I slink into the room and slide back onto the chair next to Silas.

"Maude Blue should be here," I say. We need her if we're going to plan a safe route through the city to get new recruits. She knows where all the drifters are. Plus, when I last saw her, she looked sick, and I owe it to Bea to keep Maude safe.

Petra nods. "Release her? Are you sure you can defend yourself against Maude without those two to protect you?" She smirks and Jazz stifles a laugh. When I glance at Silas, even he is biting away a smile.

I'm furious with all of them. Yes, they did save me from a frail old woman. When I had no one else, they rescued me. There's more to it than that, of course. They showed me I'd become cold and hard; I'd forgotten myself, and without even looking, they found me. They did that. My friends.

"I don't care. Go ahead and laugh," I say.

"Oh, I don't think it's funny," Petra explains. "I think it's pathetic. You're not like this."

"Like what?"

"Afraid."

"I'm not afraid," I say. Petra's eyes widen and she looks at Silas.

"Considering what we're about to do, where we're about to go," Silas says, "you should be."

PART IV.

THE BATTLE.

39.

QUINN.

We have full airtanks, and now the bruiser with the dodgy eye is bellowing instructions at us. I try to concentrate on the orders, though my mouth is still throbbing.

Focus!" the bruiser barks.

"I am," I tell her, and spit a frothy mouthful of blood right at her feet. She pushes me, and I stumble backward into a pile of breathing apparatuses.

"Mess with me and you might need to borrow this," she says, pointing at her eye patch.

"He's listening," Bea assures her, and within minutes, the steel door slams at our backs and we are alone.

"You okay?" Bea asks. She touches my face with her gloved fingertips, already wet from the snow.

"'Course I am. You?" She nods. Bea's hair is tangled, her clothes smeared in mud and dust, and her lovely green eyes have dark circles beneath them. She looks like she has fire in her, like she's finally alive.

"So which way should we go?" I ask. Bea pulls out a frayed map, examines it, and points to a dark alleyway between two tall buildings ahead.

"We have to get away from The Grove and remain unseen for at least five miles. Then we get picked up and say we've been walking north for a day," she says, folding the map and pushing it into the inside pocket of her jacket. When I don't speak she continues. "I have to do this, Quinn. I know you don't want to betray your dad, but I have to save Maude. And I think I hate the Ministry. Please do this with me."

I can't believe she imagines I would double-cross Alina or Silas. "Is that what you think of me?" I ask. Bea shrugs. She can't know how it feels to know that the person who taught you to tie your shoelaces is a killer. Her dad is one of the kindest people alive, and so is she. If my father is one of the cruelest people alive, then what am I? "Can I hold your hand?" I ask. It's all I can think to say.

Bea nods and reaches for me.

The farther south we go, the deeper the snow gets and the harder it is to navigate our way along the narrow roads. Sometimes we're forced to cross a major junction or cut through a site of ruins or an old parking lot where we could easily be spotted, if not by the army then maybe by a crazy drifter.

My cracked ribs are throbbing and I have a pounding headache. I don't tell Bea. I want her to think she can count on me. I'm clinging to her with one hand, and in the other I'm carrying a knife in case we run into any trouble.

As the evening draws in and our legs start to seize up from the cold, we hear a noise. We both stand and listen, and when we're sure it's a tank, I wrangle with the valves on our tanks so that our air supplies plummet to dangerous levels; our story won't check out if we get picked up with a bounty of oxygen. We step right into its path. The tank shudders to a halt and the hatch snaps open like a mouth. Bea pulls off her scarf and begins waving it frantically. At the very least we want them to think we mean to surrender. A gun appears. Then a voice.

"Down on the ground with your hands behind your heads. Both of you. NOW!" Two days ago, I might have thought this whole drill was a bit over the top and shouted something snarky at the soldier with the gun. Now, I lie facedown in the snow and wait to be tied up.

Once the soldiers have us securely bound, they drag us to the tank and order us to climb in. When we've no longer got guns aimed at our heads, I begin the indignant Premium pantomime.

"When my father hears about this, you can be sure you'll be made to pay for the way you manhandled me." The soldiers look at each other. "Do you know how many tanks drove right by us without stopping? We've been walking for days."

"You Premium?" a soldier with a gun on his lap wants to know.

"What do I look like? Some sub?" The soldier cranes his neck toward me so he can get a gawk at my earlobe. "Would you like me to pull down my pants so you can do a thorough investigation?" I ask. He shrinks back and pushes another soldier forward.

"Who are you?" this soldier asks.

"My name is Quinn Caffrey, Jude Caffrey's son. He's pretty senior at Breathe." All sound is sucked from the tank as every soldier looks at me. All I've given them is my father's name, but in this tank, in this war, the name Jude Caffrey has power. And that means I have power, too. The soldiers start shuffling and whispering. "You've heard of him then? Listen, I've been held captive by the RATS. Right now, all I want is to get home. Can you take us back to the pod?"

"Get on the horn!" someone calls out. There's a frantic scuffle as two or three of the soldiers reach for the radio at once. Eventually they get hold of my father. It takes them several minutes to convey the fact that they've found his son and an auxiliary girl in the middle of the combat zone. At first it sounds as though they have to remind him he even has a son. I can't hear every word my father is saying, what with the crackling over the radio and the clamor of explosions on his end, but what I do notice is that his voice remains entirely unmoved, even after they've explained, in brief, what's happened to me. My father gives the soldiers in the tank orders to escort me back to the pod and that's it. "Over and out." Over and out? He doesn't ask to speak to me or tell them to check I'm okay. For all he knows my vital organs could be failing. Has he thought about that? He just orders them to take me home and it's 'over and out.'

40.

ALINA.

When Maude steps into the dining hall and pulls off her facemask, I hardly recognize her. I sit there trying to remember where I've seen the face before. It's Dorian who escorts her in and at first I think that maybe she's an old relative of his or something. I'd never have believed a makeover could change someone so drastically. It's not even one of those surgical makeovers the Premiums are into where they get their noses turned up and their lips plumped. All they've done is given her a wash, cut her hair and nails, and dressed her in a fresh set of clothes. It's magic.

"That's her?" Silas asks. I described a horror. I warned him that he'd want to pull his sleeve across his nose to obscure the smell of old sweat and earwax. She sits opposite us and grins at the table piled with food. Her teeth are still stained and broken, but the scum buildup has been removed. She fills a plate to brimming with thick pieces of fruit and is about to stuff a large chunk of apple into her mouth when she changes her mind and takes a dainty bite of some bread instead.

Maude finally notices me. "Where's the other one?" she caws, filling her mug with cider and guzzling it. Her eyes dart up and down the table looking for Bea.

"Petra explained why you were released," Silas says without introducing himself. "There's a mission for you." Maude's eyes, cold and suspicious, rest on me.

"What'av you lot done with her? I ain't helping you do nothing till you tell me where you're keeping her." I want to tell her the truth, but I can't in case she refuses to help us. What does she owe the Resistance? We have to deceive her as we deceived Bea and Quinn.

"Bea will be released once we have a full army. We need to recruit the drifters. That's where you come in," Silas tells Maude. His tone is firm, like the voice that comes over the loudspeakers in the pod announcing the deadlines for receiving new vaccinations.

"That weren't part of the deal. She didn't say nothing about holding Bea."

"What did she say?" Silas asks.

"I weren't listening," Maude admits and coughs some of her dinner back up onto the plate.

"Drink more water," I tell her.

"And be ready to leave by sunset," Silas says. He collects an armful of pears from the table and strides out of the dining room.

"Where is Bea?" Maude asks again once Silas is safely out of earshot. "Please tell me. I thought we'd buried the hatchet, you and me."

"Bea is ... Bea is ..." I stutter.

"Careful," Dorian pipes up. He's been silent the whole meal. I hardly noticed him sitting there.

"Mind your business, you," Maude tells Dorian, lashing out at him with her fist. "Where is she, Alina?"

"You'll see her as soon as we get back from the mission," I lie. And wouldn't the truth hurt more? That Bea is gone and never coming back? I have to pretend not to know this myself.

At sunset the training stops. Swords and guns are put down and everyone comes to wish us well. Little mementos and good-luck charms are pushed into my hands and a few people start to murmur blessings. If Silas and I were denounced when we brought unknowns here, we seem to be making up for it now. We're being hailed as heroes all of a sudden, and we haven't even done anything yet, which makes me wonder: is this mission total lunacy? Silas was probably right the first time: if we want to stay alive, we should run. And we could. As soon as we get out of here, we could head west and never come back.

Jazz snakes through the swelling crowd, sidles up to me, and presents me with a small white shell. Its ridges are smooth. "I'm sorry I smacked your friends," she says.

"Where did you get this?" I ask, holding the shell in my open hand.

"It was my mom's. Dad bought it for her on the day I was born. He was going to turn it into a pendant, but he never got around to it. I keep it in my pocket."

"I can't take it," I tell her. Shells are valuable. They import them into the pod from the coast and people pay a lot for them. You know someone has money if he's wearing shells or has them displayed in his house.

"It isn't for keeps. When you get back, you can give it to me again," she says. I thank her and put it in my breast pocket.

"Ready?" Dorian asks. Within the last hour he's somehow managed to convince Petra that he's vital to the mission as well. At least that's his story. It could be that she's sending him to spy on us.

"No!" Maude complains. She's been fitted with warm new boots and given a coat that belongs to Jazz. "I demand a phone call. I want me lawyer. I had a date arranged for tonight. At least let me call to apologize to the poor fella." This gets a snicker from a few people.

I throw my backpack over one shoulder, Maude's backpack over the other, loosen the valve on my airtank, and follow through the throng of people to the door. As I leave, I glance over my shoulder. Petra is standing back from the crowd, watching. There's something behind her rigidity that I've never seen in her before. I keep walking and when I look back at Petra for a second time I can name it: fear.

It's more like a blizzard now, the wind choking up our route. And the weather is not all there is to worry about. We have to listen for the rumble of the approaching army, too. With the storm so heavy, it would be easy to mistake zip blades for a whip of wind or marching feet for the distant crack of thunder.

Apart from Maude, who is barely able to shuffle forward through the snow, I'm the least experienced. I should feel safer tagging along with Dorian and Silas than I did when I led Bea and Maude to The Grove all on my own, but for some reason I'm much less confident now. Maybe it's because I know too much. Even with Silas to protect him, Inger perished. Maybe it's because I don't have to be brave anymore, now there are others to take my place up front. Or maybe I'm giving up.

We walk for what feels like hours, Maude at the front of the group, and when we make our first stop, it's only to check a map and eat half a pear each. Maude's face is stiff from the cold and even her eyelashes are rimed with frost. I try to hold her face in my gloved hands to warm it. She hisses when I come close. I don't have Bea's way, I suppose. Dorian sees this and removes the balaclava he's been wearing. He hands it to Maude without looking at her.

"Wear that," he says, and immediately she slips it over her head and hides her face from the storm. "We can't have her dying before we get there," he whispers when he's next to me again. "If anything happens to Old Maude, The Grove's done for."

41.

BEA.

We're invited into a meeting room, though in reality it's an interrogation chamber. Two burly stewards sit at a desk opposite us, staring. We're told we need to wait for their boss to arrive before we can begin. I'm not sure that's why we have to wait at all. I think they're using the time to intimidate us. I try not to look terrified, pretending I'm so exhausted I might fall asleep right here in this chair.

Our story is that the soldiers saved us from the driving snow, so if that's true I have no reason to be afraid; all we're doing here is helping the Ministry understand what happened. More than that, we're helping to fight terrorism and bring our captors to justice.

Quinn is trying a different tactic. He keeps tapping his foot and tutting. He turns around occasionally to look at the colossal ticking clock on the wall behind us, and once or twice he's demanded to see someone in power. "He's on his way," one of our babysitters says, adding, "sir," with a little too much emphasis. I don't know that the arrogant role Quinn's playing is doing us any favors as they seem to be increasingly annoyed and suspicious of us.

The door eventually creaks open and a hulking figure strides in wearing an expensive antique fur coat with a collar that covers his face. He brushes snow from his shoulders and, taking off the coat, throws it at our minders, who stood sharply as the door opened. At first I have the impression I've seen him before, and I start to run through a mental catalogue of all the places we might have met until I realize that I've never met this man anywhere. The reason I recognize him is because I've seen him on the screen-on the news and on political broadcasts, on posters and in displays at school. Towering over us is the Pod Minister.

He examines us over the bridge of his bulbous nose. One minute he is scrutinizing us, the next he turns to the two stewards and bellows, "I'm cold!" The steward holding the coat steps up to offer it to the Pod Minister, who cuffs the steward on the ear. "Not the coat! Get me a drink!" The stewards scurry out of the room and return quickly with a tray.

"Caffrey Junior," the Pod Minister says, reaching forward to shake Quinn's hand.

"Pod Minister," Quinn answers, standing.

"You've had quite a journey, I hear," the Pod Minister says, and plonks himself down in one of the chairs. He unplugs a heavy stopper from the bottle in front of him and pours a large glassful. He leans back in the chair and sips at the drink. The room fills with the sharp smell of whiskey. "Thirsty?" he asks. We both shake our heads. "I got a call this evening saying we found two missing persons. I couldn't believe it when I heard the full story. Even now I almost don't. It's curious because one of our tanks spotted a lone boy in a location very close to where Communications tracked the last signal from your pads." Quinn frowns as though he doesn't understand the connection. "And, do you know that no one has ever escaped the terrorists before? You've achieved quite a feat." The Pod Minister swirls the whiskey in the glass and inhales deeply before taking another vigorous mouthful. Quinn doesn't speak up even during this long pause.

"The thing is," the Pod Minister continues, "I had a report that you accompanied a suspect out of this place a few days ago. So ... you helped a terrorist leave the pod and she turned on you. That's what you're saying?" Quinn nods. "Well, to start with, I'll have the stewards who permitted the girl's escape reprimanded. I presume they were open to some kind of bribe."