Children of the Uprising Collection Read online

  His eyes turned upward. “Because it’s fun.”

  “Because it is fun! Practice first when I say begin.”

  The Kopecky boy glanced toward a younger kid with boxy blue glasses. He looked oddly familiar; where had she seen his face before?

  “Begin!”

  Frantic eating ensued. The sloshes and smacks of openmouthed chewing and gasps for air filled the hall. The sounds knitted together with the smells of overcooked rice, boiled asparagus, and fried tofu, daring Samara to gag in front of Warden Paul. Paul herself calmly watched, totally unaffected, even relaxed in her wide-legged stance of authority.

  After the practice round, the whole ordeal was complete in four minutes flat. At the scream of a whistle, the boys—some of them wiping thin streams of vomit from their mouths—formed single-file lines. Once the room was clear, Paul turned to Samara with a self-satisfied smirk.

  “From thirty minutes to four. Today our operation just became thirteen percent more efficient.”

  “That’s very—”

  “Yes, Miss Shepherd, it’s just the way things are done around here. We are efficient with our resources. Efficient with money, efficient with time, though that’s just really money in disguise. When I first arrived twenty years ago, this place was underperforming. I turned it around.” Her eyes flashed to Samara, this time in a true smile. “Want to know the secret?”

  Samara wanted to say yes, but by the time she’d opened her mouth, Paul was already talking.

  “Push until they break. Once they do, you’ll know to back off a little. But until they do, don’t be afraid to discover what’s possible.” She walked back toward her office so quickly that Samara had to trot along after her. “When one of them chokes, we’ll know we’ve gone too far. We’ll try a revised schedule next week to allow for shorter breaks and see what happens. You’ve got to get buy-in from them, though, for it to work. Just tell them they’ll enjoy it.” She shook her head. “Mealtimes! Why didn’t I think of shaving off minutes there?”

  “How did you think of it, Warden?”

  Paul snorted. “It wasn’t me at all, if you must know. It was an inmate.”

  “They come to you with ideas?”

  “They don’t have ideas. We simply observed the behavior of one of them. He’s in for an incurable mental condition, so it comes as no surprise he was acting funny. I simply noticed he was logging more hours in the work room and asked myself why. That’s really the attitude you need to get things done. Always keep growing.”

  “A growth mindset,” said Samara.

  “Yes, good, whatever you’d like to call it.” Paul stopped behind her enormous desk. Her face glowed in the anemic light reflecting off the glossy surface. “We’re so glad you’re here, Miss Shepherd. I think you’ll find we are truly doing good…for the inmates and for society. Do you have any questions?”

  “I do. Are the boys paid for their work? For once they get out?”

  “In the form of room and board, they are paid generously. The beds are comfortable and they receive a hot meal three times a day. Money, no, but they have no need for it.”

  “What about when they get out?”

  “They’ll find jobs at that time. Their time here is about serving society.”

  Samara shifted on her feet. “What have they done, mostly? I’m interested to know what problems to expect.”

  “Most of them have done nothing yet. But behavior reports suggest that they’re inclined toward crime, and so most of them are here as a preventative measure.”

  In prison with no crime committed? It sounded like an idea her mother would love. Then Samara remembered her mother was far away, picking blueberries.

  Warden Paul narrowed her eyes and sat down. “It may seem cruel, but the reports are very reliable. Surely you wouldn’t want to risk any actual crimes taking place?”

  Samara also took a seat. “No, of course not. Why didn’t I know about this before?”

  “They always have some story they tell the public. Sometimes it’s to hide the fact the police can’t manage to locate a criminal themselves!”

  Samara thought a moment. A few years ago, this would have shocked her, but she was more grown-up now. More worldly. If they were certain the inmates would eventually have a reason for being locked away, why shouldn’t society be protected from them? And anyway, even if she thought differently, things were different now. Samara had a well-paying job, and her mother was in the country picking berries. If Samara wanted to see her in the next five years, she’d have to keep working here to save her money for the fine. This was not a time for nobility.

  “That’s very smart,” she said.

  “Yes, the public loves a good capture. We’ve had one recent case of that. A boy was sent here to cover for a graffiti problem. He suffers from mental illness and needed a reason to be removed from the outside world, and the police needed a conclusion. Necessary for calming the public. Everybody wins.” She raised her watch and projected some charts onto her desk. “I don’t have to remind you that you’ve signed confidentiality agreements, Miss Shepherd.”

  “Of course. I can see how this might look to outsiders.”

  “Thank you, dear. I will observe your first lesson at eight o’clock tomorrow. Goodbye for now.”

  Samara stood and turned toward the door. Her fingertips paused on the gleaming knob. She turned back. “One more question. The boy with the incurable mental illness, what’s wrong with him exactly?”

  Paul waved her hand at the hologram, summoning a mug shot of the boy with the blue glasses. “A history of nonreliable personal governance. He tends to make decisions based on his own ideas of what is right or wrong.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Samara bit her lip. “And…that’s a problem big enough for prison?”

  Paul lowered her chin. “Yes, it is. Who knows what his ideas of right and wrong are? What if he decided to break a rule because he decided it wasn’t right? Most of us make decisions based on reward or punishment. When one person doesn’t do that, they threaten to break the harmony we’re all accustomed to living with. That one has some deeper problems as well—everyone expects children to be a bit awkward, but for the children raised in higher tiers, there is less leniency. And this one is as awkward as they come. Something may have gone wrong with his genetics.” She did her weird teeth-only smile again. “Miss Shepherd, I’m glad you’re asking these questions. Thank you for the opportunity to answer them! You’ll do very well here.”

  But Samara’s focus was back on the mug shot. She finally realized where she’d seen him before—in her own apartment, in front of the hall window where she stood to admire the paintings. She’d been looking at that wall transform through her window for five years. That graffiti would be back soon, though Jude would not. Who else would they lock up under false pretenses in the name of order? Would they ever catch the real artist, or was it more convenient to let him paint?

  Back at home, Samara’s dad had an illegal glass of vodka and some interesting news. “I heard from your mother today.”

  Samara dropped her heavy bag to the floor but felt no relief in her shoulder. “How is she?”

  One corner of his mouth rose. “She’s fine. She’s got a tan.”

  “So what’s wrong?”

  “Who says anything’s wrong?”

  “You can tell me.”

  Her father took a swig. “She’s very close to a place she shouldn’t be. Sometimes people run away from the city for one reason or another. No watches, no money or food or even a map to know where they’re going. Anyway, the farm she’s on is close to one of these…checkpoints, I guess you could call it. Safe houses, along the route to wherever they go.”

  Samara watched him. “How does she know?”

  “She saw a couple of people run and hide right near the blueberry bushes. And then she thinks she saw someone come get them. They went in the direction of this house that’s close to her apartment.” He shook his head. “Honestly, if they know she even saw
them, her score could get docked…”

  “Don’t worry. She’ll be home soon.” She took his almost-empty glass and turned it over in the sink. “I have a good feeling about this job.”

  Chapter Nine

  Denver didn’t quite know why she hadn’t told Bristol about their real father yet. Her relationship with her mother had turned icy, and she could certainly use an ally. And yet it wasn’t that she was angry exactly, more like appalled at the stupidity of the woman Denver had always admired for her strength and intelligence. You can’t trust anyone.

  Besides that, she needed to be strong for Bristol. Very shortly, she’d be in a new home with a new husband while Bristol would be stuck here with a woman who thought having two children with a lover was a good idea. A part of her wished she hadn’t applied for marriage at all. Bristol certainly needed her more than her mystery husband did. And even if that weren’t true, Bristol was the one she already had a responsibility to. Bristol was the one who had to give up the one thing he loved—his art—to protect himself and Mom. There were so many people in the world—not as many as before the uprising, but still millions—that you really had to conserve your kindness. You had to draw a circle around those you loved most and not give a damn about what happened to anyone outside it. Why, then, did she feel the need to expand that circle to include a husband and his family and a child of her own? Everyone except Fives were required to try, at least, for one baby. Metrics would know if they didn’t try, or if she tried to sabotage their efforts by withholding sex. She wondered, briefly, if the reason she’d applied for marriage was to elevate her own social status. She groaned and brought her wrist to her eyes. Soon, she was scrolling through her favorite shopping app, on the hunt for the perfect pair of blue heels for the wedding.

  She’d been pleased when she saw Stephen’s height—six foot one—a full five inches taller than she was. It meant she could wear heels, but also that even though she was marrying down a tier, the Office of Domestic Affairs still gave her a reasonably good assignment. Given their measurements, their child would probably inherit some height as well.

  She scrolled through the same shoe pictures a few times, and then she sighed and checked the time. Checked the weather. There was a message from Mom asking when Denver would be home today, but she didn’t reply.

  “Hey, Den?” Her coworker, Felicia, was peeking over the cubicle wall.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Wanna get an energy shot?”

  Under the desk, Denver’s feet slid into her shoes. She pushed herself away. “Sure.”

  With their arms crossed, Denver and Felicia hustled out of the chilly office. They walked outside, where Denver immediately relaxed, as if she were a puppet and someone had released her strings. The energy shot kiosk was just a short walk through the courtyard, but both girls took lazy strides, savoring the warm air and the smell of fresh-cut grass.

  “So I heard you got your letter,” Felicia said.

  Denver looked down at the paved walking path winding them around the greenery. “I did.”

  “So did I.”

  Denver looked up at Felicia, whose face was fixed on the walkway. “I thought they told you they couldn’t pair you!”

  “I guess someone got their score docked! I don’t know what happened, but I’m grateful. Anyway, my letter came yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “He’s perfect. I think. He’s in your class, Denver. He’s going to be an architect too.”

  “Maybe I know him. What’s his name?”

  “Thatcher.”

  It was a stupid question to ask. “Actually, I don’t know anyone’s names. We’re not allowed to talk in those classes.”

  “Well, he’s handsome. Here’s a picture.” Felicia held out her arm. She plopped her right elbow on the bar when they reached the kiosk and leaned toward the cashier. “Two shots, please.” She turned to Denver. “Green?”

  Denver didn’t take her eyes off her friend’s watch. “Green.”

  This Thatcher was handsome in an old-fashioned, rugged way. A Three, of course, with cool outdoorsy interests like cycling and trail running. Denver couldn’t see Felicia keeping up with him in the woods, with sweat tracks down her face and dirt on her clothes. This was just the sort of thing Denver had been hoping for in a spouse assignment—someone who could introduce her to new things, who could turn her into a new version of herself. Denver thought of her own assignment and her stomach turned.

  “Here, Den.”

  “Thanks.” She took the little green bottle, upturned it to empty the contents into her mouth, and handed it back to the cashier.

  “Well, back to work. Just an hour to go!”

  Denver scoffed. “Just an hour more of data entry. Then classes all afternoon.”

  “That’s what I meant. Is something wrong?”

  “No.” Yes. “Nothing’s wrong.” Yes, it is. I am better than you at data entry. Better at school. I have better test scores. We’re in the same tier. Yet you get a better spouse than me, a better life than me. It’s not fair.

  Felicia shivered. “Whew, I feel it now.”

  “So do I.” Denver did feel the usual surge of adrenaline that came with the energy shots, but it was different this time, too jittery. She had to get back inside before she said something she’d regret.

  Thankfully, the conversation turned away from grooms and toward wedding attire and they went back to chatting happily until they stepped back into the frigid office. Once inside her cubical again, Denver placed her hands on the keyboard, this time able to feel the blood pulsing in her fingertips. Shake it off. She projected a report next to the computer screen and typed. She read and wrote without understanding.

  As her fingers worked, her mind wandered. Back to Felicia and Thatcher and Stephen and the injustice of it all and then to the awful place minds go when they’re upset—shame.

  She was forced back to a place she’d often tried to forget. The neighborhood playground. School had been let out for a break, and on the first day of a four-day holiday, she’d been allowed to play with other kids. The sun was setting, but ten-year-old Denver had no intention of going back inside. She was nursing an impending friendship with a few other kids. She chased them around the playground, basking in this rare inclusion, feeling part of the group.

  Bristol walked to the edge of the playground. “Denver! Mom says come home!”

  Denver frowned and kept running.

  “Denver! Mom says…”

  One of the boys leered down at Bristol from the top of the slide. “Denver! Denver!” His tone was two registers above Bristol’s. “Why should she care what your mom says, anyway? You cousins or something?”

  Don’t tell them.

  “She’s my sister!”

  Denver grasped a platform with straight arms. She let her lower body go limp and dunked her head down onto her chest at the word sister.

  “Oooh!” the other boy said. “Denver, your mom had two kids?”

  “That means she did it twice!”

  Their laughter resounded from the tubes of plastic and metal. Denver’s feet found the soft ground and she marched over to Bristol.

  “Just go away! You’re embarrassing both of us.”

  “But—”

  “Go away!”

  Bristol turned and ran. It wasn’t until he was at least a block away that Denver heard applause from behind. The other kids had forgotten about humiliating Denver. They gazed down at her with admiration, loudly celebrating her cruelty.

  She didn’t remember anything else. Did she ever apologize to Bristol for that day? Was it too late to tell him she was sorry?

  Denver looked up at the screen and found that the computer had input the addresses into the zip code box. She huffed and fixed it. Then she realized it had done the same thing on all the addresses.

  This entire marriage business was just too distracting. It was all Mom’s idea, anyway, and Denver was a fool to have listened. It had been two days
since she had received her assignment and she couldn’t stand the way it was already dragging her down. The prospect of fifty years of boredom and indignity was unbearable.

  That’s it.

  She was just going to have to get out of it.

  Chapter Ten

  Jude’s favorite part of prison was school.

  He was finally the smart kid. Out in the real world, his schoolwork was challenging, and wrong answers meant punishment. Jude preferred to think over the questions, to rule out all wrong answers completely to avoid punishments, but that cost him time. His education managers couldn’t bear giving him time. They’d rather have wrong answers.

  Miss Shepherd, on the other hand, seemed thrilled by all guesses, correct or incorrect. Though she was just teaching basic phonetics, she lit up the room when someone spelled watch with an sh instead of a ch, and she prodded the boy to explain why he made that choice. But it wasn’t public shaming; it was raw curiosity.

  He got the courage to talk to her one day while she had recess duty. Jude was terrible at all the games the boys played, so he usually hung back and watched, mostly with Kopecky. On the day Kopecky had a hearing, he tiptoed closer and closer to Miss Shepherd until she said, “Hello there.”

  “Hello. I’m Jude.”

  “I know who you are, Jude Reeder. That’s a good name for you. You are a good reader.”

  “I’ve been reading for a long time.”

  “You were a Two.”

  Jude’s head jolted up. “How did you know that?”

  “I’ve seen your record.” Her words, Jude noticed, didn’t exactly match her expression; the words were glib, but her face had turned away from the other boys completely, her eyes focused in just on Jude.

  Feeling a blush begin, he turned his sights to the boys she was supposed to be watching. “I just wanted to tell you that I like the way you teach. I like how you ask us to think about why we got the wrong answer. I’ll keep doing that when I get back to my Two school. I wanted to tell you now, because I’m sure I’ll be leaving here soon.” He turned back to her, still a little unnerved to have her full attention. “I’m innocent.”