This post was inspired by a writing prompt in the Worldbuilding Community - Worldbuilding Prompt #1108 - Small acts of rebellion
Enjoy !
Image by StockSnap from Pixabay
Every rebellion starts with a spark. Every revolution begins with someone having an idea.
September 15th was just another day at the office for Joseph King.
As he pressed the button on the machine to deliver the first of the three synthetic coffees his ration allowed, he saw the gaily-coloured posted pinned to the front. "Freedom Day today !" it boasted.
Joseph snorted a laugh, muttering under his breath, "They should rename it Chuck Chuck Day, since it celebrates the anniversary of King Charles the Last being forced to abdicate."
A voice from behind his said, half-jokingly "Your sense of humour will get you in trouble one of these days, Joseph. You should know better than to say anything the Crispies might take note of."
Even Firas called them the Crispies. The much-feared Child Safety Police. Everything was child safety nowadays. After all, children were the property of the State, and it was the state's job to identify anything which might be a threat to their physical or moral safety. And by anything, they meant absolutely anything. Whatever they felt like could be called a danger to their children and the perpetrators taken off for a good dose of re-education.
But Freedom Day was also the only day when any kind of protest was allowed, however watered down it might be. The Committee knew that people needed to blow off a bit of steam occasionally. It was useful as a way to keep the pressure cooker from exploding.
It was a bit of a tradition that a protest march (with duly vetted protestors and pre-made placards, of course) would march from Mayor Square up the Strand to Fleet Street. They'd be allowed to shout slogans and wave their placards, all within the boundaries of what was permitted, of course, and would then disperse peacefully under the watchful eyes of a host of police.
Joseph was on a half day that day, like everyone at the Department of Media Affairs. It was to help people get to the tube stations before the protesters went home. He put his computer into monitoring mode and walked out of the tired old Blackhall building, leaving well before the demonstrators left Mayor Square with it's sad empty column and plinths.
With Charing Crescent tube station closed for maintenance, just as it had been for the last decade, Joseph strolled up the Strand, planning to turn left at Aldwych before crossing the bridge to Unity Station.
All the way up, every twenty yards, there was a fluorescent sign with an arrow to indicate the route the demonstrators were allowed to follow. Metal barriers lined the route. Pretty unnecessary for such an emasculated event, Joseph thought to himself. There hadn't been any trouble for years.
But then that sense of humour took over for a moment. Just a flash of insubordination. He couldn't help himself.
There was no-one else nearby. As Joseph turned right, his hand whipped out and flicked the dayglo sign around on it's lamp post, so it pointed towards the bridge rather than up towards Fleet Street. Quick enough that the ubiquitous CCTV's wouldn't have picked it up.
Crossing the bridge, he had to stop halfway over to get scanned at the checkpoint. All the bridges had them, and they were a right faff. Pointless, Joseph knew. Everyone had a wristchip which broadcast their location in real time, so the regular stop-and-scan and fixed checkpoints were only there to remind people who was in charge. It didn't take long; the queue at this time of day was just a couple of people.
Half an hour later, it was a different story. By that time, Joseph was on a train back to Surbiton, blissfully unaware of what he'd set in motion.
The head of the column of demonstrators moved up the Strand, chanting their pre-approved slogans. When they reached Aldwych, they dutifully followed the signs. The leaders either didn't question it (because questioning official things was not a great idea), or just assumed Fleet Street was temporarily closed for whatever reason.
So the whole body of humanity turned right across Unity Bridge. Then stopped at the checkpoint. The three officers on duty looked at the crowd, and naturally followed their standing instructions. Probably thought it would be hilarious.
"Right then, line up, you lot. One at a time, Wristchip scan," the sergeant called.
The other two officers started scanning chips at their usual leisurely pace, checking each person's identify one at a time in their rather archaic and slow terminals.
But behind the leaders of the crowd, pressure was building. The people at the back didn't know what was going on, or that there was a delay at the front. All they knew was that the line of Public Safety Officers who were at the back were continuing to move forward at their pre-set inexorable pace, ensuring the event ran and finished on schedule.
When the officers reached the back of the crowd, they did what they were trained to do, reaching out with batons and cattle prods to keep people moving. The demonstrators shied away from them, pushing forward. The people in front of those ones tried to press forward, but there is a point where a crowd of people can't become any more compact.
Those at the very front screamed in frustration and pain as they were pushed against the solid bars and barbed wire of the checkpoint. They turned to push back. Someone fell and was trampled. Three others, squeezed out of the mass, fell over the edge of the bridge, disappearing into the grey waters below.
The screams of panic turned to rage. The people went from approved chants to blow off some steam into pushing back against the Public Safety Officers to get the space they needed to live. Years of petty frustrations with the PSO's rose to the surface. Every little tyranny, every deliberate insult or indignity was recalled.
The officers reacted in the only way they knew. After all, they were hired for obedience, not intelligence. They struck out with batons, and were met with furious and desperate fists and feet. Curious people looked out of windows in the Strand, and saw the hated PSO's getting a pasting. Enough thought it would be an opportunity to get their own back that the risk was worth it. Or were perhaps Doles who thought that the food in the re-education camps couldn't be worse than the slop they were given anyway.
PSO Commanders called for backup. Soon enough, the air was torn by the sound of sirens and the buzzing of police drones dropping tear gas canisters and strafing the crowd with darts. Snipers started firing down from the rooftops, and the crowd armed themselves with bricks, sticks, scaffold poles, ceremonial wheelie bins and anything else that came to hand.
Police reinforcements poured in, but by then it was too late. Decades of frustration had boiled over. The angrier members of the crowd and those with some military or police training turned the PSO guns on their original owners. Others stormed onto rooftops and threw the snipers over the parapets to their deaths, using the stolen rifles to bring down drones and officers alike.
Meanwhile, Joseph wandered at a leisurely pace up Surbiton Hill, unlocked the door to his government-issued flat, made a cup of tea and turned the television on, wondering what the football score was today.
Every rebellion starts with a spark. Sometimes, it's not even deliberate.
