Children of the Uprising Collection

by Megan Lynch

  He pursed his lips. “No, I don’t.”

  “Could this be fake?”

  Samara held the letter to the light and went through a checklist: the familiar blue ink of Metrics, yellowish paper, the seal at the top, the signature at the bottom. She lowered the letter to find her father staring at her.

  “You’ll find that out on Monday, I guess.”

  “I guess.”

  “Well, put it away for a sec.” He winked. “Got something to show you.”

  She didn’t have to ask what it was. With sly smiles and quick glances down at their watches, they walked to the hall window as if summoned. Mr. Shepherd put out a delicate hand to draw open one of the sun-rotted curtains, and Samara let out a long, low sound.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” her father whispered.

  “What’s that she’s got in her hand?”

  “It’s called a cross. Symbol of an old religion.”

  Samara blinked at him. “Religion?”

  Her father scoffed and put a hand on his neck. “It’s too hard to explain. I’m not even sure I understand it. I think it was just something to control the masses back in the day before Metrics.”

  “So what do you think it’s saying?”

  “Cutting out her chip…”

  “It’s only the unregistered who have chips, right?”

  He shook his head. “No, they stopped chipping them…it’s been ten years ago now. It wasn’t very efficient. Those poor guys don’t have much left that Metrics can take from them anyway. They step one toe out of line and then—” He snapped his fingers. “Lights out for them. I see some older ones with the bump under their hand, but I’m not sure if they’re still monitored or not. And they still chip some people, like long-term hospital patients and prisoners and weirdos who just won’t wear their watches. And I think there are still some of these religious people around. They probably get chipped too.” He turned to his daughter with a full-faced grin. “Hey! I know what it means!”

  “What?”

  “She just got her employment assignment. She’s going to be a surgeon.”

  Samara jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow and snickered. He laughed a little too loudly.

  “What’s going on in there?” her mother shouted from the kitchen.

  “Dad just told himself a joke!”

  “Oh, Richard!”

  “I’ll tell you later!” Mr. Shepherd called to his wife. He leaned in and whispered to his daughter, “Thanks a lot. Now I have to think of a joke.”

  “You’ll manage.”

  “Ooh, I’ll manage. You’re talking more like a Three already. Maybe you’ll get paired with one now.”

  “I haven’t even decided whether or not I’m going to apply for marriage.”

  “Well, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s a free country. But it’s nice, especially when you finally start to understand each other.”

  Samara turned back to the window. “Look at the way it moves.”

  “What?” He looked out the window again.

  “Her blood, it looks like its flowing. And the expression on her face, like she’s been caught.”

  At the mention of that word, both watches flashed blue. They backed away from the window as if it had burst into flames.

  “Won’t catch me in that kitchen, Samara!” Her dad’s register had become lower. “Your mother is working hard, and I’ll stay out of her way!”

  “You will?” Mrs. Shepherd walked out of the kitchen and into the hallway. She rounded the corner, still scrubbing a squash. “That doesn’t sound much like—oh.” She stopped at the sight of the flashing watches. “Well, it’ll all be ready in about half an hour. Don’t you two have things to do?”

  Samara shrugged. “Homework,” she said and disappeared into her room.

  It wasn’t a lie. She had enough reading tonight to make her eyes quiver, though no one at school would check if she’d actually done it or not. Still, she worked until dinner and went right back to it afterward, making both her parents beam with pride. That’s our girl, Cora. Obviously they’re looking more at merit nowadays than birth.

  Having learned the danger of getting one’s hopes up too high, she put the letter out of her head, rested her left wrist on her desk, and found her schoolwork on her watch. After checking that she had the most up-do-date version of the text—it had been edited at 8:01 that morning—she adjusted her eyes to the soft white light and focused on the words projected before her on the desk. Despite looming promises of bleak futures, Fives worked as hard as the other tiers on their exams. Samara did not know what would happen if she didn’t pass, and never thought to wonder. She feared failing, of course, and that was enough. She read until she had to reread sentences twice, three times, and four times to understand them.

  It was well past curfew when they heard the sirens. Before her brain had registered the sound, her nervous system took over, forcing her heart to race and her brow to sweat. Like her peers, she had been raised with a healthy fear of the police. She crouched down, and staying low to the ground, followed the sound. It was loudest in the hall.

  Her parents were already there, waiting on either side of the window. Her mother held out her arms to draw her into them while her father held a finger to his lips. He glanced out.

  “What’s happening, Dad?”

  “They got him.” His face was long and solemn. “They—”

  He was cut off by a violent symphony, the sounds of batons beating skin, laughter from many, screams from one.

  “Poor fella.”

  “Get him in the car!” said a voice from outside, and in a matter of seconds, the air was still again. They looked at their watches. Mr. Shepherd’s was the first to talk.

  “Incoming message,” said a woman in a cool, robotic tone. He touched the face. “The vandal accused of defacing the walls of the number seventeen housing unit in your area has been arrested. Please avert your eyes from the graffiti until it has been cleaned. Thank you.”

  They’d heard it before. The same words every time, meant to comfort or threaten—the robot woman’s tone never hinted toward either. This time, however, there was something new. A hologram of a boy’s face appeared in the air before them.

  Mr. Shepherd’s eyes were downcast. “They must have got him, all right.”

  Before this boy’s face, there was just the message.

  Later, without fail, another painting would adorn the same wall.

  Chapter Three

  “We’re speaking with Dr. Bruce Katchum, distinguished professor of history at Cola-Rite University.” The brilliantly clad news anchor widened her eyes and cocked her head to the side. “Cola-Rite! It just tastes right.”

  The logo appeared at Bristol’s feet, along with a code, which could be swiped by a watch to have the drink delivered within ten minutes. But Bristol was watching the hologram of the gray-bearded man projected before him.

  “Great to be here, Melissa.”

  “Professor, let’s dive in. You claim that as recently as a hundred years ago, this story wouldn’t even have been reported as news.”

  The man smiled. “That’s right! Back then, a police force would have made hundreds of arrests in a single city in a single day. Crime was so rampant that graffiti was the least of their concerns.”

  Melissa snorted. “Times have changed! If you’re just joining us now, we’re talking about the successful arrest of a local vagrant notorious for defacing the walls of buildings, such as the 52nd street bus terminal”—an image of scientists with paintbrushes stroking the skin of a newborn baby appeared—“Achievement Only Elementary School”—a family portrait with the faces of two of the three children marked out with red Xs—“and, of course, the wall of the number seventeen housing unit”—the nun.

  Bristol’s heart jumped into his throat and he looked over his shoulder at the window again, half expecting to find a policeman right there to pluck him from home while his mother and sister were still at work. But he wa
s alone, having called the restaurant to tell them he was too sick to cut up their vegetables and wash their dishes and unload their deliveries today. The police weren’t releasing details about the suspect, but that didn’t stop the national news stations from broadcasting their wild speculation, nor did it stop Bristol from gorging himself on the coverage.

  The little hologram of a man shifted in his seat. “People of that time were simply not respectful of their government. Most understood very little, and that majority grew too numerous to tolerate. As I’ve said, crime was a problem. Thomas Armistead himself was the first leader to offer a reward for sterilization. Many took it, and it left a smaller cohort of citizens who better understood how to live in a manageable society. Shortly after that, the one-child policy was enforced, and now, happily, we have a smaller and smaller amount of people who need our care. You sometimes hear a fuss about how difficult it is for young people to be matched as a result, or that our workforce is dwindling. But consider this: fewer people and more technology is always the better way. This incident has taught us that. With fewer people, you have less crime. Young people who are upset about not getting a match should consider that. Life might get a little lonely when you’re not married, especially in the short time at the end of the day when you're not at work, but it’s good for the country.”

  The news anchor’s eyes flickered down to her watch, then back to the man. “Professor, should we be afraid that others may follow suit?”

  The professor chuckled. “Melissa, Melissa, Melissa… This man—a confessed criminal—will be jailed for the rest of his life. Any copycats will only have to look to him—and to the unfortunate citizens of the past—to weigh whether or not painting on the walls is really worthwhile.”

  Now it was the news anchor’s turn to laugh. “Thank you. Up next, we know that this wall has been the target of graffiti before, but no one has reported it. Who’s to blame? We’ll talk to residents of the number seventeen housing unit who say, not them! And we’ll ask—” She raised one sharply shaped eyebrow “—‘Why not’?”

  She turned her head and instantly morphed her face into a wide grin. “But now, show your hairdresser some love! It’s the first annual hairdresser appreciation day, and it’s happening next week. To show you care, give a gift from Gooby’s Chocolates…”

  Bristol turned off the holovision before he had to endure another commercial. Parts of his brain were buzzing and other parts remarkably still. The paints and brushes that had created the nun painting were still lurking under his bed, but he was here, still a free man, while another man had gone to prison.

  He walked into his bedroom in a daze and, from its dark hiding place, picked up the sketch he’d created the night before. It was an image of Denver—though it wasn’t Denver’s face—arm-in-arm with a blue link, the profile of her future husband. He liked it more than he thought he would, yet now it seemed heavier, the weight of a new life on the thin page.

  Bristol let the paper sail down onto his bed. He crouched down and held his fingers to his temples. How many times had Denver warned him that it was a matter of time until something happened? He’d always just assumed that someday he’d come to his senses and paint on paper that nobody saw. Like a regular person.

  A regular person. First-born—only born—and registered. He knew he shouldn’t allow himself to wallow long in these low thoughts, but it was hard to stop once he got going. Why had his mother even given birth to him knowing that as a second child, he’d be condemned to a life of hard labor with no access to the things that made life worth living? No education, no career, no spouse, no family.

  Now that his mind was here, it replayed for him a memory of particular shame—himself in kindergarten, angry at the teacher for a forgotten reason. As a sort of revenge, he’d drawn a picture of her. Even as a child, he knew what he was doing. He’d heard her talk about losing weight to a coworker and exploited it, drawing her face and dress on a cow’s body. The page had no words. Bristol felt, in his five-year-old-heart, that the drawing said it all. He handed it to her as she stood in the threshold.

  Her face twitched. “Oh my. I hoped you’d be good at something, but now I can see art isn’t really your thing either.” She tore the page in half, turned to another teacher in the hall, and jerked her head toward Bristol. “Unregistered.” She looked at him again with her nose upturned. “Well, Bristol, add art to the list of weaknesses…along with math, reading, science…”

  Bristol shuddered on his bedroom floor. Stop. Stand. The floor underneath his feet still swayed, but he stood firm. One step at a time.

  One step at a time. He’d always had a feeling this might happen, that Metrics might put the blame on some poor slob, and now that it had happened, he felt both oddly possessive of his crimes and sympathetic to the guy holding his place in prison right now. After all, this guy wasn’t the one who’d spent hours sketching, plotting new ways to say old ideas. This guy hadn’t spent sleepless nights thinking of the best walls in the city to paint. He didn’t deserve to pay the price for Bristol’s lifestyle and he certainly didn’t deserve the martyrdom. That was Bristol’s alone to claim. Of course, if this was really a bad guy or something, maybe he did deserve to be in jail. Sometimes Metrics knew what they were doing, giving false excuses to get the real bad guys off the streets…

  He’d have to find out who this was, make sure this man was innocent before Bristol did anything drastic. He’d have to go back to the wall. Maybe the man had mislaid something, dropped something, left some clue as to who he was and why he was there. Without giving himself a chance to reconsider, he left the apartment with his shoes still untied.

  In the daylight, he walked in a straight line on the road like a good citizen and gave a wide berth to anyone passing in the opposite direction. As he approached the wall where she was painted, he noticed a large blue drop cloth hiding her from the public. The blue plastic rippled. Anger rose in Bristol at the thought of someone in there with his nun, probably scrubbing away at her with paint thinner. I hope you choke on it. The folds in the drop cloth separated, and a girl about his age stepped out.

  She exited quickly, but her eyes darted in both directions like those of a guilty cat. She made it only three steps in Bristol’s direction before she noticed his gaze and stopped.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  The girl’s fingers went to her watch, but it was only to twist it around her wrist. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

  “I won’t tell.”

  “Good.”

  She walked on, but Bristol turned and followed. “What’s back there? Behind the cloth?”

  She turned her head but didn’t look at his face. “It’s a painting. Just a painting. Are you from Metrics?”

  He held out his bare wrist and smooth hands. “Do I look like I’m from Metrics?”

  She smiled and let out a little breath. “Listen, it’s just a painting. Of a nun. It’s nice, actually. I can’t recommend that you go back there to look, but if you did, you might not regret it.”

  “Why were you back there? Just curious?”

  “No, it wasn’t that. I’d seen it before. I just wanted to look because it makes me feel…”

  Bristol leaned in as he walked. “Feel what?”

  “Still. Calm.”

  A sound came from Bristol’s throat. “How does it make you feel calm? She’s cutting herself!”

  Now she stopped. Her eyes locked on his. “I didn’t say what she was doing.”

  Her words hung suspended between them for a horrible moment. If this girl had been a member of Bristol’s kitchen gang, he would have just puffed his chest and turned his back to send an I don’t have to explain myself to the likes of you message. But this girl didn’t look angry enough to evoke that sort of response. She looked curious, something he hadn’t seen from a stranger before, and it stirred some profound fright in him.

  “I saw it on the news. I’m sorry I pretended I didn’t know. I saw it…�
� He kicked a pebble and watched it skid down the sidewalk. “On the news. I promise I don’t work for Metrics. I just make soup at a place on 23rd.”

  She looked down at her own feet and then continued walking. “I shouldn’t have said anything at all. You should probably forget this conversation happened.”

  As it was the first time he’d ever heard anyone apart from Denver talk about his art, this was the last thing he wanted to do. And he still needed answers. “Do you know who did it?”

  “Someone was arrested.”

  “I know, but who?”

  “I don’t know who he is. But he’s just a kid. Bet you didn’t see that on the news.”

  Bristol’s eyes widened. “I didn’t.”

  “They’re calling him a man, but he was a kid. About ten years old.” She had stopped in front of a filthy painted metal door, its weight barely supported by the rusty hinges.

  Bristol’s heart thumped. “Ten…”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Bristol. Yours?”

  “Samara.” She adjusted her bag on her hip and stood back, relaxed. “Go look at the painting in person, before they paint over it. It will make you feel better.”

  Samara heaved open the door, her right bicep bulging slightly as if to prove she’d been opening this same door since childhood.

  Chapter Four

  During his initial sentencing, Jude Reeder saw his parents at what he suspected may have been the happiest moment in their marriage.

  The session lasted exactly twelve minutes, and most of those minutes passed with no changes to how Jude was used to seeing them: distant, distracted, and annoyed to be putting their lives on hold to spend time in the presence of their son. Then, in front of Jude, the judge told them some unexpected information: now that Jude was to be imprisoned for life, they would be allowed to try for another child. Immediately they turned to face each other and, as if they were seeing each other for the first time in a decade, reached for each other with silent tears welling in their eyes. Jude thought it was an odd reaction, those tears, but when he realized they were laughing, he understood. Since he was very small, he’d had the feeling his parents thought it was unjust that they’d tried for a high-ranking child, as they had both been themselves, and gotten him instead.