Children of the Uprising Collection

by Megan Lynch

  “What?” asked Bristol.

  “I said…I said…” She wiped tears with her fingertips. “We never have to go back. We never have to go back again.”

  Bristol looked at her for a moment and closed his mouth. What did she mean by that? They did eventually have to go back, if nothing else to find out what happened to…

  He whipped around to look back at the airship. She was standing there, waiting for him to notice her.

  “Mom!”

  He yelled into the light beam from the plane, a heart sound that he’d never heard anyone make before. He ran and embraced her. Under the temporary airship scent, she smelled the same. Cool. Fresh linen and peppermint. “How?” He turned to his sister. “How?”

  “You tell him,” their mother told Denver. “I’m not even sure I understand it.”

  “Metrics had put her in prison.”

  “Prison? Wasn’t the point of the relocation to get rid of those?”

  “The relocation had some unintended consequences,” said Denver. “They found that they needed some Unregs after all. We met the Bird, and he pulled strings—that man is a great hacker for his age—and a guard brought Mom out and shoved her into our transport.”

  “I thought I was…going to see you,” said Mom, cradling Bristol’s jaw in the palms of her hands. “But not like this. Are we really alive?”

  Bristol’s tears were heavy and fell straight from his cheeks to the ground. “We are. I’m alive. You’re alive.”

  “It’s a miracle. We all made it.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Denver bow her head. He clasped her shoulder. “What’s next?”

  “I assume we have a transport to take us back to the apartment. I’ll tell you more when we’re home, okay?”

  Daniel, tight-jawed, flung a gesture toward a long white van with tinted windows. “Fifteen-passenger! We’ll all be comfortable. It needs a driver, but I can do it if you want to catch up.”

  “Are you okay, Daniel?” asked Bristol.

  “Fine. Fine.”

  “What is it?” asked Jude.

  Daniel broke into loud sobs. “Yer mother! Alive! Yesterday she was in prison an’ she thought her children were dead an’ now yer all together again! It’s…it’s…enough to make a man patriotic!”

  Denver looked disgusted, but mostly in a bewildered sense. “Pull yourself together. And never say the P word around us again.”

  “Yeah,” said Bristol, punching his shoulder softly with one hand while holding his mother’s with the other. “Stranger things have happened, you know.”

  Daniel blew his nose into his sleeve. “Away an shite, ya numpties.” He jerked and looked pointedly at Mrs. Ray. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “I have no idea what he just said,” she said to her son.

  “It takes a while for your ears to get used to it,” he said.

  “Basically, he told us to go take a poop and insulted our intelligence.” Denver picked up her backpack and crossed the field to the van, picking up her feet so her socks stayed dry in the tall grass. “I think it’s a phrase to indicate endearment, but who knows?”

  “It might be,” said Daniel, who smiled at Denver’s marching. “But I won’t admit it.”

  Daniel and Mrs. Ray chatted the entire way home from the driver’s and passenger’s seat, but she still stretched her shoulder to hold Bristol’s hand from the next row. Occasionally, she asked for a translation, which Bristol provided. He was surprised that he was even able to offer this since it didn’t seem so long ago when he himself had trouble understanding the accented English. He kept looking at her hand—the hand that had pulled his body close to hers when he was born. It looked much the same as it always had—broad palm, long fingers, close in length—but drier than he’d ever seen it.

  “Didja drink much water on the plane?” asked Bristol.

  On his left side, Denver nodded knowingly. “As much as we could,” she said. She leaned in and whispered, “Look at her pinky finger.”

  He looked.

  There was no nail. Instead, there was a dry black scab at the end of her finger. His mother seemed to feel him looking and turned around. “It didn’t hurt.”

  “They pulled out your fingernail?”

  “I’d had enough, Bristol. They were abusing one of my cell mates. A girl just one year younger than Denver. I couldn’t have that. The guard came in—”

  “A male guard?” Samara asked.

  “Yes. He came in, and I could tell he was going to do it again, what he did every night. I told him his mother would be ashamed. He ignored me. I don’t even think he heard me, but then they called me into an interrogation room the next day and had me look at pictures of the two of you. Told me all these lies about you. Said I needed to be punished for raising two worthless children, and slowly pulled out both nails on my little fingers. They had these recordings of you both that they kept playing.”

  Bristol could not look up. “What did we say? On the recordings?”

  “Den’s watch must have not been lit, but they recorded anyway. Some things about you sneaking away at night, Bristol. Lots of ‘don’t tell Mom’ or ‘stop before she finds out.’”

  Denver and Bristol exchanged glances. He should have known that Metrics would use those watches to spy on them. They’d been naive to think that recordings only happened when it flashed the blue warning light.

  Back at the apartment, Bristol and Samara made tea and served it to the others while they were curled on couches in the little living room. It was a bit sparse, with only one loveseat and a rocking chair, but most of them spread out on the large olive green and gold Turkish rug on the floor. Bristol turned on a lamp from the side table while Samara handed out steaming mugs. Bristol took in his mother’s face as she looked up in appreciation to Samara. She brought the mug to her nose and sniffed.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “Chamomile,” said Samara. “It should help you sleep.”

  Mom took a sip. “Probably need all the help I can get. I’m so tired it feels like I won’t sleep for days. Or maybe I’m so excited that I’ll pass out before my head hits the pillow. Anyway, I guess chamomile can’t hurt.” She stood. “Actually, I’m a little restless. You stay here, I’m going to take myself on a little tour of your home.”

  She stood and poked her head around the hallway. She opened the closet, saw Bristol’s coat flung on the floor, picked it up, and hung it on the hanger.

  “I can get that, Mom,” said Bristol, reaching for it.

  “I’m just happy I get to do anything for you, sweetheart. What’s in here?”

  “My room. It’s yours tonight.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” She meandered inside, seeming to take note of everything: the deodorant on his dresser, the change on his nightstand, the book face down like a tent on the bed. He knew it was a matter of time before she’d pause in front of the drawing. He didn’t necessarily want to be here for that. He stepped back out into the doorway, which opened back into the living room.

  “So how did it go?” Samara asked Denver.

  Denver and Jude exchanged a smile, the first Bristol had ever seen between the two. “Well,” she said. “Awfully well.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Jude sipped his tea while Denver told the room of the initial findings of the recordings. Then, anticipating that they’d want to hear some for themselves, he tapped his watch face and played them a chilling soundbite from the Director of Societal Purity:

  We had to remove the Unregistered from the society. The “relocation,” as the public refers to it, was extremely successful. Not only did we succeed in creating more room and resources for the people who matter, we did it without the public knowing that we sacrificed over a million lives, and we disposed of the bodies quickly and efficiently. Now that we know how to do it, we can repeat the process with the Fives, and we can do it better than before. We can anticipate problems. One of the big consequences our researches missed was the ove
restimation of machine capability to do menial work. It seems that we do need to imprison about ten percent of the Fives to meet demand, but we do not need all of them, and once machine capability reaches maximum efficiency, we can get rid of the entirety of the prison population, as planned.

  There was a thunderous round of applause after that clip.

  “He said that in a meeting. We know from prior conversations that there were well over a hundred people in the room.” Jude sniffed. He felt a cold coming on. He breathed in the steam from his cup. “They’re pretty shameless about it. They knew there’d be no Fives in the room, or anyone who’d allow themselves to be associated with a Five.”

  “Because they have new citizenship score criteria, they had to implement new limits so more people would be incarcerated,” said Denver. “We thought relations between tiers were bad when we were there, but it was nothing like it is now. People wouldn’t dream of associating with a lower tier in any way. Even when they’re picking up groceries or tipping their drivers, no words are exchanged to avoid suspicion.”

  Samara shook her head. “Insanity.”

  “It’s progress that you think that,” said Jude. “I really thought I’d broken out of the whole Metrics mindset, but being back made me feel…back. There again, with all that pressure to succeed. I never wanted to abort the mission, but Metrics just has a way of making you feel…safe, if you side with them. People are spying on each other now in order to raise their score or lower their neighbor’s. I know it was always that way, but it’s intensified now.”

  “So even though it’s not going to be totally easy to convince the international community that they should liberate the United States, it’s going to be much harder to liberate the people under Metrics from their own mindsets,” Denver said.

  “But Metrics is killing people,” Samara said.

  “You don’t understand. The director said what he said in a huge, crowded room. And we have some audio from a random Five, too. They’re aware of the plan as well. They’re just choosing to believe that they will actually be relocated, as opposed to murdered like the Unregistered. They think if they side with Metrics, all will be well.” Jude reached for a tissue and blotted his nose. “I had that same feeling. I thought for sure that Metrics would see that I was innocent and release me from the detention center. I wouldn’t have imagined that they put me there in the first place.”

  “And I almost turned Stephen in for being associated with the Red Sea, even though I knew Metrics had set us up in hopes to spy on us both,” said Denver through an ironic smile. “Human beings are so bizarre! It’s as if they take away our common sense.”

  “Or we willingly give it away,” said Jude. “So where do we go from here? Daniel?”

  Daniel hadn’t moved from his position, seated next to Denver on the loveseat with a deep lean forward and his thick forearms rested on his knees. “I’ll take the recordings back to the Red Sea. They can set up a meeting with the United Countries. I’m guessing they’ll change your status back to refugee and then from there it’s all politics. That’s where Bristol comes in, changing public opinion.”

  Samara turned to Bristol. “Show them what you’ve been working on.”

  Bristol turned his head toward his room and said, “That’s it.” His mother came out with a medium-sized canvas, holding it in front of her as if it were made of crystal.

  As far as first impressions go, Jude was a little underwhelmed. Not that he knew much about art, but most of Bristol’s work looked pretty cool—vibrant colors with stark contrasts, realistic detail, thought-provoking themes. If this was really it, it sucked. A few black figures on a small, dirty-looking canvas. This was supposed to be a piece that was more than what it was. He knew Bristol didn’t like asking his art to be anything more than art, but after what he’d been through, this seemed a little insulting.

  Apparently Denver was thinking along the same lines. “What is that?”

  “Anything can be pretty immediately and fade out,” said Bristol. “I wanted this one to be a little more lasting.” He explained his mediums. Jude actually gasped when he told them about the charcoal.

  “Jesus, Bristol, they’re going to think we’re serial killers or something.” Jude scrubbed at his face with his fingers, feeling the effects of exhaustion slowly sink into his skull. “I don’t want you to think I’m being critical, but—”

  “—but that’s not what we need and you know it.” Denver finished.

  Bristol frowned and jerked his head back. “Big has been done, though. Color has been done. This has not been done.”

  “Yeah, I think art people will understand that.” Denver moved her hand as if to flip her hair, but her hand just flew through the air. She didn’t seem concerned. “They’ll probably give your little arts and crafts project here four Michelin stars or something. Two thumbs up, ten tomatoes, whatever.”

  “But it’s a matter of convincing the public, too.” Samara nodded. “I think she has a point. On its own, it’s not powerful enough unless you know the story. It doesn’t quite speak for itself.”

  “Then let it speak,” said Bristol and Denver’s mother. Jude glanced from the canvas to her face. She was staring straight at Jude, and she wasn’t smiling. He searched her for a moment, but wheels in his mind were turning painfully slow.

  Bristol, after a second, said, “I like it.” He looked at Jude. “Can we do that?”

  Jude felt so dumb. “Do what?”

  “Can we use the audio recordings to make this a multimedia piece in the slow? We can add a sound cone over it, so when people walk up to it to look, they can hear the clip you just played.”

  “That’d be perfect,” said Denver. “We should add the voice of the Five in, too. The Bird told us not to underestimate the poor. Albert will know the people to set up a show. We’ll have Cindy set up an exhibition in Edinburgh, too. Daniel, you check on the Red Sea efforts first, and we’ll get moving on that right after they know.”

  Daniel winked. “You’re the boss.”

  Jude would have skipped the wink, but otherwise, he thought it was the perfect way to describe her.

  Jude’s body woke him early and refused to let him sleep anymore. It wasn’t that the floor was uncomfortable—he was used to that—it was the patch of sunlight shining on his cheek. It was warm and gentle, like a kiss. He’d never actually been kissed, not even, as far as he knew, by his mother, but he’d seen the deed done and thought it might be nice.

  He wondered where Cork was and what he was doing at this moment. Was he inside or outside? Hungry or satisfied? Warm or chilly? Sleeping or awake? If they were still at the warehouse together, they’d already be on the floor, toting boxes of things people didn’t need into bins where they’d be brought to them. It seemed an entire lifetime had passed since they’d worked together, making little inside jokes as they passed each other and then staying up late at night to whisper to each other about anything, anything at all, as long as it wasn’t strategy. He’d been hoping, for years, to finally have worked hard enough to not have to specifically avoid this topic in future conversations. To talk about football as the entire point of the conversation and not feel like they were skating on ice over an angry rushing river.

  He got up, folded his blanket, and draped it over the loveseat where Samara slept, snoring softly though her nose. He went into the kitchen and filled the kettle for tea. Mrs. Ray was standing outside on the little balcony off the kitchen. He bowed his head as he turned on the gas, hoping to avoid her, but she saw him, opened the door, and enveloped him in hug.

  “Good morning, honey,” she said. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

  “I’m just an early riser, I guess.”

  She opened the cabinet and got out a mug for him. “You know what they say about the early bird.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  Smiling, but with a quizzical brow she answered, “The early bird gets the worm. I guess it is an old expression. I guess your mother didn’t s
ay that much.”

  He shook his head and stared at the mug. Though back at home he’d been a Two and Denver and Bristol’s family had been Threes, they’d grown up with so much privilege. In his former home, Jude would go downstairs in the morning to a sleek kitchen, sit under the marble bar, and tap his watch. The cuisine assembler would whir and buzz and wouldn’t stop until eventually a high-pitched ding would signal that his oatmeal was done, complete with whole milk, fresh seasonal berries, and toasted walnuts. He’d eat it in silence, reviewing his homework on his watch. At times, his mother or even his father would come down and start the cuisine assembler for their own breakfast, but no words beyond “hello” were ever exchanged. She certainly never said any offhand, old-fashioned folksy phrases. The Twos were high society and kept busy with all sorts of obligations, both professional and social. She had her own life.

  Mrs. Ray had her own life, too, but she made her children a part of it. Free of the high expectations, her family had been able to access a wealth that Jude’s family had never known.

  “No, but I think my mother probably knew it. She was always up early.”

  Mrs. Ray nodded and unlatched a large wooden box. “Bristol has so much tea here.”

  “His patron got him that as a gift. He thinks we ought to know more about tea than we do. None of our palates are refined enough for him.”

  She laughed. “He’s in for a rude awakening then. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that trying to change people into whatever you think they should be only ends badly for you.”

  “Reminds me of Metrics.” Jude picked out a bag of English breakfast—the only one in the entire box he’d even tried—and opened it.

  “Me, too.”

  “This actually brings me to something I wanted to tell you,” Mrs. Ray said.