“The voices of the oppressed will drown…”

His voice trailed off. He needed something catchy. Memorable. Shoutable.

He sighed as he clicked off the recording switch and leaned back into his creaky leather chair. He stroked the microphone and traced the shards of amber embedded in the metal casing. The Ancients called the golden resin elektron, from which the word ‘electricity’ apparently comes. Or so he read in a book once, before it was burned upon his father’s body – his punishment for owning banned knowledge. His mother’s cries haunt his dreams to this day.

He looked at the old ring encased in amber at the base of the microphone. At the carved symbols: a book, a crown, and a sword. It came from an ancient place of learning, a ‘university’ apparently, he’d learnt from a different book, a book that was strapped to his mother’s thrashing body as she was sunk to the bottom of the river.

He flinched at the grating sound of a drone flying overhead between the claps of thunder. But they couldn’t find him here. Not yet.

“The oppressed…tyranny…the truth will be heard…” he murmured, searching for the words.

He scratched his scruffy beard and coughed. The sound was harsh. His voice was strained from his work. The voice of opposition against the propagandised bullshit that had brainwashed everyone.

Well, not everyone.

His listenership was growing. He saw the signs of resistance.

A book, crown, and sword were painted on the Knowledge Bureau’s wall last month. Replaced the following day by the hanging body of the artist. The body was paraded through the streets, hanging from a drone. Someone had thrown a brick at it, forcing it to the ground. A riot almost broke out, but the police – hidden behind masks and thick armour – put that to bed in the usual manner. Six bodies were paraded the following day. Of course, there was nothing in the news about it. But people across the city heard of it.

Because of him and his podcast.

It won’t be long, he thought, before his body was paraded. But by then his would be lost in a crowd. Or at least he hoped. He had to hope.

“Tyranny whimpers when truth shouts.”

He chuckled. That was it.

**

The words trembled in her mind, electrifying her, distracting her from what she was supposed to be teaching. Dangerous words from that podcast, The Letter, Laurel, and Longsword.

“Tyranny whimpers when truth shouts,” she whispered to herself.

“What was that, Miss?” a young voice asked.

“Nothing,” she sighed. “Turn to page…”

Murmurs.

“No.”

She thumped the textbook to the desk, sick of teaching about the ‘Glorious Liberator’ – the ‘Deranged Dictator’ she thought more apt.

She marched into the drizzling rain and collected what materials she could find, all state-branded. She pulled them together and created (oh what a wonderful word) items which she placed in the hands and upon the head of the gaudy statue in the park: a book, a crown, and a sword. Long-suppressed skill brought her sculpture – and her – to life. Finally.

A crowd gathered in shock. Some booed at first, but then others joined, linking arms to create a barricade around her.

Deranged laughter filled her lungs as the heavy steps of police fell upon her barricade like a tsunami.

**

A note was passed across his desk as he struggled to pay attention.

“Tyranny whimpers when truth shouts” was scrawled on it in barely legible adolescent scratchings.

It scared him, but a fire burned inside. He looked out the window. He could see the statue still being cleaned as they struggled to remove the crown.

His favourite teacher had been taken.

“Ahem,” the replacement teacher coughed, pointing to the door.

He nodded.

He got up to leave but hesitated at the door, thinking about the teacher who had been dragged away. He turned around.

“No.”

He mustered as much bravery as he could. His voice didn’t waver.

“We don’t need to listen to you anymore.”

He picked up a chair and threw it at the window, disappearing in a cloud of glass.

He climbed out and was relieved when others followed.

“Truth shouts!” he screamed.

“Tyranny whimpers!” others responded.

Windows smashed and students marched down the street. The clouds parted and a beam of sunlight caressed a shard of amber. He picked it up. It gave him warmth. He felt electrified as the murmur of voices behind him grew to a roar. The voices rose above the shrieking hum of drones that swooped in.

At least at first.

**

She held her daddy’s hand as they walked through what used to be a park. The playground had been removed last year. That in itself was worth a riot, she thought.

She looked up at the three bodies hanging from the single remaining tree.

“The podcaster, the teacher, and the student,” her daddy said. There were tears on his face. He held a sign that she helped paint. On it was a book, a crown, and a sword. A shard of amber hung around his neck.

She smiled at him and he smiled back. She hated seeing him so sad. Which was most of the time these days now. But this time was different. It was hard.

She reached up to her mummy’s hand, who grasped it. She squeezed both, and they both squeezed back. The sun was warm on their backs.

“Tyranny whimpers!” Mummy shouted.

“Truth SHOUTS!” The deafening roar behind her made her jump. But she made sure she added to the noise. Whatever she possibly could.

They stepped onto the marbled steps that led to the big doors of the Knowledge Bureau. Police lined the stairs, but they stepped cautiously backward up the steps.

One dropped a gun and ran, leaping over the side.

They were winning, she thought happily. She was so giddy she could start skipping. But she didn’t. She squeezed her parents’ warm hands as they climbed, and made her face angry.

Very angry.