Children of the Uprising Collection

by Megan Lynch

  Denver, frowning, seemed to have the same idea. “What exactly do you do, Daniel?”

  “Education. I give workshops at schools and talk to groups of people who are interested in our cause. We have programs in fourteen different countries, but the work we did in America was considered the most important.”

  Denver snorted. “So it was the biggest failure.”

  “That’s one way of saying it. But there are much bigger fish to fry here. I called you all together to inform you of what you won’t hear on the news.”

  Samara sat up straighter, angling herself slightly away from Bristol.

  “You’ve probably heard on the news that the rest of the world is pretty worried about America and your government. Apparently, Metrics is so worried about word getting out that they’re not actually a worldwide government that they’re making plans to make it a reality.”

  Jude scrunched his nose. “You mean they actually want to take over the world?”

  “No, they could never do that. They’ve been depleting their own resources for years. But they still have some weapons. They completely closed their borders, but they refused to give those up.”

  Stephen’s face went white. “They want to attack? Here?”

  “Probably somewhere in the UK. They know that we provided resources to their rebels, and we think they caught wind of our plan to infiltrate their citizen’s watches with information. We were successful at that, but Metrics managed to convince most of them that it was a hoax.”

  “What about the ones who believed?”

  “If they showed any indication of real belief, you can guess where they are now.”

  Samara imagined the prisons, emptied since the relocation, with new inmates trickling in. What did prisons look like now, with no Unregistered workers? At least the guards had something to do now.

  “Why haven’t they done it yet?”

  “Because our weapons are superior, and your leaders know it. Your President is afraid we’d retaliate.”

  Most of the room spoke at once. “President?” They looked around, and a cheerless chuckle passed through the room.

  “Yes, America still has a President.”

  “They just told us that the Ones ran everything.”

  “The Ones do run everything.” Daniel’s eyes sparkled with a secret. “Has anyone ever met a One?”

  “Of course not. They’re the leaders; you wouldn’t just bump into one of them on the street—”

  “That’s because the only Ones are the President and his family. Your President’s grandfather was in power for almost twenty years, and then when he died, they organized the Tier system to keep themselves in total control.”

  “No,” said Samara, the teacher in her rising to the occasion. “There was an uprising of citizens. They demanded a Tier system—”

  “That’s the story they told you, yes.” said Daniel gently.

  Samara spoke slowly, the words coming into her own mind as she spoke them aloud: “I always thought they were just another Tier. Just like us, but richer and bred for leadership.”

  “Definitely richer. That family owns most of the private business in America. Bred for leadership? What kind of leader isolates their own country and forbids citizens from forming bonds with each other? What kind of leader encourages its people to spy on each other and report each other from a young age?”

  “The kind of leaders who murder their own people,” said Bristol with his eyes set to the quiet fireplace. “We know what it’s like there, even if we haven’t been privy to the inner workings. You don’t have to get us outraged.”

  “My brother is right,” said Denver. “So, Daniel, you’ve called together the refugees who are interested enough in the Red Sea to notice the signal. We appreciate your information, but…”

  “But what do you want?” Bristol finished for her.

  “I’m an organizer.” Daniel threw his head back, and with it, his drink. “I want to get you organized.”

  Samara perceived a subtle change in the room as all noises, most nearly inaudible anyway, stopped completely. Ice seemed to cease floating inside glasses, chairs no longer creaked with weight shifts. The only sound that could be heard, apart from the whistling wind at the windows, was Daniel’s glass hitting the deep ebony side table.

  “The Red Sea thinks the rebel cause in America is done. Since our government rescued you, there’s no one left there to fund. But the Red Sea has still been doing some hefty lifting for you all.”

  “Hefty lifting?” Bristol’s tone was hesitant.

  “I only know this because I heard my boss speaking to his boss. Under the threat of war, our government is considering a trade.”

  The weight of his words hit Samara hard in the stomach. “Us for a promise of peace.”

  “Yes. Only some members of Parliament, though. The dangerous ones who aren’t good for the UK anyway. The Red Sea is trying to convince them that you’re valuable enough to keep.”

  “It’ll never happen.” Stephen leaned his back against his plush chair, as if trying a little too hard to radiate calm. “Don’t the people choose their leaders here? Considering the reception we received, I’d say we’re pretty popular. The aid workers tell us it’s a matter of national pride that we were brought here.”

  “It is,” said Daniel. “But you’re not as popular as you think—at least not with everyone. There are some people in our country who would like to have a light version of what you had back in America.”

  “Metrics?” asked Jude, slack-jawed. “They want a government like Metrics?”

  “Oddly enough, yeah, they do. They just haven’t thought things through yet. But they’d rather Scotland be isolated, they’d rather not have to deal with little inconveniences like finding a mate, and they’d be told explicitly that they’re better than other people.”

  “They don’t understand,” said Jude.

  “You’re right; they don’t. But you can’t force someone to care about other people; you can’t make someone love people.”

  Danovan cleared his throat. “But these people—these policy-makers and the people that elect them—they’re only doing it to protect themselves, right? Sometimes you have to do terrible things for the greater good.”

  “You would know,” said Denver, her features tight.

  “Don’t get started. I’m saying these people are just trying to protect their families and friends, people they care about. Nothing wrong with that, but we’ve got to protect ours. Maybe we should plan on…”

  “What?” asked Stephen, taking Denver’s hand. It was gesture that was more than a loving token—Samara suspected it was to stop Denver from jumping up and slapping Danovan herself. “Assassinating the members of Parliament who pose a threat to us?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, that is what I was thinking!”

  Bristol stood. “It takes no courage to care for the people you know. Look at the mess America is in. Look at President Whatever-his-name-is. Even he protected his family. It takes guts to sacrifice for someone you don’t know, to have faith that people are worth saving even if you don’t know anything about them. Even if you don’t like the things you do know about them.” Danovan’s spine slumped forward as he swirled his drink around in his glass. Bristol seemed surprised to have shut him up but unsure of how long he’d stay silent. “So, yes, we need to do something about these people in Scotland who don’t want us here, and we need to address the underlying fear. But we can’t heal the fear of killing by killing.”

  Samara leaned back into her chair and crossed her arms. Damnit, Bristol. Would she ever be able to truly fall out of love with him? The answer was there for the taking, but she pushed it away and turned back to Daniel. “I assume you were thinking diplomacy?”

  “Well, yes.” Daniel’s eyes still showed a little surprise; maybe he hadn’t guessed that such placid-looking refugees would possibly discuss assassinating members of his Parliament in his house. “But in the spirit of democracy, I thin
k we should take a vote.”

  Diplomacy was unanimous; Danovan and Kareale abstained, both looking toward the ground as the others raised their hands in support of a peaceful strategy.

  What to do next proved more troublesome. Committees were organized to drum up public support and to do more research on the leaders who posed a risk.

  “Obviously, Bristol should be on the public support committee,” said Samara to Jude, who’d found a paper and pen. “But I want to be on the research committee.”

  Bristol took in a long breath and let out a longer one. “But,” said Samara, “I’d like to help with you, too, Bristol. I know someone who wants our stories. She’s writing a book.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Denver’s chin felt heavy in her hand. She sat for a long time at the table after dinner, trying to summon the strength to get up and walk to Nurse Sue’s room. Maybe she’d just wait a little longer. Maybe then the nurse would come downstairs herself to watch the nightly news with everyone.

  Denver’s waistline wasn’t the only piece of her growing thicker. Her thoughts, once quick and limber, seemed to move slower, as if her brain were running in water. Being among civilized society made her think of her old life, of energy shots and fast-paced games on her watch, of deadlines and of her lighting-round sessions on the treadmill. Here, life was slower, and so was she. She wasn’t exactly sure what was causing this gradual weakening, but there was plenty to blame: the cold weather, the monotony of Olympic Village, the heavy meals, the baby. She was still in a bit of denial that there was actually a human inside her.

  She felt most connected to him—she had a feeling it was a boy—when she was in the bathtub, which was almost every night. Stephen, perhaps trying to be useful, would draw a bath for her and drape a towel and her clean clothes over the door. He always said he wished he had something else to give her besides the plain white bar of soap and bottle of thick white shampoo. Once she asked him what he meant, exactly, and he mentioned the sweeter-smelling soaps back in America. Just a few months ago, back when she was a Three with plenty of money to burn, her baths were infused with peppermint bath bombs, crushed lavender blossoms, candles. She would have turned her nose up at those terribly gooey soaps with the artificial scents and looked down on Stephen for suggesting them. Now, though, knowing he wanted to give them to her was touching, even to her. Still, she only wanted to be emotionally touched by Stephen—once, when he tried to climb into the tub with her, she stretched her legs out and told him it was too cramped for the two of them. He left her alone in the bathroom, looking more than a little disappointed, but it was for his own good. Denver ran hand over her belly again and remembered the sound of the wand from her first doctor’s appointment. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.

  Denver knew she was not doing her share of work for the Red Sea, and though she knew it was important, she was tired. She didn’t quite know how Samara was doing it; since their meeting at Daniel’s house, she never seemed to sleep. Sleep was all Denver wanted to do. While most of the rest of the refugees were busy going out and engaging, researching, and strategizing, Denver was napping and trying not to throw up her lunch.

  Nurse Sue did eventually come down the steps. When she saw Denver, she came over to make a fuss over her belly.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Exhausted,” answered Denver.

  “It’s normal,” Nurse Sue said. “Your body is building the placenta right now. You’ll feel tired even if you’re not doing anything.”

  “I’m never doing anything,” Denver said. “I can’t afford to be this tired right now. You know what’s at stake.”

  “There are two hundred people here. Only one of us has a baby to take care of. You’re allowed to focus on that little one. How is Stephen?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Maybe he could help you out. Give you a back rub.”

  “You don’t know my husband. Since we lost our focus injections, everything makes Stephen want to…”

  “Make love?”

  Denver felt the burn on her face creep up to her eyebrows. “Yes, in fact. Yes. Obviously that would be a disaster.”

  Nurse Sue looked perplexed. “What?”

  “That’s how we got into this situation.” Denver laid her hand just under her belly button, where she perceived the baby to be. “Can you imagine if we created another little—”

  “Denver!” Nurse Sue laughed and slapped both of her knees. “You can make love to your husband! You won’t get pregnant again. Even if you have sex every day until the baby’s born, your belly has a single-occupancy maximum.”

  Denver felt herself coil inward, then immediately rise to her own defense. “How was I supposed to know that? No one ever told me that.”

  “I’m sorry, dear. They would have told you in your pregnancy classes if you’d conceived under the Metrics rules.”

  “It won’t hurt the baby?”

  There was a kindness to Nurse Sue’s face that made Denver think of her mother, far away and without either of her children. Denver’s sense of motherhood was so small, yet when she thought of her mom all alone and unsure of whether her children were living or dead, she felt a chasm in her heart and knew her mom wouldn’t be whole again until she saw them. They had to survive. Somehow, Denver would tell her mother someday that she had a grandchild. She needed to look forward to that.

  “The baby won’t notice a thing. It’s quite safe. And I think,” said Nurse Sue, “it might benefit both of you.”

  She was probably right. Since the Red Sea meeting, Stephen had been working himself past exhaustion with the rest of the assembly. That evening, he drew her bath again. She took her time with her baby, dried off, and, not touching the clothes he’d draped over the door for her, slipped into bed beside him.

  She didn’t expect his reaction. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I just…wanted to be close to you.”

  “Oh.” He inched slightly toward her, newspaper still in hand, not moving the little notebook that lay between them. She glanced down at it, catching a few words in his messy handwriting. European Convention of Human Rights…violation…he’d underlined it three times.

  “I’ll get that out of your way,” Stephen said, grabbing the notebook.

  “Thanks,” she said softly, scooted closer, and kissed his shoulder. “I was talking to Nurse Sue today.”

  He looked up from his paper, the news still in his eyes as he looked at her. “Is the baby okay?”

  “Yes. I told her that I was afraid of getting pregnant again or hurting him if we had sex again.”

  Stephen looked horrified. “I didn’t even think of that! It’s a good thing we stopped—”

  “She says it’s safe. We can…if you want to.”

  He flung the newspaper, notebook, and pen onto the floor and dove at her. “I want to. I want to.” He said those words over and over, until, under Denver’s laugh, they sounded like I want you, I want you.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Back home, if Bristol wanted to paint, he had to sneak out in the middle of the night with an ice pack under his glove to disable his tracking chip and hide from street cameras long enough to stencil a simple design on a wall. Here, it turned out that it was as easy as asking someone’s permission.

  He’d gone with Samara to the little teahouse to tell his tale of escape. When Samara told the woman writing down Bristol’s story that he was a street artist, she became excited and called for her boss. The owner of the teahouse turned out to be a woman with a collected sort of quality about her. She was thin, but not the same kind of thin they were. Beneath her red cardigan, Bristol pictured toned biceps from her sessions with a personal trainer. Denver used to go to sessions like that.

  “He’s a street artist.” Anna-Margaret pointed at Bristol. “He used to paint political pictures on walls. Illegal pictures. These two say it drove those Metrics lads mad.”

  The owner of the teahouse arranged her arms in fron
t of her, but drew a polished nail at the edge of her lip. She glanced down at Anna-Margaret’s pen and paper. “Can you show me?”

  “Draw the nun,” Samara said. What was there in her voice? Was it pride? Nostalgia? Bristol was still defenseless against her, and though his fingers still felt stiff and he knew before he started that it wouldn’t come out exactly right, he sketched the nun as he remembered her on the wall in front of Samara’s window back home.

  While he drew, Samara cleared her throat and addressed the teahouse owner. “Bristol played a big role in sparking hope among us. He helped people escape.”

  “Escape?”

  “Yes, literally and metaphorically. We’re American refugees, in case you didn’t know.” If she did know, she didn’t indicate it. She only kept gazing down at the paper and the blood now dripping—though pathetically imperfectly—from the nun’s hand. “Now we’re concerned that Parliament wants to send us back.”

  “Wouldn’t that be…illegal?”

  “Frowned upon, but not illegal,” Samara said confidently. “We’ve been doing research on refugee rights, and they’re surprisingly sparse. The best we can hope for is public support.”

  Bristol’s drawing was far from finished, but he sensed this was the right time to show her. With two fingers, he slid the illustration across the table. The lighting in here was good for it; the large windows let in the light from the overcast sky. The woman picked up the drawing and examined it for a few seconds. “I’ll have to inform our landlord. Can you start tomorrow?”

  The morning after his tearoom mural was featured in the local newspaper accompanied by Bristol’s story (Samara had asked to be kept out of it), four more businesses in the area called the Olympic Village requesting he recreate his old protest images on their buildings, too. Bristol felt a burst of new energy in his blood, sparkling wildly, as he searched his mind and sketched.