowly. It was all over the news: Adele Rice, Special Forces elite, went missing and was suspected dead after a mission to The Outlands. The Ministry blamed the “terrorists.” Were any of the supposed terrorist attacks true?

My stomach tightens and bitterness against my father, the Ministry, and Jude Caffrey surges. I swallow hard and have a desperate urge to go up into my studio and throw paint. Why didn’t I stay up there years ago and do what I love instead of trying to be the soldier-son my father wanted?

“The ministers have invited you and your sister to the chamber next week. They’d like to pay their respects,” he says. He stands, puts on his coat, and retrieves his airtank from the floor.

“Right,” I say.

“It’s protocol,” he says flatly. “And again, I’m sorry, but my advice, if you want to stay safe, is to stay useful. The Special Forces is a prestigious group and we’ll need you to clean up the mess in the pod. If I were you, I wouldn’t give up on us just yet.” He turns to the door as Todd and Niamh stroll into the kitchen. Niamh’s red lipstick is smeared across Todd’s neck and white T-shirt. I grip the edge of the table to stop myself from jumping up and knocking him out.

“I’m taking this.” Todd holds up an airtank. Niamh comes into the kitchen and flops into a seat beside me. “Listen, Niamh, I’ll see you at school, yeah?”

Niamh chews on a thumbnail. “Okay,” she replies, and smiles.

“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?”

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.

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.