Reign: Populations Crumble, Book 3

by K. A. Gandy

  Bushy Brows snorts, but doesn’t look away from the point he’s staring at on the porch ceiling.

  Nell wrinkles her nose at his matter-of-fact dialogue, but I elbow her. “You can’t act grossed out, Nell. No one is going to believe we belong here if you give them all side-eye.”

  “Well, I better get it out now. It seems gross. And weird.” She pauses for a moment. “And won’t the kids be confused? I mean, I only had my aunt and uncle, and that was bad enough. Imagine having five adults in your life.” She shudders delicately. It’s no surprise to me that her thoughts immediately go to the kids in the families, based on what I’ve surmised about her bad childhood.

  I reach over and give her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Nell, let’s just try to be open-minded. We won’t be here for long, and even if we don’t understand these peoples’ choices, we’re fighting for everyone to be free, right?”

  She sighs. “Right. It’s still weird, though. Like, super-duper weird.”

  “It is different . . . very different.” My mind goes back to the shock I felt the first time I was introduced to the idea by Pierce back at the NLC. It feels like a different lifetime.

  “Can we get on with it? The sooner they’re out there, the sooner we get this phase over with,” Bushy Brows complains from his spot by the column.

  “Branch, would you chill out?” The level-headed guard snaps, before fishing a pair of glasses out of a black tactical pocket. He hands them to Patrick. “We’re hopeful that the bruising will be enough to disguise you for now, and then growing out your hair and beard, combined with the glasses and the new relationship status”—he gestures at the four of us—“should be enough to stop people putting the pieces together. Not everyone here saw your introductory TV special.”

  “Uhm, what about me?” I ask, feeling awkward. “I may not be the prince of the NAA, but we were both on TV.”

  He smiles almost apologetically. “Well, we’ve discussed that too. You look quite different in your uniform than the dolled-up princess portrayed on the screen. Between the hair and makeup and the glitzy duds, we don't think it’s likely you’ll be recognized by the crowd here. However, they would still like to dye your hair to be on the safe side.”

  I grip my thick braid in shock, and glance at Patrick and Nell in turn. “My hair? But I’ve never dyed it before. I like my hair color.” The dark mahogany color may not be the most exciting, but it is mine, dang it. My jaw ticks in annoyance.

  “Oh, no. That’s her stubborn face,” Patrick mutters under his breath. When I narrow my eyes at him he tries to look innocent, but that ship has sailed.

  “Sorry, but you can ask them to keep it subtle, I guess.” He gives a one-shoulder shrug. “Boss’s orders.” Without waiting around for further arguments, he turns on his heel and walks off to the right, toward the center of the compound.

  Silently stewing, I follow behind him with my eyes burrowing into the back of his neck. Patrick’s hand resting lightly on my shoulder distracts me from my mental tirade, and I glance at his sympathetic expression.

  “I’m sorry about your hair, Sadie,” he says simply.

  So direct, this husband of mine. I think I’ll keep him. “Thank you,” I grit out, but I’m not letting this one go easily. Stupid Helena.

  Before I can get far into my mental tirade against the indifferent leader in question, the tinkling sound of laughter pulls my attention towards a side street to our left.

  I stop, my jaw going slack at the sight. Recovering slightly, I whack Patrick on the arm. “Patrick, look!”

  He rubs his arm as he pivots to take in the scene. “Wow. That’s just . . . wow.”

  “Why’d you two stop?” Nell steps up to my other side, before following the direction of our gazes. “Oh, kids! How awesome. That’s . . . a lot of kids, actually.”

  Atlas comments in a hushed tone, “Look, is that a set of twins?”

  What has to be a group of at least ten kids are kicking a soccer ball back and forth, taking advantage of the quiet side street for an impromptu game. At present, a young boy of four or five has the ball, and as we watch it is clear he doesn’t know quite what to do with it. A set of older siblings are explaining something to him from where they bracket him on either side. The girl’s wild gestures capture his attention, and her brother hops back and forth from foot to foot, as if to bounce something between his feet.

  After a moment, the curly-headed four-year-old screws his face up tight with determination, and hauls off and kicks it with every bit of strength he possesses—which, it turns out, is considerable. The ball sails through the air and bounces off the side of Atlas’s head with a merry thwack.

  Despite the blow, Atlas doesn’t get angry; he just laughs, a deep, rolling sound. Catching the ball before it goes wide, Atlas gently tosses it back to the young boy. “Good kick, buddy.”

  The child, eyes wide with terror at having smacked the mountain of a man, snatches the ball when it rolls to a stop in front of him, turns, and bolts. All of the kids high tail it after him down the street.

  The girl twin stops at the end briefly, and turns to holler back at us, “Thanks, mister!” before she, too, disappears from sight.

  ✽✽✽

  Ninety minutes and much haggling with a stylist later, I’m staring into a mirror at my new hairstyle with a frown on my face. The long bangs sweeping down to either side of my face aren’t a bad addition, all things considered, but the newly-bleached section at the front makes me look, well, different.

  It’s a small thing, but it’s yet another piece of my identity that’s been chipped away. It’s not forever. Nell stands over my left shoulder, hair unmolested.

  “I thought it was going to be ugly at first, I’m not gonna lie, but I actually kind of like it. It makes you look . . . distinguished. It’s a striking style. Especially with the green contacts.” She strikes a ridiculous pose to illustrate her point, with one shoulder back and her chin held high.

  “As soon as we’re out of here, I’m dying it back. Also, the contacts itch,” I grumble, but I really do appreciate her attempt at encouragement, so I give her a small smile. Trying to push it out of my mind and pretend my hair is the same as usual, we step back out into the street. Unlike the empty quiet first thing this morning, noise pulls our attention from almost every direction when we step out of the salon. An electric transport vehicle buzzes by, piled high with what may be turnips, but it zips off so quickly I can’t tell. As the blue lights fade into the distance, raised voices draw my attention across the street.

  “Halle, why are you being this way? I swear, ever since I joined the guard unit you’ve been impossible to live with. Don’t you realize we need guards? How do you think our people stay safe? I have a responsibility to step up!”

  “Of course I do—I’m not a child! But we already lost Danny. Now you go off and sign up, and what am I supposed to do here alone with three kids when you go, too? Hmm? Did you even think about your responsibility to your own family?”

  “You’re all I think about, Halle. And what am I supposed to say except if I don’t join, who will? Every single guard in the NLC has a woman waiting at home!”

  “Oh, so I’m just another woman. I see,” Halle says, tone dripping bitterness. “In that case, you shouldn’t have much trouble finding a different one to sleep next to this evening.” She delivers the cut before turning sharply on her heel, and leaves him fuming in her wake. She’s a tiny woman, but she’s all spark.

  He watches her in silence, jaw ticking as she strides down the street. He spins, and at first I think he’s going to punch something, but instead he sinks onto a bench in front of the shop, and drops his head into his hands.

  My stomach is in knots after watching the scene.

  Mr. Tall and Dark—Ajax, I correct myself, remembering the stylist’s greeting for him—clears his throat, breaking all of us from the frozen trance we’ve fallen into. “Okay, sorry to give you no down time this morning, but there is a planning meeting t
hat starts in six minutes. If you’ll follow me, we’ll get you to it.” With a swift wave to the stricken man across the street, he leads us farther into the city.

  “Okay, fine, I get it, we need to plan. But is there going to be breakfast at some point in this day? Because you can’t plan on an empty stomach,” Nell grumbles.

  Patrick chuckles. “That’s usually your line, Sadie.” The glare I level on him doesn’t phase him in the slightest. “I’m only teasing.” He leans in to whisper against my ear. “Besides, I don’t want you getting nauseous again. Some food on your stomach should help.”

  I give him a quiet nod in response, feeling oddly subdued about the entire thing. My brain is too overloaded to worry over any particular piece of the tangle we’re in the middle of. I blame the pre-occupation for nearly running into the broad back stopped in front of me. I’m a half second too late to stop, and I stumble and catch myself on his arm.

  “Oh, gosh! I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking, and I didn’t see you there. Are you okay?” I babble, and look up to striking and familiar crystalline blue eyes. Shock washes through me, even though it shouldn’t. After all, Pierce is the reason I knew about this place to begin with.

  “Sadie! Wow, I heard you were here, but I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Okay—ever.” He leans down, and gracefully presses a kiss to my cheek.

  Flustered at running into him, I blush furiously. “Hi, Pierce. I didn’t expect to see you, either. I mean, what are the odds? This place is pretty huge.”

  Patrick sticks his hand out to shake, giving me a second to collect my thoughts. “Hey, man. Good to see you.”

  They shake, and I’m pleased to see there’s no animosity, or misplaced competition evident between them.

  “Nice to see you again, too.”

  “Pierce, darling!” As the feminine voice cuts through the line of people slowly making their way into the headquarters, my stomach turns.

  People part in a wave as she walks over and smacks a possessive kiss on Pierce’s mouth, uncaring about the crowd surrounding them. “Took you long enough, what’s keeping you this morning?” She turns a glower in my direction. “I hope our new arrivals haven’t caused you any trouble. Shall I introduce you?”

  Helena. Pierce’s Helena, who he didn’t want to give up for a match with me. Shock floods my system. What are the odds?

  “No, Hellie. I already know them, remember? Sadie and I were matched at one point,” Pierce responds flatly, not rising to the irritation in her tone.

  “Oh, yes. How could I possibly forget? Well, do get a move on. We’ve got lots to discuss.” She wraps a red-nailed hand around his tightly and leads him through the parted crowd into the building.

  “That is . . . unexpected. But we should keep moving—we’re drawing attention.” Atlas observes quietly.

  Resisting the urge to shake my head at the weirdness of it all, I continue forward, gripping Patrick’s hand tightly. He’s right, and all of the people waiting to enter the building in their matching black fatigues are staring at us. I’ll have to process later, because right now it’s time to find out our next steps with the Resistance—and how to get out of Dodge.

  War Room

  The inside of the Resistance headquarters is both everything and nothing that I expected. A sort of ordered chaos prevails, with men and women in black clustered around the room, some laughing, some arguing. All adding to the overwhelming din bouncing around the metallic walls.

  I stop directly inside the door, and Nell steps up to my other side. Leaning in, she whispers, “Holy bananas, this place is a madhouse.”

  “Yes, it is. I wonder if it’s always like this, or if something’s happened?” I turn to Patrick, and he shrugs one shoulder.

  “I guess we’ll find out if they decide to tell us.”

  Atlas snorts, but stays silent, eyes scanning the room in a continual sweep.

  “Look at my man over there, such a hottie. I have a thing for the strong, silent type.” Nell practically drools on my shoulder.

  “Nell, seriously? Look around. So not the time or place.”

  She sighs wistfully. “Speak for yourself. It’s always the time and place.” He looks over, catches her staring, and she gives him a saucy wink.

  “This way. The meeting’s about to start.” Ajax waves us forward, through the middle of the building, and Branch of the Bushy Brows trails behind. As we press through the clusters of people, snatches of conversation assault me.

  “. . . saying, the king has been on NAA One daily . . .”

  “—Potential! There’s no way we can let this chance pass us by, we won’t get . . .”

  “Critically low reserves. This isn’t a problem that can wait to be addressed in two weeks. Helena has to hear us out today.”

  That last is from a stern woman, right outside the tall glass door where Ajax stops. Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun, and her features are etched with concern.

  “Mari, relax! We’ll figure it out,” the woman next to her soothes.

  “Ladies, good to see you both, as always.” Ajax nods cordially as he opens the door for us to enter. The conference room is long and narrow, one side made up of the silvery building wall, and the rest, floor to ceiling glass walls. A skinny cylinder sits at one end of the long, black table. Helena sits at the far end, tapping her fingers impatiently, and looking between Brock and Pierce with a scowl.

  Patrick pulls out a chair for me right inside the door, as far from her as we can get while still being in the room. A short stream of others trails in behind us, many of the faces familiar from our “rescue” flight, but not all. Ajax stands behind us against the glass wall, arms crossed tightly against his chest.

  Once everyone who wants a seat has one, he reaches over and shuts the door with a solid thump. The sound causes my throat to tighten, but I try not to overanalyze the feeling. Stay in the moment, Sadie.

  Helena leans forward and taps something on the cylindrical device in front of her, and the glass walls surrounding us instantly fog, decorating itself with a pixelated pattern that reminds me of music notes.

  “Let’s get this show on the road. Who wants to go first?” she says, sounding bored.

  Voices clamor from around the table, but a tall thin man across from us stands, and everyone else quiets. “We are seeing a high number of riots breaking out across the NAA based on the news reports this week, from Playa Reino all the way up to the Alaska Territories. We’ve been monitoring the situation for now, but we feel that it’s in our best interest to begin influencing the outbreaks. This is an opportunity we can’t afford to let pass by.” His gaze settles on the four of us, and a shiver runs up my spine.

  Not friends—simply temporary allies. I remind myself. Temporary. Patrick’s hand settles on my knee under the table, and he gives me a small squeeze of reassurance. Tilting my head ever so slightly, I see his calm, unruffled expression. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was watching a boring movie, not sitting in a room full of his father’s enemies. Our enemies, eventually.

  “The king has been on NAA One daily since the grab, giving updates on the search for his lost son and daughter-in-law.” The chill up my back turns to ice. “Apparently, the public don’t like their newly-minted prince being snatched so soon after they got to meet him. As a result, there have been complete losses in two tri-states of the main government buildings, and the NAA Police have been dispatched to restore order in both cases. The rest of the riots haven’t proceeded to that point—yet.” He sinks gracefully back to his seat, but his eyes don’t leave us.

  “Thank you, Ryker. We’ll take it under advisement. Who’s next?” She continues tapping on the table, and the small repetitive noise is beginning to grate on my nerves.

  It’s the woman from outside the meeting room who pipes up next. “Me, Helena. Our supply situation has become absolutely critical. Our run last week was diverted, to prepare for the pickup. After the failed run two weeks prior, we’ve got to have a successful r
un within the next ten days, or we’re in deep trouble.”

  “How deep, Marigold?”

  The woman flinches. Whether it’s the question or her full name that offends her, I can’t tell, but never have I seen a woman who looks less like a Marigold than this stern, pale woman. “Well, we haven't been this low on food reserves since the drought three years ago. And our medical supplies are at less than ten percent, after the injuries treated in the past month. As for birthing kits, we only have two left.” She rambles the statistics off by memory, and Helena stiffens at the last.

  Hissing through her teeth, Helena reaches forward again, taps a few times on the cylinder, and this time the table in front of us transforms. In front of each of us, a roster of names, ages, and dates appears. It appears to be a list of six women, followed by three more in another section below.

  “Two birth kits is unacceptable. I want this remediated within seven days, tops. I am not going to tell any of these women that we’re not prepared to support them, are we clear?” There’s a long pause, as the innocuous list takes on new meaning. “I trust you’ll make it happen?”

  Mari nods once, and drops back to her chair.

  “Let’s get straight to the matter at hand. With us today are Patrick and Sadie Royce, heirs apparent of the entire NAA. In addition we have Atlas and Nell, head of personal security for the Royces.”

  The silence in the room is complete, save the faint hum of an air conditioning unit. After a weighty pause, she continues.

  “I’m bringing it to the table for open discussion. The Royces and their security detail confirmed first hand some of the nefarious acts perpetrated against women by the NAA. How do we get proof? And how do we ensure that those responsible are held accountable?” Her gaze hardens, and she tries to pin Patrick to the chair, as if he’s personally responsible.