Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive. (6 page)

I shake my head. “You know that sometimes a weakness doesn’t show itself till later, and sometimes there are no symptoms at all.”

He stops and turns to face me. “I know that’s happened once, Dia, but it’s very rare. The doctors almost always get it right. Bethany is fine; she’s not going to die. She’s strong.”

“She’s strong,” I murmur. “I hope so.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder and smiles down at me. “Why don’t you come over and meet her this afternoon?”

“I’d better not,” I say. “You don’t want me near just in case…”

“You know I don’t believe that rubbish about you being dangerous to babies. And nor does Chloe,” he says sharply.

“Well, still. Just in case.” I never go near newborns if I can help it. But this is different, this is Chloe’s baby; Bastian’s niece. I want to meet her, I’m just scared.

“It’s alright,” he says gently. “It’s safe to love her. She’s not going to die.”

I swallow and realise that he’s seen through my reluctance correctly. When a baby is marked as ill or weak, it serves as warning for others not to get too close - both physically and emotionally. There is the minute risk of contamination from a sick child, although extremely unlikely as the rest of the population have already proven their resilience. The emotional risk is more subtle. The cross reminds a family not to become too attached. The next sunset will come all too quickly.

If the baby does survive, the mark has implications as s
he grows up, as I know so well. As a very active child, the first law that I became aware of was that there was no medical attention available to me. Grandad gave up trying to keep me out of situations that could result in injury and so over time we both became very thankful for his healing skills and herbal remedies.

“You’d think a baby would have proven that it’s strong by recovering from the newborn illnesses!” I say in frustration. “Why is a marked child not celebrated as a survivor, rather than outcast as a weakling?”

Bastian considers my outburst thoughtfully for a moment. “I suppose it has its roots in history. The Polis wanted to make sure that our limited resources were being used on raising the strong rather than the weak, but there is more to it than that. The ancients had let all babies live – even the weak ones. In a time of such prosperity, physical weakness and anomalies were never discouraged. Children with weaknesses such as allergies grew to fragile adults with susceptibility to diseases, and they passed them on. Each generation was weaker and less physically able than the last. All relied on medical intervention for survival. Essentially, our species was weakening.”

I’ve stopped and am staring at him. Bastian isn’t one for long speeches, but aside from that, he sounds like he’s swallowed a text book. A Polis text book.

“So what you’re saying is…” I start slowly, wondering if he’s really saying what I think he’s saying.

“That the Polis has the long game in mind. They are working to strengthen our species.” He’s nodding now, pleased that I seem to have caught on to his point.

I can only accept so much Polis adoration in one session. “It’s for the good of the species then?” He sounds like he’s talking about breeding horses.

“Yes, every generation we’re getting stronger rather than weaker. The ancients had it the wrong way round.” He catches sight of my Mark, which I am holding out to him, and sees the look in my eye. He stops.

“Should I take my own life now then? For the good of the species?” I say quietly, never taking my eyes off his face.

He has the grace to look abashed, and his face is reddening. For a moment, he seemed to have honestly forgotten. “They don’t expect anything of us that they don’t do to themselves you know,” he musters, by way of defence. “Their infants are tested for a whole load of other things that don’t show up without the right equipment out here in the hub. Their babies have to pass with better scores. Plus, their military training is way worse, and all of them have to go through it.”

“They’re regular saints,” I say. I can’t hide my anger. This is the first time we have ever argued over anything so important, and it feels wrong.

“You have this idea about the Polis, Arcadia, that they are the bad guys. They’re not that bad, you know. You have to look at things from their side once in a while.”
We’ve stopped outside the pod, both unwilling to take our raised voices inside.

“What you’re saying is that they have our best interests at heart, right?” I spit the words out at him.

He tries to catch my elbow but I twist my arm away. “What I’m saying is that they’re looking at the bigger picture and that they have to make some difficult -”

We both notice at the same time that there are people around, all moving quickly in the same direction; towards the square. Argument forgotten for the moment, we both look at each other, then start with a united purpose in the same direction. We are nearly there when I hear the sharp snap of a whiplash. My blood runs cold with dread.

Chapter Six

The first thing I see is the enormous marquee, half assembled, like a huge white beast with its innards ripped out. In front of the marquee, and all around the cobblestone square, hubbites gather.

A teenaged boy is in the centre of the square, flanked by two Polis soldiers. He is stripped to the waist and the pink marks of the first two lashes can be seen clearly across his back.

The Polisborn who coolly wields the whip is not one I have seen before; the commanding officer at the garrison must have been rotated. He pauses between blows.

The conversation with Bastian has not left my mind. I sense a shift in Bastian’s ideals. His support of their long view of healthcare makes me feel decidedly uncomfortable, and I can’t help but wonder whether my friend is slowly and methodically being brainwashed. With growing alarm, my attention shifts from the Polisborn officer and the youth in the centre of the square to the crowd of hubbites around me. I feel that my eyes are opened and for the first time I can observe my people as though from the outside.

They are silent. Many of the watchers grasp a neighbour’s arm, reaching for unspoken support and in the flow of touch from one to the next, I see a kind of unity. The expressions on the faces around me do not reflect horror or shock. They have seen this too many times to feel distress. They are conditioned not to react. They don’t condone it, but they cannot look away, as the next lash falls. In the silence from the crowd, I feel a powerlessness, but also a kind of acceptance. This dance of power and submission is familiar to them, and they gain a strange kind of comfort from it.

Bastian’s words return to me, along with the feeling of creeping alarm. When did we start to rely on their oppression? When did we start to accept it as a fair trade?

“What happened?” I whisper to a woman near me.

“A Firstborn. He hid.” Her answer is curt, but I get the picture. Instead of going to the garrison to report for transport to the Polis, the soldiers had to go and find him. It happens from time to time. The punishment is ten lashes, delivered publicly. The marks are given to sting, although not to break the skin and ideally they will not scar. The intention is that the youth remembers the public shaming, and of course fewer youths will consider hiding as a result.

The officer has delivered the last of the ten lashes, but he doesn’t stop. There is a murmuring through the crowd as soon as the extra mark falls. This is unfamiliar, unexpected. We had all been counting unconsciously. A second extra blow, and the boy’s cries are audibly growing. He’s expected to endure his punishment in silence, but the extra lashes push him over the edge.

Bastian is standing next to me, a uniformed tower. “Do something!” I implore.

He hesitates, but seeing my distress, he pushes tentatively through the crowd. He calls out and approaches the soldiers slowly, the green and black of his uniform a stark contrast to the grey and black of theirs. He is well outranked here.

“With all due respect, Sir -” he begins.

“Stand down, Soldier,” comes the cool response. “This is none of your business.”

“Sir, the boy has –“

“Are you deaf, yarco? I said,
stand down
.” Another pink line begins to blend with the others, and the youth is audibly sobbing now. The officer places his hand on the holster at his hip that holds his dazer, watching Bastian meaningfully.

Bastian backs away, but another figure separates from the crowd and moves towards the soldiers. It’s Grandad. His voice is calm and quiet, but carries to all of us. He is asking the officer to show leniency. The boy is only young and makes mistakes, he has learned his lesson.

The officer has frozen. He appraises the old man standing in the square.

I see the Polisborn holding the boy drop his arms, and he collapses to the pavement, broken, sobbing. They turn their attention to Grandad.

I am pushing my way through the crowd, yelling and shoving with my elbows and shoulders, but as I burst from the crowd I can see that Grandad is down, the soldiers both kicking him.

I bend over Grandad and am vaguely aware that the grey and black soldiers are moving away, the crowd dispersing with them. Auntie Marama is next to me by Grandad’s side. He is lying motionless in the foetal position, blood dribbling from the side of his mouth to the wet cobbles.

I’m shaking all over and I can’t do anything to stop it. I can feel that my cheeks are wet. There is a stone in my stomach. My throat is being squeezed shut. I can hear a strange noise and I realise that it is coming from me; I’m trying to draw in breaths. My hands are flitting over him, I want to do something but I can’t seem to control them.

“He’ll be okay,” she repeats. Her voice has been trying to reach me. “We’ll get him home, he’ll be alright.” She is talking to me, trying to calm me. Bastian is there too, and he gently rolls Grandad over. He lifts the old man’s small frame easily in his arms, his head against his chest.

Grandad’s eyes remain closed.

Chapter Seven

Bastian carries Grandad home to our pod with Auntie Marama and me close behind. The door opens to my passkey and he carries Grandad’s limp form to the back room. Auntie Marama is calm, taking his pulse and making him comfortable, but I’m a mess. I can’t do anything but stand and stare at Grandad, lying unmoving on his mattress. She sends me to heat water on the induction pad and get together some towels and cloths.

Bastian has gone for the local doctor, and it’s not long before they return. When he finds that the injuries are a result of a Polis beating though, the doctor is reluctant to get involved.

My anger flares. “If he was Firstborn it would be different. My grandfather is hurt! You’re a doctor, and he needs your help – so, help!”

He rounds on me. “Listen here, young lady. I have a family too and helping your granddad is not worth their safety.”

Bastian calms me while Auntie Marama pleads with him. “Please, Doctor… Matthias may not be Firstborn, but he is a good man. He was hurt protecting a young one. Just tell us what can be done.”

Pausing at the door, he relents and eyes me warily. “Alright – I’ll look him over. He helped my wife last summer with aphid problems. But I can’t administer anything.”

He moves into the back room and spends some time with Grandad. Finally when he emerges, he tells us that it’s not good news.

“He has sustained many injuries. His unconsciousness is due to concussion, but he has suffered severe trauma to his abdomen and there is evidence of internal bleeding; possibly due to a ruptured spleen. There is nothing I can do, even if he were able to be moved.”

There is a fearful stillness in the room, while we process this. Auntie Marama asks, “His wounds are fatal?”

“He will die. All you can do is try to make him comfortable, although he may not regain consciousness. I’m sorry for your loss.”

He takes his leave and the door closes behind him.

I enter Grandad’s room and sit near the head of his bed. The emptiness I feel inside is stopping me from processing any thoughts properly. The idea of losing Grandad is inconceivable. I just can’t imagine my life without him in it.

I watch his face, but there is no flicker of movement, no fluttering eyelids or mumbled words. I smooth down the hair away from his forehead and gently stroke his cheek. This man is… my whole world. He’s all the family I have. He’s been my rock and my teacher and my compass. The only reason I’m even half acceptable to the rest of the town is because of Grandad. He’s well respected and many people come to him for advice. Some also come for plant extracts and remedies which are unavailable anywhere else; but not everyone knows about that.

Medicines are distributed according to status, which means that Firstborn have access to painkillers, antibiotics and other life-saving drugs, plus they get medical attention for accidents such as broken bones. Some lesser drugs are available to regular hubbites, but an Unworthy will not be seen at all. This is why Grandad’s skills and knowledge of plants and natural remedies are so important to us
and also to many of the locals.

I must have been sitting like this for a long while, because Bastian is in the doorway and when I get up my muscles are stiff and sore. I join him in the main room and see that his mother has gone. The curved glass of the pod is now black with nightfall.