Liberation (I Am Margaret Book 3) (21 page)

Bane said nothing – asleep again. He’d woken up just long enough to greet Sister Krayj.

“Y’know...” considering the upsurge of delight in the media... “I think it’s time to try something...”

Title:
Safety in Numbers

Subtitle:
Let’s celebrate the first Liberation of the new year...

Loads of you have been leaving comments saying how much you wish you could help. So today I’m going to take you at your word and ask you to do something. It’s something very small, and it’s something very big too.

It’s not necessarily a very safe thing to do, so I want you all to stop and think very hard before you do it. This is definitely not something to be done lightly, casually – or because it seemed a good idea after a few drinks.

But if everyone who’s
said
they’d like to help, does, it will actually be fairly safe. In fact, the more people do it, the less risk to all involved.

So what is this tiny-big thing I’m asking of you?

On Sunday evening (3 days from when I’m posting this), light a candle and put it in your front window.

What for?

If you want a free vote on Sorting.

If you want to remember loved ones you’ve lost.

If you want an end to the oppression.

Light a candle.

If you believe there’s hope – light a candle.

If you believe you can change the world, then change it. Light a candle on Sunday night.

If only a few brave souls do this, they may pay a high price.

But if you all do it, you will be safe.

It’s called safety in numbers. And it’s the best way to change the world.

So think about it first, carefully.

Find a candle.

On Sunday night, light it.

And put it in your window.

Let’s light up the darkness with hope.

I read the post to Jon and Bane.

“Clever,” said Jon.

“Hmm?” said Bane muzzily.

“Oh, go back to sleep.” I blew him a kiss.

“I’m listening. Thinking might be another matter...”

“Margo didn’t say ‘an end to Sorting’,” explained Jon, “which sounds like sedition and would alarm the more selfish-minded as well. She called for a free vote. And she didn’t specify ‘religious’ oppression, which again, rings sedition danger bells in people’s minds. And she included all loved ones, not just loved ones lost to Sorting. So people can say they’re just lighting the candle in memory of their Great Aunt Bessie, or whatever.”

“Except they’d have to have read the blog,” said Bane. “Category One, remember?”

“Not necessarily. There’s no law against putting a candle in the window. And people will feel less frightened of doing it if the pool of reasons is nice and broad and not too overtly seditious. Even if the sedition is one hundred percent understood by absolutely everyone. It’s bold, but it’s getting people to actually
do
something, and that’s priceless.”

“Umm,” agreed Bane. Sleepily. “If enough people do it they’ll be safe. The EuroGov can’t arrest them all. They’ll have to content themselves with black marks, if that.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Trust me, I’m not trying to get a load of people killed.”

Pope Cornelius whole-heartedly endorsed the posting and joined me in praying a sufficient number of people would take hold of their nerve and light candles. I spent an anxious few days. My blog post on the Friday was about the bloc-wide candle-lighting that was (hopefully) to come. On the Saturday I posted another instalment of ‘The Three Most Wanted’ – I’d got to the part where François agreed to help us – appropriate.

“The conclusion of that unhappy incident wouldn’t be quite so encouraging,” said Jon grimly, after I’d clicked ‘post’.

“Well, I’m not manipulating it. That was just the next bit.”

“Hmm?” Bane started awake in his armchair. “I think I missed some of it...”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be up.”

“I’m
fine
!” He noticed the teasing in my eyes. “Oh, very funny. I’m quite capable of sitting in a chair now.”

“You’re certainly quite capable of
sleeping
in a chair,” smirked Jon. “You just missed a dramatic instalment.”

“Come on, Margo, you’ll read it again, won’t you?”

“Yes, but we do need to talk about wedding dates and you’ve no planning meeting today...”

Bane dismissed the dramatic instalment with a flap of his hand.

“I can read it myself later. Let’s talk about dates. Do you... er... need your chart thing?”

“I’ll leave you to it...” Jon popped to his feet like a jack-in-a-box.

He moved fast, but before he could reach the door there was a knock and Eduardo looked in.

“Margaret? Ah, you are here.”

He came all the way in and Kyle followed, an expression of unease, if not outright dread, on his face. The teams were only doing one mission a week – December’s pace had been quite unsustainable.

“Eduardo?” My voice tried to flutter in time with my stomach. What was it?

“As Jonathan likes to point out, it’s almost certainly all lies. But...” Eduardo’s eyes ascertained the presence of Bane and Jon, and showing something too like relief, returned to me. “We have another package for you.”

More seeds... be so nice if it were just more seeds
... My little seedling had survived against all the odds, and was flourishing under my clumsy ministrations...

“Margaret?”

Wasn’t going to be seeds.

“Yes...” I accepted the package from Eduardo... as soon as my hands closed around it, felt the shape, I knew. I stumbled backwards and dropped into a chair, the parcel falling to the ground, where it lay like an unexploded bomb. I shoved my fingers in my mouth and bit them, shaking and choking back hysteria.

“Please, please, please, please...” I was whispering. Please what? Please don’t let it be?

It
was
.

The only question was
who
...

***+***

19

SILVER DOVES AND CANDLES

Bane lurched out of his chair and crossed the room with unsteady speed. Crouched awkwardly beside me, hissing under his breath.

“Margo?” He picked up the parcel.

“Seeds. I want it to be seeds...” Was I saying that out loud?

“I know.” His face was suddenly grim. “Me too. Seeds would be good. Do you... want me to open it?”

I reached out and took it from him, tried to work a shaking finger under the flap. It came loose – been opened already, of course – I reached in and drew out a small, square box. A compliments slip came out with it. I fumbled it written side up.

EuroGov

EuroHouse, Brussels

Dear Margaret (that’s what everyone writes, isn’t it?),

Since you may wish to reconsider your final answer, I thought we’d better give you evidence of our ‘good faith’ as I believe they call it. You still have until the 31st. Then you will have a matching set. I believe some people use them as paperweights.

I will leave you to guess which one of your parents is in the box.

With Compliments,

Reginald Hill

Reginald Hill (Minister for Internal Affairs)

“What is it?” asked Jon, in a low voice.

“A brain box,” said Bane. The common slang. A pretty sick joke.

“Any
proof
?”

Bane twisted his head to read the note.

“No. Just the box of ash. Assuming there’s ash in it.”

“You can’t DNA test ash,” said Kyle thinly. He should know.

“So nothing’s changed,” said Eduardo. “It could be absolutely anyone’s ash in there. I think I would now stake my last coin on this being just a bluff. A twisted, calculated psychological attack.”

“Are you just saying that?” I whispered.

“No, Margaret, I’m not. They want you silenced, right? I think just now they must want it more than anything else, maybe even more than ending the Liberations. And they must have figured out by now you’re not stupid – their own Sorting results can tell them that. Yet they neglect to include any form of proof that they actually have your parents? I agree with Jonathan. They haven’t got them. That or Mr Reginald Hill is the stupidest man alive.”

That face leaning over me, cajoling, threatening, reasoning... I shuddered.

“Oh, he’s not stupid.”

“Ah yes, you’ve met him, haven’t you. Well, I agree. Reginald Hill is not a stupid man. Which means he’s making do with what he’s got. Which clearly isn’t much.”

“Why don’t they fake something?” asked Kyle.

“No false modesty, my guys are pretty good – and a photograph revealed to be a fake is proof they
haven’t
got them, whereas no proof is proof of nothing either way.”

“I s’pose.”

I cupped the box in my hands. Whose remains were inside? An orphan reAssignee? A criminal? Underground? Resistance? I held a death in my hands, but it probably didn’t belong to Mum or Dad... I had to
assume
it didn’t until such a time as I received any proof to the contrary.

Otherwise I was letting the EuroGov win.

The Gozitan sacristan found a place for the little box in the Cathedral’s crypt and Brother Marcel took pictures as we laid it to rest there in a brief but respectful ceremony. Eduardo carefully chose shots which wouldn’t jeopardise our location and passed them on to me for my blog. See if I couldn’t use their own attack against them.

Bane and I finally managed to set the wedding date – for two weeks’ time – I felt giddy just thinking about it. If only my parents could be there but... No, the less I thought about my parents just at the moment, the better...

“Margaret? Margaret?”

A laywoman was hurrying after me across the hall. I stopped to wait for her and Jon waited with me.

“Hi... um, Jolita?”

“That’s me.”

“You run the clothes store.”

“Yes, among other things. You’re getting married in two weeks, aren’t you?”

A rather silly grin spread across my face.

“Yes, I am.” I managed to adopt a slightly saner expression. “I need to pay you a visit and find some wedding clothes.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. We’ve just had a fresh shipment. I thought you and Bane might like to have first pick.”

“Oh, that’s so nice of you. Bane’s sort of up and about now, he could probably make it to the store. Will you help him, Jon?”

“Of course. I’m best man, anyway, I need something a bit smarter myself.”

“Okay. But I’ll round up my bridesmaids and have a look first – then Bane won’t see what I pick.”

“Are you going to come now?” asked Jolita. “I can open up.”

“I’ll grab a really quick lunch and be straight up there, if that’s okay. Assuming the other two aren’t doing anything...”

“That’s fine. Just give me a ring if you can’t come now, extension forty-nine.”

“Okay, hopefully see you in a minute.”

I hurried into the canteen, heart pounding with excitement. I’d known I was getting married in two weeks, but... choosing wedding clothes... suddenly it all felt much more real.

“Do you mind if I go and talk clothes with my bridesmaids, Jon?” I asked, once we had full plates.

“Can’t I talk clothes?” teased Jon.

“No, you might tell Bane.”

“Okay. I know when I’m not wanted.” He cocked his head, listening, then began to thread his way between the tables, tray balanced on one hand and stick waving in front of him. Following the sound of Alligator’s voice.

I made my way over to where Sister Krayj already sat with Sister Mari. What with the imbalance caused by all the extra guards, women were in a minority on the island and young –
younger
– women were in particularly short supply. The three of us were pretty much the only females under the age of thirty – I was the only one under twenty. Okay, a couple of under-thirties had arrived with the latest batch of recruits for the Liberation teams, but I hardly knew them.

“So, my bridesmaids,” I said to them, “are you up for a little clothes shopping?”

Sister Krayj cocked an eyebrow and looked amused.

“Been a while since I shopped for anything but veils.”

“Well, what about before that?”

“All incogniCam – y’know, normal stuff in the sort of colours that it’s almost as effective as cam without being cam.”

“You never bought anything else?”

“Hmm, knives. Rocket launchers. That sort of thing. Bought might be the wrong word.”

I sighed.

“Oh well. What about you, Sister Mari?”

“Oh, I used to wear nice clothes. Really bright, big patterns – those turban head dresses – don’t know the Latin word for them. Lovely. Probably not quite what you’ve got in mind, though.”

From pictures of the dazzling African clothing – bright was the word.

“It is lovely, but... probably not quite the thing. It’ll depend on what they’ve got in the store, anyway. Jolita’s giving me and Bane first pick at the new shipment that’s just come in. Are you free to nip straight up there after lunch and take a look?”

Sister Krayj checked her watch.

“I’ve got two hours, then I’m sweating the teams around the assault course.” The assault course – heavily disguised – was her innovation to the training. She kept beating all the big strong guys – she was driving them up the wall. Metaphorically as well as literally.

“I can leave the rest of the team at it for a few hours,” said Sister Mari. “Though the comments are hotting up a bit – it’s going to be mayhem on Sunday, I reckon.”

“I think it could be big, though,” said Sister Krayj.

“Yeah. I
hope
so...” I said. “But whatever happens on Sunday, we’ve a long way to go yet.”

Sister Krayj shrugged.

“It’s all progress. We need to keep it rolling. If we can remain undiscovered for at least another few months...”

A shiver went down my spine, as it always did at the thought of our hideaway being discovered by the EuroGov. Eduardo had all sorts of evacuation plans, but their effectiveness depended entirely on how much warning we got.

I swallowed, hard, and started shovelling down my lunch. Wasn’t thinking about
that
, either.

“Wow, this is African, isn’t it?” I said to Sister Mari half an hour later, holding up a dress decorated with bold orange and red patterns.

“Yes, but it won’t suit you. Your skin’s too pale, you’d disappear.”

“You said you wanted something a bit more classic, anyway,” said Sister Krayj. “And bear in mind it’ll be your Sunday best until it wears out.”

“Yeah, I know, I wasn’t actually going to try it, it’s just cheerful to look at. I think I’m going to check the skirts and blouses, none of these dresses grab me.”

Better luck here... I noted a particularly nice long-sleeved fitted blouse in blue cotton, then found a long, full skirt in a slightly darker, but sufficiently complementary blue. I tried them on together and with the blouse tucked into the elaborate waistband – a very dress-like look to it.

“That’s really beautiful, actually,” said Sister Krayj. “In a sort of neat, discrete way, but that’s the best way, isn’t it?”

I turned from side to side in front of the mirror. I certainly did like it. And with the fitted blouse untucked it wouldn’t look OTT on Sundays...

“I need to go in about ten minutes,” warned Sister Krayj. “I need to get changed before I take those guards for their exercise.” She was swapping her grey habit and simple veil for fatigues and a camo bandanna several times a day at the moment.

“Before you run
rings
around
them, you mean,” I laughed. “I’m not doing too badly, anyway. Let’s see... I know it’s just a silly rhyme, but it’s traditional, so... something old... well the blouse is what they’d call vintage, isn’t it? Something new... um, the skirt’s not what I’d call
new
, more like,
average age
...”

“Here,” Sister Mari picked up a roll of diaphanous blue ribbon. “Brand new, we can use a piece somewhere, I’m sure.”

“Okay, so something borrowed... don’t know. Something blue, that can be the skirt. Something borrowed, then... hmm.” I glanced around. “Something for my hair, maybe?”

“What’s that?” Jolita rose from the centre of a ring of boxes at the back of the room, in which she’d been delving. “Worrying about your hair?”

Opening a cupboard, she came out with a tissue-wrapped package, took out a pair of delicate silver doves and held them up facing each other. Their wings swooped back, as though they rushed joyously towards one another, and each carried a ring in its little clawed feet!

“These are always the
something borrowed
for Vatican brides.” She fastened them to my hair at the back of my head. “I thought we might be needing them so I brought them along – it’s been the tradition ever since weddings became common in the state. What do you think?” She turned me back towards the main mirror and passed me a handheld mirror so I could see myself from behind.

My heart leapt up into my throat and stuck there. Somehow the doves really completed the outfit. Now I looked like a bride. It was really happening. Finally. I was marrying Bane in two weeks. Tears of joy ambushed me and I fought to hold them back.

“It’s perfect.” My voice was only a little choked.

“A garland of flowers and some of the blue ribbon falling at the back would be just right,” suggested Sister Mari.

“That would be the finishing touch! We can make the bouquet to match.”

“What sort of flowers do you want? Not many on this island but I think there might be some wild fuschias in the garden.”

“Fuschias?” My heart dropped.

“You like them, don’t you?” Sister Mari looked surprised. “Haven’t you got one in your room?”

My little plant was apparently now identifiable by its dark-veined leaves to those who knew about such things. Unlike Sister Mari, Sister Krayj knew where it had come from.

“Fuschias might be a bit delicate, don’t you think?”

Sister Mari looked disappointed.

“Oh... I suppose so. I’m sure someone told me there was a variety called ‘Margaret’, that’s all.”

“Perhaps... something more traditional?” I suggested. “Blue and white roses? Though I’m not sure where we’d get them...”

“I’m sure Eduardo might be persuaded to obtain them with suitable discretion,” said Sister Krayj. “Okay, I’ve really got to go now. You look lovely, Margo. I’ll leave you to find some shoes...”

She skedaddled. I stuck a foot from under the skirt, eyed my stout walking boots and cursed softly. Not finished yet.

On Sunday morning I was glad I’d stayed up the night before and finished the post about receiving the brain box, difficult though it’d been. All I had to do was hit ‘post’. I was so nervous I couldn’t have written a thing. What if I’d overestimated the depths of people’s feelings? Underestimated their fear? Had I simply doomed a small number of the bloc’s bravest people to death?