Rebels

by Jill Williamson

  She wasn’t sure what she’d expected Nash’s house to look like inside, but this wasn’t it.

  Curiosity pulled her feet to the bedrooms. There were three. Two had no furniture and were completely filled with plants. She passed a tidy bathroom that had green and brown towels in it. For some reason that made her smile.

  And the last bedroom must be where Nash slept. It had only two plants. A green fern-like tree in one corner and a potted freesia plant on a table beside his bed, which was covered in a homemade quilt of small red, black, and green squares. The bedroom was also spotless. She walked inside and bent to smell the freesias. There was a portable Wyndo sitting beside it on the table. She’d thought such things weren’t allowed down here.

  “Hello?”

  Shaylinn screamed and dropped her package of messages. She spun around and saw Nash standing in the doorway to his bedroom.

  “Shaylinn, I’m sorry.” He lunged to her feet and picked up the package of messages. She’d wrapped all thirty-two envelopes in a scrap of the ducky fabric that Omar had given her. Nash held out the package, but she waved him back.

  “Those are my messages. I’m sorry I came in here. I was snooping. Your plants are all so beautiful, though. Did you grow them yourself?”

  “Yes. I picked this place since it was closest to the greenhouses. I work there when I’m not running errands for my dad or Zane. Or my mother.”

  “How long have you lived on your own?”

  “Two years. Since I turned eighteen.”

  He was twenty. He’d told her that already. He was six years older than Shaylinn. Five and a half, really. It was still a lot. But Eliza had married Mark when she was eighteen and he was twenty-seven. That was nine years’ difference.

  Why was she thinking about that? Penny had turned her back into a silly child. “Do you have any favorites? Of the plants, I mean.”

  “These two. That one there is my ficus. It was one of the first things I ever planted myself. It’s sort of my baby. And the freesia. I had two that turned out that nice. Gave the other to my mother.”

  “It’s really beautiful.”

  “Thank you. Did you see my lavender plant?”

  “I did. Lavender is my favorite, so my nose led me right to it.”

  “You should take it, then. I doubt there are any plants in Levi’s house.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t take your plant.”

  “Don’t you think I have enough?” He winked. “I’m happy to share. Come on.”

  Shaylinn followed Nash back to the living room-kitchen. He set the package of messages on the kitchen table and walked straight to the lavender plant. He unhooked it from the ceiling then turned and set it on the low table between the couch and chair.

  “There. You take that with you when you leave.”

  “Thank you.” She should leave now, but she didn’t want to be rude.

  “So, show me these messages,” Nash said. “And you have one for me, right?”

  “Yes.” She walked to the table and pulled the yarn string that she’d tied the package together with. Once she’d loosened it, she unwrapped the stack of letters. “Yours is on the top, but you can’t read it while I’m here.”

  “Then I’ll wait.” He took the letter in his hands and stared at the front. It was a plain white envelope like all the others, but rather than an address on the front, his simply said “Nash” in Shaylinn’s loopy handwriting. “Shaylinn, I wonder if you’d be willing to write to my brother.”

  “Zane?”

  He flashed his wide smile. “Well, him too, if you’d like, but I meant Tym. He’s at a fragile age, and he’s being pulled between my mother and father and his love for Zane. I’m not asking you to take sides, but you said you like to give hope and encouragement, and, well, I think he could use some.”

  “I’d be honored to write to him. Do you think your mother would mind?”

  “She won’t know. And even if she finds the message, she won’t know it’s from you.”

  “Will you at least ask your father?” Shaylinn asked. “I don’t know if it’s appropriate for me to write messages to children I don’t know personally.”

  “I’ll ask him.” He set down his letter and met her eyes. “I appreciate your caution. Down here, most people are concerned with the rules but not because they care about people’s feelings. They only care about obedience. But you care about people. I like that.”

  Shaylinn blushed. “Rules aren’t bad. I just find life so much easier to live when I worry about the greatest two.”

  “Which are?”

  “To love God and to love others before loving yourself.”

  “That, Shaylinn, is something you do very well.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  Before he could start building a hot-air balloon, Mason needed to determine two things: what type of fabric would work best and how much of it he would need. The ideal fabric would be lightweight, nonporous, and heat- and flame-resistant, like the kind of fabric once used in tents or umbrellas but with protection against fire.

  Mason had no idea where he could get such a fabric.

  And then there was the amount. He needed only to lift the weight of one man and only as high as the wall, which he estimated to be about one hundred feet high. There were a lot of other factors that would need to be considered as well, like the temperature outside, the wind, how the rider would keep the balloon from rising too high, and how he would land it.

  But for now, he concentrated on the size of the balloon. It was September, and while it was still rather warm during the days, the nights were cool. Yet it would take some time, at least a month, to sew together the balloon, and the October nights would be even colder. Mason guessed it would be between 20ºF and 30ºF. Such cold nights should make it easier to fill the balloon with warmer air. It didn’t have to be extremely hot. Cold air would also affect the lift rate of a hot-air balloon.

  It took Mason much longer to work out the equation to determine the size of the balloon. But after much trial and error, he determined that the volume of the balloon that would lift one man would need to be about 500m3. That would give him a radius of about 4 meters, which would give him a surface area of around 200m2.

  That was a lot of fabric. And Mason had no idea how to get so much of it, short of purchasing two hundred umbrellas and dismantling them.

  That was a lot of umbrellas too.

  He went back to the G.I.N. and scoured the store. There was no fabric at all. Plenty of umbrellas though. But then he spotted one item that might change everything: waterproofing spray. It wasn’t cheap, and it wouldn’t protect against fire, but perhaps Mason could use it on cotton bed sheets. It would be heavier than the nylon, but it just might work.

  A week later, Mason was walking Pen 12 when a human scream rose over the braying cattle. Mason scanned the browns and blacks until he caught sight of an orange jumpsuit on the ground in the second row, surrounded by four-legged animals.

  He ran out of Pen 12, climbed over the cattle lane, and sprinted across the feed alley. The man was in Pen 30. Mason slipped inside and crossed the pen, taking a wide berth from the man in hopes that he wouldn’t herd the cows closer to him.

  “What happened?” a farmhand yelled, running up to the fence between Pen 29 and 30.

  Mason hadn’t met either of these men. He knew only the taskers in the first row. “I heard a scream and saw him on the ground. I don’t know what happened.”

  “Miks ran for help, but I didn’t hear what he yelled at me. I’m Crag.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Mason reached the fence on the far side, the one the man laid next to, and started along it. Cows ambled out of his way. As he closed the gap between him and the injured farmhand, he heard the moaning. The man was alive and conscious. Then he saw the familiar tattooed head. The sight stabbed a thrill of fear into Mason’s gut. Scorpion.

  He crouched at the man’s side. He couldn’t see any injuries at first glance. There
was no blood. No tears in his jumpsuit or dirty hoof prints. “Where does it hurt?”

  “My foot.”

  “What happened to your horse?” Crag asked.

  “Miks needed a hand with a steer that had its leg caught in a coil of wire,” Scorpion said.

  “Which foot did you injure?” Mason asked.

  “My right.”

  Mason took a good look at his boot. It was flattened at the heel. He didn’t dare try and take it off. He needed to get Scorpion out of here. But did he really want to help this man? He bit back his hesitation. It didn’t matter who was hurt. Doctors took an oath to help others. And Mason was no different.

  “We need to get you out of here.”

  “Shouldn’t you take off his boot and see what’s wrong?” Crag asked.

  “No,” Mason said. “His heel looks crushed. I don’t want to touch anything until a medic can take a look. And we need to get out of the way of the cattle. Let me try and help you up.” Mason moved to Scorpion’s left and put his arm around the man’s waist. He pushed against him. Thankfully, Scorpion used his good leg to heave himself up, because Mason didn’t think he would have been able to lift him on his own.

  Scorpion had to hop, but they moved, slowly, toward the fence.

  Gacy was waiting for them. “Should I call Enforcer 10?”

  “No!” Scorpion said. “I’m not that bad off.”

  “He’s pretty bad off,” Mason said.

  “Then you take him to the MC,” Gacy said. “I’ll drive you to the tram.”

  “What sector is the MC in?” Mason asked.

  “No sector. It’s in the wall. Just get on the tram and get off at the stop after sector eight. That’s all there is to it.”

  So Mason helped Scorpion into Gacy’s truck, then Gacy drove them to the sector five tram station. Then, step by step, hop by hop, Mason helped Scorpion to the tram. Once they were settled on the tram and had some space between them again, Scorpion spoke up.

  “How’d you know not to take off my boot?”

  “I tasked as a medic before.”

  “Ah.”

  And Scorpion said no more the rest of the ride. The tram started to slow at the Midland Gate. The sign gave the impression that anyone might travel through the gate and right on into the Midlands, though Mason knew that wasn’t true. They got off and took the escalator up to the ground floor. There they followed the signs to the MC — step-hop, step-hop — which turned out to be on the second floor. Mason appreciated the crowded elevator that kept him from being alone with Scorpion.

  Inside the MC . . . chaos. Medics bustling to and fro, some pushing wheelchairs, some clutching CompuCharts. Mason helped Scorpion to the nearest desk.

  “Excuse me, but this man is injured. A steer trampled him.”

  The woman at the GlassTop glanced up, looked Scorpion up and down, then motioned to the elevators. “Take him to General. It’s on four.” She looked back down to the GlassTop. “Midland Gate Emergency Medical Center, how may I help you? . . . Is he breathing? . . . What’s your sector?”

  Mason helped Scorpion back to the elevator. It took them another ten minutes to reach what Mason guessed must be General. The waiting room was overcrowded, four rows of chairs — all filled. There must have been fifty people waiting. Another dozen were in line at the counter where a frazzled-looking receptionist was sitting. Behind her, a single medic in blue was bustling from bed to bed. Not even private exam rooms here?

  “Will anyone give up a chair for this man?” Mason shouted. “He can’t stand.”

  No one moved.

  “Will you shut it?” Scorpion hissed.

  But Mason tried again. “His foot was crushed by a steer. A cow. A thousand-pound cow.”

  A woman three rows back stood. “He can sit here.”

  “Thank you,” Mason said, helping Scorpion in that direction. It occurred to him then that they were wearing the orange jumpsuits that marked them as strikers. Perhaps that was why the people had been hesitant to help. Perhaps not.

  Once Mason had settled Scorpion into the chair, he went up to the counter to check in. The woman in line ahead of him was clutching her arm and sniffling. She glanced back at Mason, wide eyes taking in the color of his jumpsuit. Her eyes were bloodshot. Dried tears streaked down her cheeks.

  “May I ask what happened?” Mason asked.

  Those wide eyes settled on his again. She glanced down at her arm, then quickly moved her other hand off the wound and back in a flash. A gash, three inches wide. It hadn’t looked terribly deep, though Mason had seen it for only a quarter of a second.

  “Where did it happen?”

  “Sector seven. Salmon packing plant.”

  “Was it a knife?”

  She shook her head “The blade on the gutter.”

  “So, clean, though likely not sterile.”

  “I don’t know.”

  There was no reason for this woman to wait in line when Mason could easily assist her. He looked to the front of the line, then over the counter, his gaze searching for what he needed. He spotted a box of alcohol pads on a counter against the wall. Liquid adhesive was likely nearby . . . There. He spotted the familiar purple tube sitting on the shelf below the counter. And a bottle of sterile water to clean it. Excellent. Now, if only the receptionist would not panic.

  He left the line and darted through the swinging half door that separated the waiting area from the medical area. He had the bottle of sterile water in hand before he heard the first protest.

  “Excuse me, you can’t be in here.”

  He grabbed a pair of gloves, the liquid adhesive, and the box of alcohol swabs, then jogged back to the swinging door. The receptionist was standing beside her chair, scowling at him.

  “I tasked as a medic before,” he said. “I can help shorten your line.” Then he pushed through the door and set the materials on the counter.

  “Sir, that’s really not necessary,” the receptionist said.

  “I tasked as a medic in the Highlands,” he told the injured woman, pulling on the gloves. “Would you allow me to help you?”

  The woman glanced at the line, then at the receptionist, then back to Mason. “I guess.”

  Gloves on, he waved her to him. “Come here, please.”

  The woman walked to his side. Mason took hold of her arm and set her elbow on the counter. He turned her hand, palm side up, which revealed the still-bleeding cut. Mason squirted sterile water over the wound, then opened an alcohol swab and wiped the cut. It wasn’t deep. The liquid adhesive would be enough to heal it without a scar. Mason pinched the wound closed with one hand and squeezed the tube of liquid adhesive over the cut with his other.

  He met the woman’s eyes and smiled. “Now we count to twenty. It dries quite fast.”

  “He just took things and started to help that woman.” The receptionist’s voice, behind him. “Said he tasked as a medic in the Highlands.”

  Mason looked over his shoulder. The receptionist stood with the medic, a man with white hair and a tired but curious expression.

  “This is your friend?” He nodded to the woman Mason was helping.

  “No, sir,” Mason said. “My, uh, friend’s foot was crushed by a steer in sector five. I saw how long your line was and thought I could be of some help.”

  “Where did you task in the Highlands?”

  “The SC. Under Ciddah Rourke.”

  “Never heard of her, but I’ve been here for fifteen years. Who’s your task director?”

  “Gabon Gacy in the sector five feedlot.” The adhesive had dried, so Mason released the woman’s arm. “That should do it. I could wrap it in gauze if you’d like. It would keep you from scraping the cut until it has time to fully heal.”

  “Yes, please,” the woman said.

  Mason looked to the medic. “May I fetch some gauze?”

  The medic nodded. “Reena, tap Gabon Gacy at the sector five feedlot and tell him that I am borrowing his . . . ?”

  “
Farmhand,” Mason said, pushing though the swinging half door to find gauze.

  “I’m borrowing his farmhand for the rest of the day. See if he cares and let me know.”

  And so, for the rest of the day Mason went to task in the Midland Gate General Medical Center under the medic, Kam Cadell.

  Mason helped administer meds to bedridden patients, patched up a dozen more cuts, helped Cadell wrap Scorpion’s foot until he could be sent for surgery, and took vitals on dozens of patients until Cadell could manage to see them.

  “Mason, get a blood sample and test for opiates on bed twelve.”

  Mason took a vial of blood, then located the blood meter. As he waited for the results, he recalled the experiment he and Ciddah had been doing when the enforcers had come for her. Lonn wanted to try to test more patients to see what stimulants were in their meds. Could Mason steal the supplies for that? He didn’t see how. The orange jumpsuits had no pockets.

  He tapped the results from the blood meter into the CompuChart, then cleaned up his mess. This area was like some sort of indoor triage area. He counted sixteen beds, all of them full. Where would they put the rest of the patients who were sitting in the waiting room?

  Cadell walked up to him. “An aide is here to move bed six down to long term. I can’t go with him right now. Can you walk down and make sure everything is hooked up correctly? They’re busy down there too, and I don’t like moving someone like this without a medic involved.”

  “Sure. But can you show me what I need to hook up?” Mason had never moved beds before. There had never been a need in the SC.

  Cadell waved him over to bed six. Mason followed. As he neared and the person in the bed came into view, he slowed to a stop.

  Omar.

  His little brother lay there, unconscious and intubated. A nasal cannula delivered supplemental oxygen through his nose. His face was covered in bruises and cuts that had been patched up with liquid adhesive.

  “The beds have everything the patient needs,” Cadell said. “They even have a small battery, but it won’t last long. The patient’s SimTag is registered to the bed, so if the breathing or heart stops, it will set off an alarm and the medics will come running. Still . . .” He tapped the top side of the bed. “The cords are here. Just wheel the head up against the wall and plug it in. Be sure and bring me back an empty bed to replace this one.”