Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive.

by Joanne Armstrong

  Unworthy

  By Joanne Armstrong

  Copyright 2014 Joanne Armstrong

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  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Acknowledgements

  I have received a lot of support from some very helpful people while I’ve been writing. Many of them have had to cope with the frustration of reading a book in tiny installments, and have been plagued with the kind of questions no reader should have to consider when enjoying a book. I am indebted to you all!

  For pretending it’s normal when I talk about characters as though they are real people, for having only one topic of conversation for months, for putting up with my semi-glazed expression… for your encouragement, positivity and editing skills, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

  David, Julie, Heather, Suzanne, Suzanne, Sarah, Isellah, Anna, and Tony.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  About Joanne Armstrong

  Connect With Joanne Armstrong

  Prologue

  It is not unheard of to receive a summons to the General’s office, but it is unusual. Alex loops the brush back onto its peg and leaves the stables, crossing the training yard near the climbing wall. Shouts of encouragement mixed in equal parts with insults reach him on the damp spring air. At the far end, a group of new arrivals, boys and girls, stands at attention near the flagpole, chest out, chins up. They’re taking a dressing down from their fifteen-year-old drill sergeant. Alex’s gaze lingers on them for a moment. He’s been in her shoes. I can spot a quivering lip from twenty metres, he thinks. And there are far too many in this bunch.

  Mandatory military membership. The Polis takes them all. Our greatest strength and our greatest weakness, he sighs, then bites the thought back. Opinions like that will have me up before the Council. He buries it along with many others.

  They will get better. His own basic training feels like a lifetime ago, but in reality it’s been only six years. Back then, he was a thirteen-year-old raw recruit, arriving at the barracks with his schoolmates to continue his education. They had imagined that the academy could not possibly be as bad as school had been, but they’d been wrong. It was far worse.

  Alex leans in for the retinal scan at the administration block and the door slides back. “Captain Alexander Hayes, Polisborn,” an automated female voice announces smoothly. He makes his way to General Graham’s office, and reports to his clerk. He prepares himself for a lengthy wait, but to his surprise he is shown in immediately. The clerk leaves, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  Face to face, the General is as awe-inspiring as his reputation. At Alex’s age, a year after graduation, he had already earned his first three stripes. His experience in the field, his success both in quelling trouble and in running peaceful sectors, and the fact that he did it all well in advance of other officers his age; all this is common knowledge amongst the Polisborn. He is a well-known and respected military figure, used time and again by instructors as an example of the perfect Polis soldier. He is a man to be feared and a man to be emulated.

  Alex has rarely been in his presence alone and the feeling is overwhelming. This man has signed his name to more executions than Alex has watched, masterminded tactical manoeuvres to bring peace to warring sectors, and earned his position and reputation with decades of loyal service to the Polis.

  As the silence in the room lengthens, the summoned Captain begins to feel more awkward. The General sits at his desk, studying a letter. It appears to be brief, only a few lines, but he reads it time and again. Alex’s eyes roam to a shelf where the room’s only decoration sits: an antique timepiece, ticking audibly. It is very much out of place. The thought occurs to him that it must be a hundred years old, judging by its overly decorative shape. Such frivolous items have not been made since the twenty-first century.

  “Captain Hayes.”

  “General Graham, Sir.”

  “I appreciate your punctuality. Would you care to sit?”

  “No, sir.” Is he testing me? The seat which was offered is made of heavy wood, straight and square. It is hardly ever used. The younger man remains standing.

  “I have orders for you.” He hesitates before continuing, and Alex’s curiosity fires up. Orders, verbally delivered by the General? A tingle begins at the base of his spine and works its way up his back. He has a million questions, none of which he voices.

  “Yes, Sir,” he says. Chin up, eyes front.

  “What passes between us in this room is to be kept strictly confidential. There is no file. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Understood? Not one bit.

  “You are to find a civilian in Sector 4 and bring her here to me, in the Polis. You will do this alone and without the knowledge of your unit or your CO. You will leave no trail.”

  The tingling is now raising hairs on the back of his neck but he replies, “I can take an ATV and be back tonight, Sir.”

  “No checkpoints. You’ll be riding.”

  The soldier’s eyes flick down to the General’s for the first time. He openly stares at him, uncomprehending. “No checkpoints… Sir?”

  His gaze is returned and it feels like a challenge, his eyes cold and steady. “You heard me, Captain. Once you check out through the main gate, official records will show that you returned here to HQ and are detained on the medical ward after a fall. If you are discovered in the field you will be court martialled for desertion.”

  The General lets this sink in, never taking his eyes from the young officer’s face. The ticking from the mantelpiece clock seems to get louder.

  From the little the General has shared, Alex does know this: the likelihood of success is miniscule. Polisborn soldiers are highly trained, and Polis checkpoints are the reason that the city has not seen strife in three generations. Getting through them, getting round them, is next to impossible. He knows because it’s part of his job to make them so.

  However, even with that said, there is no question of refusing the assignment. There never was. He knows full well that officially he has no right to decline, even though, officially, the assignment doesn’t even exist. When he finally speaks, the question appears to be one the General expected.

  The words come out more quietly than intended. “Why me?” Why haven’t you chosen someone else for this honour… t
he honour to serve you as best I can and most likely die a coward‘s death?

  “I thought that would be obvious. We need to keep this in the family.”

  Chapter One

  My heart thuds in my chest. Familiar as this vigil is, the adrenaline which floods my system is always the first sign that something is near. My senses on high alert, I wait, hardly breathing, absolutely still. There it is, the musky scent of dog. Slowly, very slowly, I lift the blowpipe towards my lips. There’s never a second chance.

  The faint crunch of leaves focusses my attention. The pipe is half-way to my lips when the beast comes into view, standing at the edge of the moonlit clearing. At the limits of my peripheral vision, I see it halt, sniffing the frigid air. For a moment I doubt the effectiveness of my camouflage. My hands pause, the blowpipe suspended. Has it smelled me? The uncertainty is fleeting. I’m reassured by the countless nights spent in this same spot; watching, waiting. Undetected.

  The baby’s thin wail pierces the night-time stillness again and the dog’s attention is immediately on the bundle in the clearing, ears pricked forward and alert. It stalks into the moonlight.

  The creature that reveals itself has a low-slung head and flat muzzle. Its shoulders form an ugly hump as it noses its way towards my tiny newborn charge. The sickly smell of death reaches me across the stillness.

  I’ve seen this one before. A loner which hunts on its own. Mangy coat and visible ribs, it hangs around the outskirts of the hub, waiting for a chance to feed.

  Not tonight.

  I aim the blowpipe carefully. The ache in my legs forgotten hours ago, I will my heart to quieten, inhaling deeply and noiselessly. As the dog pauses on the edge of the circle of stones, I send the dart away in one powerful puff.

  It yelps at the sting on its rump and turns, snarling, lips pulled back to reveal a row of jagged teeth. Yellowed eyes search the shadows, nostrils flaring for a scented clue. Neither eyes nor nose register my presence. The beast goes rigid, and falls onto the ground, a thin whine escaping its constricting throat.

  I gently lower the blowpipe to my lap, stand slowly and stretch, allowing blood to flow back into my legs. The sky will begin to lighten in another half hour, and I have a lot to do before then. I tuck the pipe into my belt and snap the clasp on the pouch next to it.

  I look all around me, sensing the forest with my whole body before leaving the shadow of the old oak which has provided my support through the night. Finally satisfied that I am alone, I step into the clearing and approach the two shapes in the moonlight.

  The dog lies on its side, just outside a ring of stones two metres in width. Its tongue hangs out and its eyes don’t blink. It’s not dead, simply paralysed.

  Inside the ring of stones is sand. Concentric circles woven hours ago at sunset trace smaller and smaller shapes into the centre, where a bundle rests, rejected by the town which lies less than a kilometre away. I hover for a moment on the edge of the sand, wishing for the hundredth time that I could enter it. I can hear small whimpers coming from the child. Only half an hour to go till dawn. I send a silent message of strength to her, as though she could live just by my willing it. Most don’t make it through the night. This one has done so well. She must be strong; stronger than they thought. Strong enough to survive.

  Night after night I have sat out here, watching over the bundles in the centre of the stones. I am unable to cross them for fear of leaving signs of tampering. The rules are very clear. The nano-patch applied at birth is a cocktail of life giving antigens and vaccines, but for many it is not enough. A sickly child is marked for death, and the only way to earn the right to live is to prove strength and resilience by surviving one night in the ring. However, signs of interference would mean their immediate death. Those are the rules.

  Death in the ring is almost certain. At least it was until two years ago, when I turned fifteen and began my secret vigils. Since then, the number of survivors has doubled. They are still far too few, but now at least the newborns have a slim chance. No wild animals have entered the circle of stones on any of my watches. No dogs, wild pigs, scavenging birds, cats nor even weasels. If the hubbites have noticed the drop in animal tracks through the sand, and the rise in survivors, I haven’t heard of it.

  The baby I have guarded tonight is female. Her mother brought her at sunset, accompanied by a group of stony-faced women who made sure that the mother completed the circular pattern and left her child before the sun disappeared. No matter how many times I see it, their coldness always wrings my heart. They have all been in her position. Is this why they can show so little empathy? Are they so callous because they understand her hesitation? Or do they wish others to experience the same pain they felt?

  I don’t understand it, and I won’t accept it, but I can’t fight it. Hub tradition is strong, and even I can grudgingly admit that it is based on a practical attitude towards survival of the fittest. I once heard a woman tell a marked child’s mother, “She’s going to die sooner or later. Better get it over with before you get attached to her.”

  So instead, I have found my own way to help my tiny brothers and sisters.

  Unfortunately the woman with the stoic advice was right. Even those which survive the night, and are welcomed back into their homes by relieved mothers, rarely live another year. I have helped eleven babes to live through the night, and of those, five have not lived to see their first birthday. Many and more have perished, even with my night watch. I can keep away the beasts, but a blowpipe is no defence against the biting cold, and the sicknesses which the nano-patch could not prepare them for.

  If she makes it, she will be number twelve.

  I exhale and turn from the little bundle. Bending down, I grab the dog by its hind legs and begin to pull it back the way it came. For a straggly scavenger it’s heavy enough, and my body is weak with tiredness. It takes me nearly ten minutes to drag the creature to a ravine, and tip it down to the creek below. When I look to the east I can see a thin line of pink beginning to appear far away across the blackness. I close my eyes to the sea breeze and allow myself a final hopeful thought for the child in the circle.

  As I make my way towards the hub along the clifftop, the horizon is slowly lightening and the ocean turns from black to grey. This morning I feel hopeful, unlike most of the times I’ve stumbled back along this path for an hour or two in bed. It’s mornings like these that make the many nights spent in the clearing worth it.

  My Grandad and I live on the edge of the hub, and slipping back into our home without being seen is something I’ve done many times. When I let myself into the pod, I move as quietly as possible. It’s become something of a personal challenge for me to get past Grandad without him hearing me return.

  “Alright?” his soft voice comes from the back room. I sigh, then smile.

  “Yes,” I reply, and continue to my room.

  I’ve never told Grandad where I go or what I do. I’ve not had to; he simply seems to know. And although we’ve never discussed it, I also know he’s afraid for me. But he’s never tried to stop me.

  I strip off quickly and am asleep almost immediately. Morning will come far too soon.

  Chapter Two

  An audible buzz spreads through the shed while the four workers finish salting the cheeses and clean off the equipment. I join the other women in the dressing room, and we change out of our overalls. There is excited chatter all around me, but I keep my eyes on what I’m doing and take no part in it. The women ignore me anyway. This is nothing new and doesn’t hurt very much anymore. I don’t share their excitement.

  I can’t get enthused about the arrival of a new baby. I just can’t. It’s only been two nights since my last vigil and I’m still emotionally and physically drained from it. Plus, this is different. This is Chloe. I fear for her baby so much more; she is practically family.

  I realise that I’ve unconsciously started rubbing the inside of my wrist, where a laser mark lies. A black cross, dark against pale skin. Other than
the mark, I am very much like the other girls. Smaller maybe; slighter and slimmer, but there are no distinctive features that set me apart. We all have long hair, tucked under caps for working. Mine is an unruly kind of wavy that is infuriatingly neither straight nor curly. I may be smaller, but none of the others can be called fat. Overeating is not an option, and we are all kept physically active. My heart-shaped face and fine features give me a fragile look, which I have always disliked. The faces around me vary from shades of mocha to pale cream, and nothing sets me apart there either. I’m one of the paler girls, but I blend in.

  No, an outsider would not pick me out for looking different. But still, an outsider is likely to be able to tell that there is something strange in the way I am treated by the other workers - an aloofness, a distance. It’s as though there is an invisible barrier separating me from them. Not invisible, I realise. Just on the inside of my wrist. Completely visible, if you cared to look.

  I shake my shoulders, bundle my clothes into a locker, punch myself out and stride off into the brilliant sunshine, leaving behind the animated women and the dark thoughts that threaten to wash over me.

  The path leading from the cheese shed to the hub – our little cluster of community - is pretty well tended, as the road is used every day. Many of our roads are not as good as this one, but still I have to pick my way around potholes and puddles. I gaze longingly past the willows and flax along the path. The rain has washed the world clean and left the sea sparkling. Far out in the bay, little white caps form, skim across the water for a way, then disappear. They look like they’re playing, and with that ridiculous thought, a smile flickers on my face.

  I turn off up the cliff track rather than heading towards the hub and home. With a new destination in mind, my pace quickens and my step lightens. As I climb, the wind begins to pick up. It pulls at the dark tendrils of hair that have escaped from the knot under my cap, and at the hem of my tunic. I pull off my cap and shake my head, allowing the unruly locks their freedom. The breeze carries on it the familiar scent of salt and seaweed. I feel calmer already.