An hour later, I'm tossing on my cot and staring at the ceiling. On the other side of the compact space, Simon snores.

I can't shake off some of the words hanging stiff in my ears. I can't turn away from Warren's stares when his face overtakes my dreams.

I can't lie here anymore.

I swing over the cot and tap my bare feet on the ground, my leg bouncing up and down and up and down and up and down. I bite my thumbnail until the crescent rips off. I spit it out on the floor, and I wonder how awful it would be if I just did it. If I gave in, went to Dean, had sex, and left. I'd carry around the extra weight for a little while, then give birth, and never have to see the thing again. They have people here to raise the kids in a safe place they don't tell the soldiers about.

Those who are unfit to fight raise the children. It consists mostly of nerds and softies. Those who are useless around children go Topside.

This initiative, a genius one in my opinion, was made to stop the trauma of becoming an orphan. If your parents are fighters, chances are they won't last until your third birthday.

"I'm tough," I whisper to myself. "I'm a soldier. I don't fail my missions."

"Yer on the Warnin' List," Warren says sourly in my head. I can hear his voice ricochet in my mind as if his words had come through the pipes to batter me again.

"Yer on the Warnin' List."

I don't want to be on the Warning List—a roster of problem men and women labeled as "resilient" to the cause. Any resilience is met with profound distrust and a menacing electrical rod.

Like hell they'd force me to do anything. Not like the girl on Level 7. Never like that. I may not have much freedom, power, or choice, but I still have my dignity.

Steeling myself as I would for the battlegrounds, I grab my combat boots and oversized, brown winter coat and go to the bathroom. I strip to my military-issued, faded-gray panties. Realizing I probably won't even need this much coverage, I strip them off and throw them aside without a second glance. Pulling on the coat and leaving the boot laces dangling, I refuse to look at myself in the mirror.

I am preparing for war. Nothing more.

I creep to the main chamber where our pod connects to four others. No one is out. The clock on the wall screams a red 0041.

He is probably in his pod. Warren is probably out playing poker with the other ancient assholes on Level 3. We would be alone for the three minutes—or however long it takes—to get this kind of thing over with.

Before I can change my mind, I press my body against the broken latch on our front door and squeeze through the sliding barricade.

With my head down on what I consider to be the longest walk in the history of humanity, I hope no one realizes my absence of pants. I don't allow myself to think about how I wish someone would stop me, someone would hold me and say it's okay, don't go, this is crazy, we don't need babies anymore, it's okay.

Any small crack in my plan, and I don't think I'll make it. My body trembles.

I pass the East Wing corridor where a neon red sign bludgeons my concentration out of place. My pace slows almost to a standstill.

EAST WING

LEVEL 6 RESIDENTS

SECT 6 TEMPORARY QUARTERS

COMBAT ROOMS 1 - 4

Combat room 4 . . .

I lower my head and move forward, pushing through the curiosity of what could be found behind door number four. Walking is simple and possible.

Time passes like the quick sizzle of butter on a hot pan, and before I can puddle into the souped-up mess of nerves, I make it to Level 4 where Warren and Dean reside. I stare at their shiny door and wish the entire room would erupt in flame.

The first thought I have is to punch the door. Punch it for existing. Punch it because I have no control over what I'm doing anymore. Punch it because my hand is already in the air and inches away from letting them know I'm out here. Punch it because—

COMBAT ROOM 4.

It's bright red letters and numbers burn into my eyes.

It's only a few flights below. Maybe a half mile away through some empty corridors and three security checkpoints.

It's not going to want me naked.

It's not going to get me pregnant.

It's a mission.

A mission sounds much better than a baby.

I can run.