by Megan Lynch
“Me?”
“Yes. I know we don’t know each other well yet, but I wanted to encourage you to…be yourself.”
He hoped she didn’t mean what he thought she meant, but her smile suggested it was exactly that. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Denver told me about your feelings for Cork. My late husband was gay. Metrics thought that meant something was inherently wrong with him. His mind or his body or his lived experiences or something else they thought he should be able to control but wouldn’t. I didn’t find out until a year after we were married, and I’d already fallen in love with my neighbor. We didn’t get to talk about it before I got pregnant with Denver. I think if we’d talked about it right away, he might still be here. But all the secrets and lies—from both of us—eventually broke him. He had to keep his true nature hidden from Metrics, then hidden from me, then hidden from our children. It was like he was imprisoned inside his own body. He didn’t reach out to me much, but I suspect that there was a whole world inside his mind. He wrote me a letter the morning he stepped in front of the train and said he didn’t kill himself because he was gay. He did it because he was too heartbroken to go on and he didn’t think anyone would miss someone they didn’t really know.”
Her face was stone. “But I do miss him. I did love him, not romantically, but genuinely. The world would have been a better place if he was here.” She squeezed his hand. “Not that you’d consider something like that, honey, but I wanted to tell you that your mind has a way of suffocating a person when they keep something like love to themselves. Love has to be shared. Love has to breathe.”
“I…I can never be with Cork and both of us know it.” Jude gulped. “I did something so stupid that all I want to do is forget about it. I want him to forget about me, too.”
“Honey, doing stupid things is love’s calling card.”
“Not this stupid.”
She reached out and touched his wrist. “You didn’t do it on purpose. You didn’t set out to hurt anyone.”
Jude nodded, his chest tight. “I wanted to help. I really didn’t think I could do it without him.” He broke away from her hand to touch the corner of his eye. “Do you think Denver will ever forgive me?”
“She’s getting closer. But you can’t control her; that will be her choice. But if I know my daughter’s heart, I know she wouldn’t wish lost love on anyone.”
Jude stood up. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ray, but I think I need some air.”
He walked down the steps and into the morning, where scents of freshly baked bread and rotting garbage swirled together and made him feel nauseous. He walked until he got to the river and remembered the jump. How the adrenaline had fueled it all, how his crushing guilt had driven him there. Mrs. Ray was right, but at the time, he was convinced that he was making the decision for other people. The truth was that he was selfishly trying to go backward. But people weren’t made to go backward. Jude leaned over the railing and savored the feeling of the cool air off the river on his face. People were made to go forward.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Denver decided to go to the Red Sea headquarters with Daniel the next day. She wondered, on the way, whether or not it was a bad idea, since the office park on the outskirts had been a place that she and Stephen had gone to frequently. She hadn’t been back since his death. But her exhaustion protected her from over analysis, and she sat on the subway car next to Daniel with no thoughts in her mind beyond the hope that the man who sat on the other side with the boiled eggs in his bag would get off at the next station.
He did. She chose to see that as a good omen and stood when they announced her station a few stops later. Her eyes, she knew, were puffy, her skin patchy without a chance to properly wash it. She wanted to get this done as soon as possible. The hand-off, the initial interrogation.
Red Sea Headquarters was just three floors of a bland looking office building, light brown walls below a deep brown roof. It only looked about fifty years old, but here, most buildings built in that era hadn’t been designed to stand the test of time. There were some good things about Metrics—the lack of resources meant that most things were built to last, if only for a few tiers of people. Here, weeds grew out from the edges of the foundation, cracks snaked through the pavement and, in front of the entrance, a large rubber welcome mat bid them “w-lc-m.”
Stephen and Denver had met here for months to strategize on the plan to involve the top British spy agencies in hopes of getting evidence that Metrics had indeed killed the Unregistered and that they were willing to do it again. This morning, she would walk in with proof right there on her wrist, obtained without any support from them or the agencies they’d worked so hard to convince. She realized on the lift up that although she’d been too tired to feel most emotions this morning, she did feel proud of herself for that.
“Ready?”
Stephen would ask her the same question right before they went in.
“Always,” said Denver automatically.
“What?” asked Daniel.
She turned to him. “You asked if I was ready.”
“No, I didn’t.” The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Daniel walked out first. “You must be hearing things.”
The back of Denver’s neck prickled, but instead of feeling cold, there was a sudden warmth all over her. “Finally.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“I’ve had an idea.”
Samara pulled a short book from her bag. It was red and old, but the protective library cover had preserved it somewhat, so its edges were light and the color gradually got deeper at the center. “Asylum was restricted in the UK over a hundred years ago because some refugees were inciting acts of violence in England, hoping to ignite some larger political turnover. Asylum was never a broad protection, but it became much narrower after that and hasn’t expanded much since. The only reason it’s so restricted was because it was never properly extended back after the threat had passed. If the UK and its allies decide to invade the US, then we’ll be granted asylum, but for the rest of the refugees who aren’t protected, they won’t. They’ll have to keep hiding in the factories and farms.”
Bristol nodded. “You know what it makes me think of? Danovan. Remember when he suggested assassinating the far-right politicians who were telling people that the relocation never happened?”
“Yeah.”
“I knew it was a bad idea, but I didn’t stop and think that it would set back causes for people who hadn’t even been born yet.” He scratched the back of his head. “So what’s your idea?”
“I always thought you had to be an elected official, or at least a lawyer, to write laws. Turns out, you can be anyone. You just have to get your law sponsored by a member of Parliament, who takes it to the floor, votes, and then if it passes, it becomes a part of the British constitution. Easy.”
“Are you sure? Not that I have much experience, but I’m pretty sure that exactly nothing involving Parliament is easy.”
“Well, it’s easier than impossible.”
“So you’re going to write a law?”
“Actually,” she took stapled stack of papers from her bag, “I’ve already written one. It’s kind of messy, but I think once I can get an attorney at the Red Sea to look it over, they can bring it to a representative, who can bring it to Parliament.”
Bristol smiled at her and gave her a quick, crisp kiss on the cheek. “You’re brilliant.”
“I’m not the only one.” The truth was that she didn’t quite feel brilliant, but she had put in the time, thinking and doing and not avoiding shortcuts. And that made her feel even better somehow. If she couldn’t control her birthplace or citizenship status or, in this moment, her education level, she could at least control how she spent her time.
The Red Sea had a busy week. While they were revising Samara’s proposal and taking the recordings from Jude and Denver to the international collective of allies, Samara helped Bristol get ready for the art show. It was a
solo exhibition. Albert worked with a team of impeccably dressed people, including Cindy, who’d taken the train as soon as she’d heard that Bristol was still in the UK and very much alive. Samara had been in the apartment when she’d come. She’d barreled into Bristol, gripped him around his neck in a tight hug, and whispered something Samara couldn’t quite hear into his ear. Bristol had been polite, but kept her at arm’s length after that. She didn’t think he’d revealed anything about their relationship—it was too soon for that, and she was clear that she didn’t want to complicate any public perception with romance—but Cindy turned icy later that afternoon and her interactions with Samara were decidedly cold.
But Cindy was still good at her job. She’d still called in every favor, contacted everyone she knew in London. Albert and his team booked a hip little gallery that had a reputation for controversial installations, and arranged for most of his pieces to be shipped from Edinburgh. There was public buzz. The news that there were illegal immigrants in London was nothing new, but the news had publicized the Metrics recordings by then, and the political pundits were tracking the movement of Samara’s law through Parliament. Their issue was already a media sensation, and though there hadn’t been much time to publicize the show, the art community clearly wouldn’t miss the chance to be a part of it.
The day tickets went on sale, they were putting final touches on lighting, moving around the pieces in a way that told their story. Cindy’s watch buzzed while they were in the gallery. She grinned at Bristol, and it didn’t fade even as her eyes passed over Samara. “Going to need more wine,” she said.
“Sold out?” said Bristol, looking down at her wrist. “But this place is huge!”
Cindy laughed in that stupid way, several registers above her work voice. “Everyone wants to meet you!”
“But they can’t,” said Samara. Cindy’s body went from light to heavy. Samara tried to make her voice a little more friendly. “Right? The bill relaxing the asylum laws hasn’t gone through yet. He’d be a sitting duck for immigration police.”
“Oh,” said Cindy, twirling a piece of her nourished blonde hair, “I don’t think they’d pick him up at his own show. This is the Circle House. Immigration officers aren’t just going to barge in here and arrest him.”
Samara wanted to tell her that she thought that because she didn’t think it could happen to her, but she stopped herself. Privilege was in the way of her understanding, and a critique here in front of Bristol, however true, wasn’t going to remove it. “Well,” she said, “it’s a gamble. Is it worth it to you, to risk deportation?”
Cindy narrowed her eyes and crossed one long leg over the other. “They won’t come into an artist’s reception.”
“They might, Cindy,” Bristol said. “I don’t want to play this card, but we’ve been through a lot. Even if you think it’s impossible, it’s not worth even a one percent chance to me.”
Cindy rolled her eyes. “We’ll just have to amp up the mystery, then. Hype up the elusive American artist Bristol Ray. It’s not ideal, but it’s the next best thing to having you.”
It was only a matter of minutes before a government official opened the unlocked front door and walked inside.
Samara’s heart caught mid-beat initially, but she realized that she recognized him. One of Clara Clovinger’s bodyguards. She hadn’t seen him for months.
“Miss Shepherd,” he said, his voice as low and dark as his sunglasses, which he kept on even though he was indoors.
“Hello.”
Cindy whimpered.
“Miss Shepherd, I’m to take you to the Grand Arms Hotel. The first minister is waiting there to speak with you.”
Samara and Bristol glanced at each other. What could this mean? Bristol asked the bodyguard if he could come along.
“No. I’m here to collect Miss Shepherd only.” He glanced at his holowatch. “Now.”
Samara went with him outside and slid into the shiny black limousine. The last time she’d ridden in this kind of transport, shiny and sophisticated and driverless, she was going to meet Clovinger for the first time. Today, she had the feeling it might be her last. Samara and the bodyguard faced each other in parallel park-bench-sized matte seats.
“Do you know what this is about?” asked Samara.
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me?”
“No.”
She hoped he saw the scowl on her lips and not the tremor in her jaw.
The car parked itself, and with more agility than she remembered, he leaped from the car and swooped to open her door for her. “Walk with me.”
They walked into a golden lobby with a large fountain in the center under a crystal chandelier. The floor glittered with specks of silver among the shimmering tile, and exotic plants were placed strategically among the walls. This can’t be bad news, she thought. Why would Clovinger bring me here to give me bad news? But then she remembered Cindy and how she was so confident, despite everything she knew they’d been though, that the police wouldn’t dare arrest them at an art show. Ritzy or not, there was no reason she couldn’t be arrested here either.
In the elevator, they went up so high that Samara had to swallow several times to pop her ears. She watched the little numbers light as the elevator moved past the floors. 44…45…46…
When the elevator finally stopped, the doors did not open. The bodyguard placed his thumb on a sensor pad, where a green laser read his prints. “Lift opens to the suite,” he said. “By the way, you have something in your teeth.”
Samara’s hand flew to her mouth. “You couldn’t have hold me before now?”
“Kidding.”
She wanted to tell him it wasn’t funny, but then again, maybe it was. Unless he was about to arrest her.
The doors opened on an airy room with pale yellow furniture and long white drapes over the windows. The windows were cracked open, so the drapes danced, but with a bit of reservation.
“Wait here, please. Would you like a glass of water?”
“No, thank you.” Samara tried to remember how to appear in front of the first minister. Sit straight. Ankles crossed. Something still seemed off, but maybe that was because she hadn’t practiced in a while.
Clovinger’s steps rang out from the short hallway, and Samara jumped to her feet the moment she heard her. Her face was slightly downcast, and though she was moving quick, like she always did, she wasn’t moving quick enough, Samara thought, for her to feel danger was imminent.
“Miss Shepherd,” she said, her voice weighted. “Good to see you again, my dear.”
“It’s good to see you, madam.”
“Sit.”
Samara waited for her to sit first.
“Miss Shepherd,” said Clovinger, “I have good news, bad news, and another bit of news I hope you’ll consider good. But I shall start with the bad.”
“I’m ready, madam.”
“My friend of over thirty years, the man you know as the Bird, died today in front of his office building in America. The official story from the Metrics government is that he had taken an energy shot which his heart could not handle. But the back of his watch was embedded with a small needle for just such an occasion, and just before he died, he had the presence of mind to activate it. He sent us a blood sample, which confirmed poisoning. His last act was very reflective of how he wanted to spend his life—gathering data in order to make the world a better place.”
“I’m…very sorry to hear that.” She was. For many reasons, not the least of which was that according to Denver and Jude, he was a very decent human being.
“Thank you. I’m sure he would have wanted to be around for the liberation, but I think he knew it was coming. I like to think he was comforted by that knowledge.”
“Liberation?”
“That’s the good news, Shepherd. I’ve been in meetings with our allies ever since I heard the recordings of that horrible man. We’ve made the executive decision to move forward with the invasion. Most of what
I know is classified, but I can say that our strategy is largely hacker based. We’ll shut down the technology that Metrics relies on to install a new government with as few casualties as possible. Hopefully none. I hope you won’t be offended when I say this, Miss Shepherd, but our analysts say that it works to our advantage to have the people of America so very dependent on their government. They’re used to being cared for, not used to having to stand up on their own. I don’t think they’ll fight us. And by this time next year, they’ll have a government they simply count on to provide a safety net, not a birdcage. It’ll be a cultural shock, but we have behavioral specialists working to ease the blow. That’s my main priority, Shepherd, because I’m not at all worried about taking down the Ones. They’re dependent on the technology, but they’re not good at protecting themselves against a technological attack.
Samara wanted to burst into tears, or maybe jump up and down on the couch and muddy the yellow satin with her footprints, or dance wildly in and out through the drapes. Instead, she re-crossed her ankles. “Wonderful.”
“That’s the first bit of good news. The second is that your bill has been rushed through and is ready for a vote tonight. I’ve spoken with the Prime Minister, and he assures me that it has the votes to pass. You and your friends are safe here now. You’ll be granted asylum when you apply, and you may stay as long as it takes to rebuild America. Personally, I hope you’ll consider helping in the rebuilding efforts. I read your bill.” Her eyes shone with something like pride as she leaned in. “The new United States will need a lot of new laws. I predict several will come from you.”
Samara was speechless. She ran her tongue along the backs of her teeth, confirming that this was all real. “That’s very good news. And…may I ask a question?”
“Please.”
Samara took in a deep breath and held it there in her throat. “Is it possible to get information about my parents? If they survived?”
Clovinger seemed to allow gravity to soften her face downward. “I do not have an answer for you today, but I’ll personally instruct our Director of Defense to look into it. I will notify you the minute I hear back."