Cruel Compassion: A dystopian thriller with a hint of romance (Insurrection Series Book 1)

by A. E. King

  All families suffer, I remind myself. Just look at mine. The first family, at the top of society. And yet half of them are gone.

  Dimitri’s obsidian suit is perfectly tailored to fit his muscular build. His dark dress shirt is open at the neck, revealing a smooth and tanned chest. His chin is covered with a perfect amount of stubble. And his chocolate brown hair is cut so short I can barely recognize a hint of the familiar curls I used to twirl around my finger. I hardly recognize him at all. He is practically a stranger to me now. His eyes are dark like coals as he surveys the size of the crowd. He raises his hand in the air, and the crowd cheers in response.

  I smile and wave, and again the crowd responds. My reception is slightly warmer and louder than Dimitri’s. He notices as well and pulls me in, expertly working the crowd as he presses his lips into mine.

  The kiss tastes of indifference laced with a hint of longing and loss. I lean in and do my best to feign passion. I’m getting better at pretending.

  Apparently the crowd approves. The noise level increases, and as I start to pull back, Dimitri leans in even more. The crowd erupts.

  “Strength!” shouts the deep bass chorus of the men.

  “Compassion!” echoes the women with equal fervor.

  Dressed in black, Dimitri represents strength. In white, I represent compassion. Together we embody Novaya Russiya’s post-war motto. The crowd chants either because they approve or because they’re afraid to disapprove. It’s impossible to tell the difference these days.

  Back and forth they cheer, Men, then women, as their unified claps echo against the stone of the orphanage. Dimitri wraps his arms tightly around my waist and keeps his lips locked with mine to see how far he can raise the excitement. This kiss, like all of our kisses these days, is designed for reaction. I can barely remember the ones we snuck for affection.

  The noise reaches a fever pitch, and I slide my hand under his jacket and give him a pinch. It’s not wise to let a crowd get too excited. It could erupt. He releases me, and I hold my breath as I survey the street for any signs of trouble.

  The nenoozhny are separated from the wealthy by a line of armed soldiers, their camouflage uniforms a blend of all the colors that matter in our society. Level one colors are black for men, white for women. Level one is reserved for members of the government, the wealthy, and the most influential. It is the only Citizen Score that distinguishes men from women, the only place women have a distinct, although limited voice. Level two are our business owners, doctors, scientists, and attorneys. They wear charcoal and are constantly reminded that with a little more excellence, a little more achievement, they could rise up into white or black. Level three is the last level of acceptability. They’re the men and women in service. They do our hair, clean and repair our homes, educate our children, and keep our society functioning without any real reward. They wear grey.

  These are the only colors represented in the military uniforms. White, grey, and charcoal swirl together, accented by black berets, black belts, shiny black boots, and of course the black death machines they hold in their hands. I notice that the weapons they hold today are not designed to target a single perpetrator. They’re designed to spray death on a crowd without regard for who goes down.

  There is no brown on the uniforms, even though a large and growing percentage of our population is level four, nenoozhny. Level two refuses to give level four any jobs of significance because they don’t want level one’s disapproval. So level four languishes in poverty, sustained by meager gifts from the white hand of charity. The women, whose husbands banish the nenoozhny to poverty and exile, swoop in as saviors to distribute food and clothing while they complain about the lack of gratitude.

  I’m grateful my mother died before she had to witness things getting this bad. It goes against everything she taught me. I fight to find things to be grateful for.

  This crowd is uncharacteristically full of both poor and wealthy. Heavily armed guards patrol the edge of the crowd and occasionally jab their guns into the backs of the unfortunate men and women within their reach. I supposed it’s to inspire louder cheers and remind them of their place. The crowd presses forward as those in the back try to create a safety gap between themselves and the men who should be providing them protection but instead only offer cruelty.

  For the moment, everything looks okay. But the tension in the air is so charged that any little spark could set it all into chaos. So I smile wider because this is my role today—to defuse and distract. We’re here to show the world, and our people, that our government has not turned her back on them.

  Smoke and mirrors.

  My father will be sure to claim today as a victory. Just as he claimed my arranged engagement as a victory, despite the fact that Dimitri and I both tried to discourage it with as much opposition as possible. But opposition is impossible with my father.

  “Dimitri and I are so pleased to be with you to celebrate the new additions to the orphanage.” I pronounce each word carefully and clearly using the inflections my speechwriter dictated.

  “Every child deserves a safe space, a warm bed, and food in their stomach.” I force my smile not to falter as I see nenoozhny mothers tightly grasping hands of their too-thin children. Their faces are half grief and half determination as they stare at the well-fed, clean, uniform-clad children that stand in front of the orphanage doors. These poor mothers are here to deposit their children. I cannot look at them. So I shift my gaze forward to the upper-class wives, here for a display of compassion, and smile warmly at them. They don’t return my smile. Their mouths and noses are covered with handkerchiefs as they try to block the smell of poverty.

  They’re here because the media are here. Their husbands want to maintain their Citizen Score. There is no better way than giving money to my father’s causes.

  Men in our nation are required to be strong. Women are required to be compassionate. Today is the perfect chance for them to document both. The men can show strength by building something useful. And the women can perfectly time blotting their eyes when the camera happens to shift their direction. So my father wins, and the wealthy win. But behind the line of soldiers, everyone loses.

  I fold my script, and Dimitri’s lips tighten into a disapproving line. Let him disapprove. His lust for power and lack of empathy disgust me. As a boy he was tender, kind, and loyal. Now he’s cold, militant, and unfeeling. I can never reconcile the boy with the man. So I rely on distance and distrust in all things concerning Dimitri.

  “Both Dimitri and I know the pain of losing beloved parents.” Now I have the attention of the wealthy women. They gasp in horror as I allude to my activist mother and Dimitri’s overly vocal father, both of whom were murdered. No one ever speaks of such things. Dimitri shakes his head almost imperceptibly, warning me.

  “But we have never forgotten how much our parents loved us. I want you to know that I’m dedicated to the protection of your children.” The crowd erupts, but this time it is with a frenzy that cannot be fabricated. Tears spill out of the nenoozhny mothers’ eyes who came with full arms and will leave with empty ones. The nenoozhny men’s eyes gleam with a building rage that only happens when they’re stripped of all opportunities to protect their dear ones.

  A disturbance catches my eye in the crowd. A man shakes his fist and shouts, but I can’t make out his words over the noise. His wife tries to silence him. His face is red, and he pushes her aside as he charges toward the front. Toward me.

  What did I say wrong?

  My hands begin to tremble as I look toward the guards and see them closing in on the man. The crowd goes silent, and the raging man’s voice echoes through the street. “You steal our children! You’re the ones that need protection from us!”

  I gasp in horror as he goes quiet and limp the moment the guards and their syringe meet him. I pray it was lethal so he won’t suffer in the work camp. They drag his limp body away and into a van. The sound of stifled cries slowly refills the void left by this m
an.

  The cameras will catch none of this. The media will smile and tell of our success in expanding services to the poor. The only nenoozhny children shown will be the twenty or so who have been in our care and have recovered from the physical ill effects of poverty. The emotional effects of losing their families will stay with them a lifetime.

  Today, and every day, the media will tell a carefully crafted story of success. It’s a lie that will be so much more credible and widespread because my face will endorse it. The press loves Yulia Bituskaya, the beautiful daughter of Vladimir Bituskaya. How many more lies and half-truths can I support before I’m suffocated by them?

  I reopen my paper, fingers trembling, and attempt to steady my breath. The fire burns even hotter inside me, but I won’t see more men dragged away today. I return to the safety of the page. “Whether your contributions were large or small, I want you to know that we value your efforts.” The businessmen straighten, relieved we’re steering back into controversy-free waters.

  “The strength of a nation is measured by her compassion to her people.” I continue my speech, but my voice has lost all conviction.

  “Strength and compassion.” The people chant the obligatory response. I can’t imagine any of them have faith in this broken promise.

  Dimitri places his hand on my back in what feels like a warning. Choose your next words wisely, Yulia. Don’t spew the bitterness that scalds across the surface of your tongue. Swallow it down. Because once released, the words cannot be recalled.

  I smile and end my speech. I won’t say it, but I can think it. Thoughts are not crimes, after all. If the strength of a nation is measured by her compassion, then ours deserves to crumble and burn.

  Chapter 2

  Dimitri draws me in for an embrace to whisper in my ear without being overheard. “I want you to move inside quickly.”

  It rankles, even if I agree with him. It’s not safe out in the open.

  “You only have thirty minutes to read to the children before lunchtime. We need to stay on schedule.” He steers me toward the door.

  A man in an expensive suit motions to Dimitri, indicating the need to hurry. The man is younger than I would expect and so thin he looks skeletal. Even from this distance I can tell there is something sinister about him that fine clothes can’t disguise. “Who is that?” I ask.

  “One of the investors. I’m meeting with them after the photographers get their shots. They want to inspect the new wing and see how their donations have been used.” He waves the man away.

  “I met with all of the investors, and I don’t remember him.” Unlike the rest of the businessmen, this man is not trying to position himself in front of the cameras.

  “He’s here as a representative of his corporation. We need to go.” Dimitri motions toward Zhenya, who is dressed in servants’ grey and holding a basket to collect the children’s customary tokens. They’ll be handwritten notes and drawings, meaningless to most but treasures to me.

  Zhenya has managed to be old my entire life. As long as I can remember, she’s maintained her short, squat frame, weathered and lined face, and wiry grey hair. More grandmother than maid, she’s all I have left to depend on now that Sasha and Mama are both gone.

  “Zhenya, there’s a car waiting to take you home,” Dimitri tells her matter of factly. I hate when he speaks to her like a servant. She cared for him too, and I can’t tolerate his arrogance today.

  “Zhenya always stays with me,” I say through the gritted teeth as I smile and wave to the crowd again. There’s a camera still focused on us.

  Dimitri’s eyes follow mine. He sighs and leans in to kiss me. The kiss is brief, similar to a handshake with someone you’ve already decided to forget. It’s a fast and efficient way to give the cameraman what he wants and nothing more. It works. He moves on to the businessmen and their wives.

  “It’s best if she goes.” Dimitri’s voice is measured and emotionless. “There’s a lot going on today. We need to stay on schedule, and I need you to pay attention.” He gently tucks a strand of my long, blond hair behind my ear and locks eyes with me. Those eyes, dark as coal without even the slightest fleck of gold or hazel, invade my space without him moving an inch closer. It’s as though his eyes gain him entry into mind and memory. I suspect he can simultaneously see more in me than he ought, and that I’ll feel more of this glance than I wish.

  “Trust me,” he urges.

  “Who will stay with Yulia?” Zhenya looks beyond him and to the crowd, her eyes creased in worry.

  Dimitri motions to the newest member of my security team, who looks more boy than man. “What’s your name, officer?”

  “Agent Dobrev.” He salutes.

  “You’re assigned to accompany and protect Gospozha Yulia Vladomirovna today.” The officer blanches in response, but he nods and stands as straight as he can.

  “The rest of you, stand out front and secure the entrance. No one gets in,” Dimitri barks.

  Zhenya passes the basket she has been holding to me, and Dimitri intercepts it.

  “I’ll hold it for you. Yulia, you need to hurry. We have to get these deposits processed as quickly as possible before the crowd becomes unmanageable.” His tone is still calm, but there’s urgency behind it.

  He’s right. Parents are pushing, trying to get to the front of the line to ensure we have space for their beloveds. Some of the older children are beginning to understand, and their tears are more than I can bear. My breath catches, and aching fills my chest.

  Dimitri places his hands on my cheeks and gazes deeply into my eyes. “Go inside. Read your books and sing your songs. I’ll take care of the rest.” He strokes my cheek encouragingly. I nod, steeling myself against the tidal wave of emotion washing over the crowd of people. I hate myself for this weakness. I’ve always felt too much.

  We rush into the entry hall. Drawings, dandelions, and handwritten notes are dropped into the basket one at a time as little arms wrap around my middle, and I pat soft feathery hair, all while smiling and rushing them through the line. I recognize several of these children from my last visit. The wailing from the crowd outside is getting louder, and I don’t want these children triggered by the memories of their deposit day.

  Dimitri pulls me into the library as the children walk into the cheerfully decorated gathering room.

  This library has always bothered me. It’s not a children’s library. It’s a stuffy room filled with books that every adult thinks a child should know. It contains none of the worlds I loved to get lost in, or the characters I wished were my friends when I was a girl.

  The guard stands just inside the door, and Dimitri motions him out.

  “You have thirty minutes with the children before they go to lunch. I suspect my meeting will go longer than that. I’ve asked the staff to send you some tea and sandwiches. You can read the notes and have a nice lunch while you wait here for me.”

  “Why don’t I join you and thank the investors? “I say sweetly, still trying to discover the key to getting what I want with Dimitri.

  Dimitri scans the room, and I follow his gaze until both our eyes land on the blinking light that indicates this room is connected to the Peredacha. Somewhere in Moscow, an intelligence agent is listening in and recording our conversation. Dimitri will be brief.

  “That won’t be necessary. You’ve already accomplished what we needed this morning. You looked beautiful, and the press got their photos. I want you to conserve your energy for tonight.”

  He speaks of the embassy dinner we’re hosting. Guests from twenty-five nations have accepted our invitations and are sending their ambassadors, spouses, and other dignitaries. Many of them have increased pressure for our government to do something about our poverty, crime, and national addiction crisis. My father timed this press conference perfectly to allay their concerns.

  My public appearances have increased in proportion to the problems my father doesn’t care to solve but doesn’t want to be criticized for. So he sen
ds me out to put a bandage on an infection, knowing it will make the people feel better without actually getting to the root. How long can I stand being so useless? And how can Dimitri be so tactless?

  He leaves the room, and I exhale my frustration. These children get so little affection. I need to package up my problems and lock them away, so I can be present. Besides, these are some of the few duties I enjoy performing.

  I step into the room where the children wait for me. Their eerie silence contrasts against the brightly painted room. I hope they play here and that this strict attention is reserved only for my visit.

  “We should consider adding some curtains,” I say to the headmistress.

  “That is a wonderful idea,” she replies without a smile. She’s a severe woman in her late fifties. A shadow of a mustache lines her upper lip. Her dark hair is oily and pulled tightly against her scalp. She’s the only one at the school with a citizen’s score of two, and her charcoal suit looks somehow harsher than the soft grey worn by the other teachers. I know the headmistress has many burdens on her shoulders, but I expect she would be severe even if she had none.

  “All right, children,” I say with the first genuine cheerfulness I’ve felt all day. “Who would like some stories?”

  Too soon, the headmistress is back, organizing protesting children into a line. The exuberance and noise magically dissipate as each little figure finds a place. It’s as though the line itself demands an absence of vitality. It pains me to see the light in their eyes dim. But it’s not for me to interfere with the day-to-day operations.