Children of the Uprising Collection

by Megan Lynch

  “Although you’d really think it would be. People here knew about the mass murder of the Unregistered. They knew that the reason we were here was because we wanted to hang onto our lives, not because we wanted to take their jobs,” said Bristol.

  “But it wasn’t powerful enough. They didn’t have visual evidence or audio recordings. The only evidence the public was told about was experts agreeing that according to fly over missions, there appeared to be proof that Metrics had murdered its people. From a public relations standpoint, that couldn’t be weaker. And then we showed up wanting work, but to them, the two seemed unrelated. They didn’t make an emotional connection, they just had to trust the experts.”

  “And see us as human beings,” said Bristol.

  “Which they couldn’t do because they couldn’t see themselves in our spot. But this is our chance.” This was the most Samara had said in weeks. She felt the strain in her voice and knew the others could hear it. “Get over there, collect some proof, and get back. If this works, we can finally…we can finally be…”

  Breathless, she found she could not say it. It was a dream that she’d held for so long, and it was so close now that she could feel it in the lump in her throat, the tremble in her hands, and the ache between her shoulders. It seemed so important, now more than ever, for her own safety and dignity, and for the future she hoped to have with Bristol.

  Jude was the one to help her. “Free.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Denver buckled her seatbelt as soon as they boarded so the airship host could walk by without reminding her. She was about to snap at Jude to do the same, but he was just tightening the last remaining shoulder strap. She huffed and fiddled with her watch, adjusting the time to Eastern Standard. One glance over at Jude’s wrist and she saw that he’d done that too.

  She couldn’t stop having these moments of desire to rub his nose in the fact that he’d utterly destroyed the last mission. She knew that’s not what Stephen would have done, but because of this little ass, Stephen wasn’t here. But Jude kept surprising her.

  “Good morning, folks, and welcome aboard Air Canada. This flight is scheduled to arrive in Toronto in just about two hours and thirty-three minutes. Please stay seated with your straps securely fastened at each of the five points…two shoulders, two hips, and one—whoops, my co-captain tells me I’m not allowed to say that word.”

  The other passengers chuckled politely, but Denver sighed. The last buckle connected the other straps at the crotch.

  “Just sit back and enjoy the flight, folks.”

  All around her on the circular floor, people settled in, turning their eyes to their watches or printed reading material. Jude pulled out a paperback and opened it to the middle. Denver fumed. Of course he was the type to dog-ear his pages.

  “What are you doing? Where did you get that?”

  He lowered it. “It was just lying around the apartment in London. The guy who lived there before us left an awful lot of romances on the shelf.”

  “We should be prepping.” Denver snatched the book from his hands and immediately regretted it. Several passengers facing her direction looked up.

  Jude just folded his hands. “Okay, but I don’t think we should go into much detail. I know most of the world isn’t as paranoid as the United States, but there could still be people or machines listening.”

  “Let’s just practice.” She tapped the face of her watch and waited until he did the same. “How are you enjoying your flight so far?”

  “Much better than the first time I flew.” The pace of his words was calm but purposeful.

  “Oh? I deeply appreciated that ride. What a shame you’re not more grateful.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t grateful. I’m just glad the lights are working on this ship.”

  The passenger on the other side of Jude spoke up, though he was also on his watch. “No lights on the last flight? It wasn’t this airline, was it?”

  “No, sir, it wasn’t.”

  The first time had been in a British military airship. The officers had given them space blankets, but had then shuffled them into the dark airship with closed windows so there was no sunlight for the blankets to absorb. There were no seats and definitely no seatbelts—it was a cargo ship. Now that she was years removed from that experience, it made sense that they would use one to pick up the refugees, since cargo ships traveled back and forth to Canada all the time and they were just south of the border. They’d shivered in the dark for hours, but they had been together—all of them—and the ship had taken them to another country, which may just as well have been another world for them. Before then, they’d had no idea that there were other countries. Metrics convinced its people, from birth, that they were a worldwide government, so they thought the imaginary lines dividing countries had long been dissolved, just as the lines between states had been under Metrics. Denver remembered seeing the brilliant shades of green for the first time and how the beauty of the hills next to the sea took her breath away. Scotland, from the sky, was the most stunning sight she’d ever seen. When they saw it, Denver and Stephen had been locked arm-in-arm, determined never to be separated again. When the windows had opened and they were hit with those impossible colors, it felt as if a new world had been opened to them, one with opportunity and a future that just went on and on.

  As Jude made friendly conversation with his seatmate with both eyes still glued to his watch, Denver slouched into her seat as much as her straps would allow. The one perk about going on this mission with this stupid kid was that she didn’t care much whether or not she ever came back.

  They landed in Toronto and checked into a hotel that was so old that it was still advertising the fact that they offered holoTV in all rooms. They’d traveled light, just a couple of changes of clothes each, one pair of shoes, which they wore, and holowatches with encrypted files that held codes. They only needed to hack into the Internet in one location and upload those codes into the watches of three targets to listen and read conversations that would prove that Metrics was planning to murder entire generations of men, women, and children in a class that had recently become economically useless.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Bristol noted the charcoal coating the tips of his fingers and scratched his nose by rubbing it on his wrist instead. He knew that he could have used any medium to produce the scene of the murder of the Fives, but he figured the art sector would be more interested—and thereby give him more press, and thereby reach more people—if he paid attention to his materials. He considered lots of things, but needed something quick enough to have a final product as soon as Denver and Jude returned. Money didn’t really seem to matter, because as soon as his benefactor heard what he was planning, he was beside himself to offer any assistance he needed to get the project going. In the end, he unthreaded some of the clothing they’d arrived here in, had it re-woven into a largish multi-textural piece of cloth, bleached it, and then stretched it onto a canvas. Instead of using common willow or vine charcoal, he decided to take a crack at making his own. He wanted to char some small branches from American Eastern White Pines—his benefactor was more than happy to arrange this—and mix those with the ashes of dead animals from the local veterinary clinic nearby. The benefactor, an animal lover, had frowned upon this, but had looked the other way when Bristol approached the clinic. The clinic director had shrugged and handed Bristol a small box containing ashes. Before sending them away to be burned together and made into charcoal, Bristol had gathered his courage. He wasn’t thinking big enough. He approached several funeral homes instead without telling his benefactor. The first funeral director was stunned and asked Bristol if he’d considered the “ethical implications” of using human remains in his work. He said he had. He wouldn’t be here if what he was about to take on was anything of marginal importance. One by one, crematorium directors slammed doors in his face until finally, he spoke with one who said that under absolutely no circumstances would he donate ashes
to his cause—but if he were to come back on a Friday, he may run into a junior mortician who would be cleaning the equipment. When he did, the junior associate gave him a small red plastic bag. “These are all mixed together,” he explained. “It’s nobody in particular. It’s really just residue.” Bristol assured him, as respectfully as he could muster, that this was perfect.

  The pencils were ready within a few days. Drawing on the canvas made of their clothing with the pencils made of dead trees and humans changed the experience for Bristol into something completely new. Suddenly he wasn’t just focused on the outcome of the image, but showing respect to the materials. He was careful not to waste, so he had to hold the pencils gently so they wouldn’t break. He wouldn’t make a habit of using these materials, but he hoped his muscle memory would take over the next time he drew. He liked this kind of drawing, even though it wasn’t completely natural for him. More delicate, more reverent.

  He’d been in his studio for a few days before he realized that even though he and Samara were now alone in the apartment, he hadn’t fantasized about her once. He was proud of himself for finally getting over her before he remembered again that she’d had a traumatizing experience and he hadn’t thought to check in with her. Even if he finally was free of her gravitational pull, he didn’t want to lose her as a friend. He kept searching for a good time, but she left the apartment for long stretches of time and wouldn’t come back until late, when all Bristol wanted to do was sleep. It was a shame, because he desperately needed some company apart from Albert. He’d come over every few days to take pictures of the raw materials or emerging canvas or, most obnoxiously, Bristol himself.

  “Where do your friends go all day? I haven’t seen the little one in a while.” Albert pointed a laser coming from his watch at Bristol’s forehead.

  “You said you wanted to take pictures of my pencils, not me,” said Bristol.

  “My clients want to see who commissioned the creation of these pencils. That’s important too. Anyway, back to the question at hand. Where is Jude? Where are your guests?”

  “This city is the center of the universe. The world capital of culture. I don’t know, maybe they’re at the museum. Maybe they’re eating the best curry they’ve ever had. Maybe they’re out listening to buskers at the park.”

  Albert’s smile spread as he gazed down at his fingernails. “Maybe they’re at the library picking apart the constitution with a fine-tooth comb.”

  “What?”

  “A friend of mine works at the London Library. He says he’s seen her there every day for nearly a week now, from open to close, working her way through the entire civics section and taking notes by hand. An aspiring lawyer, perhaps?”

  “She’s an ambitious woman.”

  “Well, it’s none of my business really,” said Albert, feigning nonchalance. One of the few things Bristol knew about him was how terrible he was at lying. He’d be hopeless at secret keeping. “I just thought that if you had a plan and wanted to share it with me, I could mention it to one of our clients. I’m sure they’d be interested in knowing the exact pressures under which this piece was created.”

  Bristol took a deep breath in, then sighed out loudly. “The others say I’m not allowed to tell you.”

  “Come now,” said Albert. “We’re old friends now, though, aren’t we? And if this information can help me sell this—” he waved at the canvas, still obviously clueless about what he was looking at, “this—is it going to be oil on canvas?”

  “It’s just a charcoal.”

  “Oh.” He looked disappointed. “Well, then it needs help all the more then. Tell me what you have planned. Are you planning to introduce new legislation in Britain? They tell me that’s what you tried to do in Scotland. Or a new campaign to lobby the UC?”

  Bristol rubbed his forehead and felt the grooves in his skin. “There’s something coming, yes. I can’t tell you what it is, but we hope that it will allow us to stay or go or do whatever we’d like. And hopefully that freedom would extend beyond us too.”

  “Do you mean all of the refugees? I’ve heard many are in hiding throughout Europe.”

  “All the people in the world.”

  “But most of us are not under their thumb.”

  “If you don’t see us all as under their thumb, there’s no way we can help each other.” Bristol cast another eye at the drawing. It was unfair to ask cloth and coal to do this, to create empathy, and yet now it was more important than ever. “Tell your clients to guess, for all I care. They’ll know soon enough.”

  “Oh, good, a guessing game,” said Albert. “Just what everyone loves.”

  There was a loud knock at the door. It couldn’t be Samara. It sounded like a police knock, but there was no voice afterward. Albert and Bristol looked at each other. Albert was clearly the more panicked of the two, so Bristol spoke calmly and slowly. “Tell them you’re here to meet an artist and you don’t know who. Say Mr. Kent asked you to come speak to the artist, but no one was here when you arrived.” Albert nodded, and Bristol slipped into the hall closet, behind the heavy wall of coats.

  Bristol heard Albert’s light fingers turn the doorknob, but there was no police officer at the door. Instead, a deep voice rang in a Scottish accent. “I’m sorry, I think I must have the wrong door. I’m looking for my friends, Bristol Ray and Samara Shepherd.”

  Bristol bolted out of the closet, sending outerwear and shoes flying in all directions. “Daniel!”

  Daniel smiled through his fuller-than-ever beard. “Had me going!”

  They didn’t have a hugging sort of relationship, but Bristol forgot that for a moment and opened his arms wide as if he was embracing a brother. Daniel stiffly patted his back, but Bristol couldn’t have cared less—he was starving for a friendly face.

  “Have they come for you yet?” asked Daniel. “Anyone?”

  “Not yet. Have you heard from my sister?”

  “We’ve heard from the Bird. They’re at the capital, and they’re together, but they haven’t made contact with him yet.”

  “They’re at the what?”

  Bristol had completely forgotten that Albert was still in the room. He groaned, but Daniel turned and put his index finger directly in front of Albert’s face. His arm, laced with tattoos up to his rolled-up short sleeve, bulged. “You’ll keep our friends safe by keeping that to yerself, won’t ya?”

  “But they’re at the capital? Of America? Now? Right under the nose of Metrics?”

  “Daniel, this is Albert. He sells my work and works with the publicist. Albert, Daniel works for the Red Sea, the international aid group.”

  “In America, it was a rebel group,” Albert muttered, as if reminding himself.

  Daniel growled in his throat. “Before Metrics killed all the rebels, yeah.”

  “This is more than I was expecting,” said Albert. “My clients will be very interested to know about this. I should say whatever happens next, the value of this piece will go up. This is now a piece of historical significance. There’s no losing now.” He was practically salivating. “But I do need to begin planting the seeds in the minds of buyers as soon as possible…most people don’t make impulsive decisions about the kind of money this will bring us.”

  “No,” said Bristol, locking eyes.

  “Allow me to explain this. If the buyers don’t realize that this is a piece of historical significance, we’ll have to lower the price, and then that’ll affect the price of your work—and perhaps even the future of your cause—for years to come. I won’t tell everyone. Only serious buyers.”

  “You just told me that Metrics itself is a serious buyer. My main buyer.”

  “Well,” said Albert, suddenly sheepish, “We don’t know that for sure.”

  Daniel brought himself up to his full height, towering over both men but glowering over Albert. “Do you care at all about his sister and his friend coming back? Do you know his brother-in-law was killed on the first attempt of this mission? Is that wh
at you meant by there’s no losing now?”

  Bristol stepped in. “Don’t say anything, Albert. Not until they come back. You don’t know what they mean to me. I’d rip this canvas up in a heartbeat if there was a chance Metrics found out my sister was there.”

  Albert threw up his hands. “Fine! I just thought…but of course you’re right…I’ll wait. But I must tell this story eventually, and I’ll need all the facts.”

  So you can distort them, thought Bristol, but he nodded in affirmation. Nothing about his life was ever easy, but having faith in people was the most difficult piece of this entire puzzle.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jude scanned the hotel ballroom and assessed the risks, acknowledged the exits, and checked out the targets, all while getting a new high score in Dazzleball. The secret, he learned but was too afraid to admit out loud, wasn’t a secret at all. In fact, it had been Denver’s advice from the beginning: practice. When he stopped thinking about it and started just doing it by rote, again and again, he learned that not only was he able to play mind-numbing games quickly, it actually helped free up his concentration, like he was giving busy work to the slow, thoughts-into-words part of his brain so the quick, react-in-real-time part of his brain didn’t have to deal with it. He acknowledged that this was a skill that didn’t exactly come naturally, and was a terrible distraction until he got good at it, and wondered how many other people had thought of the idea and followed through enough to push through the difficulty of practicing it. He hoped not many. He assumed everyone.