Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive.

by Joanne Armstrong

  The clifftop allows an expansive view.

  On the far side of the bay, the remains of what used to be a busy port can be seen, all containers and creaking iron. Over the decades the area has been raided time and again for metal to be reworked, but a few of the old cranes still punctuate the sky with their arthritic fingers. They teeter at insane angles; you’d have to be either desperate or crazy to go near them.

  Ships have neither arrived nor departed this port for many generations. Grandad says that when the Isolation was first declared, any activity along the coast was taken as a threat. Craft were sunk on sight. Of course that was a long time ago, even well before Grandad was born, but keeping away from the water has become a way of life here. I am the only person I know who even swims. I’ve seen Polis soldiers get in the water on hot days, but they hardly count.

  Near the port I can see the red roof of the recycling plant, which runs 24/7. The ancients left us mountains and mountains of the stuff, plastics and metals and glass, all tied up in tidy cubes. It’s been nearly two centuries since the Isolation, and we have hardly made a dent in the abundance of resources which they saw as rubbish.

  The bay reaches round in a wide arc to my right. It is truly the picture of peace; a perfect curve, blue water lazily sweeping golden sand. Above me, gulls wheel and soar, their plaintive calls carried to me on the wind.

  To my left, to the east, the unknown. The wide expanse of open ocean, going on forever and ever, and eventually melting into the sky.

  I look long and hard, as I have so many times before, waiting to see something appear on the horizon and wondering what would happen if it did. My eyes watering from the chill in the breeze, I finally tear my gaze from that blue desert and I see Grandad making his way up the cliff track towards me.

  I realise that he seems to have grown older in the last few months. How could I have missed this? Once so tall and straight, he has become stooped. He has brought his walking stick out today, and I realise that recently I’ve rarely seen him without it. His hair is almost completely white, and thinning across the top of his bare head. White too is the hair he allows to grow, carefully and tidily trimmed, on his chin.

  When he reaches me by the cliff he is out of breath, but he is smiling and his pale blue eyes are shining.

  “There’s nothing like the sea air!” he manages, leaning on his stick and trying to hide his heavy breathing. He pulls at the collar of his shirt. I want to chastise him for exerting himself, but I hold my tongue. Being told what he can and can’t do isn’t something Grandad accepts gracefully. Even Auntie Marama has learned to tread carefully when she has advice to give him.

  Grandad is the one who raised me. He was from another hub, in Sector Two, but when my parents and brother died, he relocated us here to Sector Four. I was only tiny and remember nothing of my family; it has always been just the two of us. He’s my father and my teacher - he has taught me everything I know, from the movement of the moon and how to tie my shoelaces to rewiring a motion sensor. Around town he’s known for his knowledge of plants and their useful properties, although many of these we keep to ourselves. It’s thanks to his herbal skill that I’m able to mask my scent when camouflaged, and incapacitate any wild beast with a poisoned dart.

  I motion to the deep blue nothingness in front of us.

  “What do you think is out there?”

  “Oh, continents, oceans… probably a fair few whales, porpoises, fish…” I hear the hint of a smile in his voice.

  “Who do you think is out there? Do you think there is anyone left?”

  Grandad is silent for a while, which I have grown used to.

  “I’m not sure, Arcadia. But does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters! Other people – other countries – other possibilities – of course it matters!” I lift my hands in irritation. I can’t believe how dismissive he is.

  “I know how you feel, and I understand your frustration. But just remember, Dia. There are other mountains to climb which are much closer to home.”

  I sigh. I’m not in the mood for his riddles today, so I change tack. “What about the Sickness?” I ask more calmly, turning back to the wide ocean and squinting, as though I can see particles of disease like pollen in the air. “Is it still out there?”

  He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Now that is a more interesting question.” It’s clear he doesn’t know the answer, but looks at me speculatively. “If you assumed it was still out there, circulating, what would you do?”

  “I suppose I would do everything I could to prepare myself to fight it.”

  He nods thoughtfully. “Preparation is always a good thing.”

  We stand for a moment in silence, looking out to sea. I’m imagining a black cloud approaching, like a swarm of locusts, and wondering how I would prepare myself to fight a disease. My Grandad is all theory and no action.

  As I turn away from the desert, he catches my wrist and his voice is soft when he says, “I thought you might come here when I heard that Chloe had her baby.”

  I have nothing to say to that. Intuitive as always.

  He knows better than to ask me if I’m okay. But he squeezes my wrist before letting it go, and says, “It will be alright. Be strong. There is nothing wrong with you.” When I sigh, he puts his hand on my cheek, gently, but makes me look at him. “I mean it. You have the ability to change the world, Arcadia.”

  I nod and carry on down towards the water.

  “Don’t go out too far,” he calls after me.

  Grandad has always talked to me like this, but recently I’ve started to wonder if he is living in my universe. You have the ability to change the world, Arcadia. Everything I do is dictated by the Polis and restricted by my mark. My tiny show of rebellion is my vigil over the children marked for death, as I was. And most of the time I have to come home well before the sun is up, my battle already lost. My future is laid out in front of me like a woven carpet. Much as I dislike the pattern, I can see no way of remaking it. If I can’t alter my own destiny, how can he possibly imagine I could change the world?

  Once on the rocks, I remove my boots and cap, and strip off down to my underwear. It’s not that I’m being daring or anything. There is no danger of being seen, because no-one comes here but me. My own private swimming spot. There are also mussels and paua if you know where to look. I’m not the only one who collects from the sea, but I’m the only one who’s willing to dive for it.

  Today I’m not collecting though. I just need a chance to unwind.

  I slip into the water with a sharp intake of breath. The first swim of the year, and the water’s touch is icy. I’ll warm up when I get moving.

  I start pulling my way through the water, cutting through the waves in sure strokes. Before I know it I’m quite far out across the bay, the rocks behind me becoming wet black forms against the pale golden yellow of the sandy cliff. I put my head down and keep going. The next time I look back, the rocks are no longer visible, and the cliff itself looks small and insignificant. Just a part of the undulating shoreline. The saltiness I taste on my lips and feel stinging at my cuts and grazes is familiar and welcome.

  With the rhythm of my breathing, my mihi runs through my head. I’ve always found it comforting, a reminder of who I am, my place in the world. My mihi is my identity. I am Arcadia Grey. My Grandfather is Mathias Grey. I come from Sector Four. My parents were Ian and Sarah Grey. My parents are both dead. The last part is always the hardest. I am Unworthy.

  I am over halfway now; closer to the wreckage of the port. I’m beginning to feel the effects of the swim, and am making myself pull in deeper breaths to feed my hungry lungs. It’s time I turned back.

  With the initial burst of energy expended, my body begins to find a different, more controlled rhythm, and I cannot stop my mind turning to the subject I least want to explore.

  The cold weight returns to my chest, although I’m not sure why – this day was always going to come, after all. But I’m never prepare
d enough for the all-encompassing dread that hits me when another baby is born in our hub, and has to undergo their inspection.

  For the rest of the hub, the arrival of a baby is cause for celebration, but I’ve learned not to get carried away. It’s simply too soon. I try not to imagine what Chloe is feeling right now. The nano-patch will have been applied at birth, her child receiving its life-giving vaccine as soon as possible, but the vaccine is no guarantee. So many of our children are simply not born strong enough to survive in a world so rife with infection, and although the Polis immunologists are working to improve the vaccine, many of our babies continue to contract postnatal diseases.

  I imagine that Chloe will be beside herself with worry, wondering if her newborn will pass inspection, or whether it will fail and be marked. I shudder. Suddenly the chill in the water seems to be sinking into my bones. I can’t help it; whenever a new baby is born I can’t help thinking of my mother. What did she feel? Did she have any inkling of the results? What were there the clues that told her that I would not pass? That I would be found unworthy of life? And how could she take me out that night to the ring of stones to die?

  Chapter Three

  After the swim I feel lighter, but the fresh breeze on my wet skin is distinctly uncomfortable. The feeling of discomfort reminds of the ordeal ahead of me tonight. I sigh, and reluctantly head for home.

  Our pod is exactly the same as all the others. Four circular structures, bubbling out from a shared stem in the centre, where the pod’s ablution block is. From the air, each pod must look like a metal four-leaf clover, and our hub a great grey cluster of them, sprouting out on the hillside along the coast and following the gentle curve of the bay. Our hub has no name. The Polis calls our region “Sector Four”, and the hub is the Sector Four Hub. This is far too nameless, so over the years it has slowly become known as Greytown. Not very imaginative, I know, but it’s a perfect name for the collection of dull pods which gather around a central grey market square, along with a few other grey stone buildings. The Polis sure likes grey.

  There are many hubs, but ours was one of the first. The purpose of the hubs is to offer security to the people, with the central building being a garrison, and Polis soldiers always in residence. In return for peace, the residents of the hub provide the Polis with the fruits of their labours. It can be anything – fruit, meat, wheat, milk, honey, nuts, wool, clothing – as long as it fulfils each individual’s quota. There are ten hubs in operation, and they all contain houses exactly the same as our pods, although I haven’t seen them. I’ve never been outside my sector, and except for a few precious day trips, have rarely left the hub.

  Before the hubs, it was chaos.

  Small bands of people were barely surviving on their own. Some settled in one location and tried farming for survival, but many more roved from place to place, robbing from those who stayed put - the easy targets. Violence, disease and starvation were rife. The population which had escaped the Sweeping Sickness through enforced isolation, was turning in on itself, and our numbers were down to less than a fifth within a decade.

  From this mess emerged the Polis. A group of ex-military types with the manpower and technology to unify our broken society and bring peace to the entire country.

  The official story; the one we are taught in school, is that the Polis saved us. The kids my age and younger accept it without question and follow the laws without hesitation. It’s just as well because reprimands are usually immediate and always painful. The price for our security is our acceptance. But I keep my ears open, and some of my older neighbours are less than careful with their words. I know that there are other stories, with other points of view.

  We can leave at any time, and some do. We can return to the bush and a more basic way of life, giving up our right to the peace and stability which the Polis provides for us at the hubs. However, most don’t. Life is easy here.

  The structures we live in were constructed over one hundred years ago, when the Polis began its mission to bring peace to our country. They are purposely utilitarian. They provide shelter from the weather and that is it. They were designed for function and not form, but I have always found them strangely beautiful. Their curves call to my mind the curves of the landscape around me, and they seem in tune with their surroundings - the sweeping bay and the rolling hills – in a way that the other Polis buildings, squat and square and bland, are not. When I was little I imagined that the multitude of round little pods was a harvest of some kind of new grey fungus, fat with life and ready to be plucked from its stem.

  Each pod of four units is basically self-sufficient. We catch our own rainwater on the roof, which is stored in large tanks and feeds the ablution block and the units’ kitchen areas. Also on the roof are large solar panels which daily recharge communal power cells, providing us with electricity for lighting, heating and cooking.

  It all sounds ideal. Food, electricity, education, warmth, peace, security, and community. Who would want to leave? I asked Grandad this very question, when a small group of four – two teenaged kids and their parents – left a month or so back. “A gilded cage is still a cage,” was his answer. Which really told me very little, but I think I understood his point, and it gave me something to consider.

  Approaching the pod, I can see Grandad working in his veggie garden. I use my pass key and am about to enter our unit when I hear a shout behind me.

  “Arcadia!” I recognise the voice before I see him, and my heart immediately leaps.

  “Bastian! I didn’t know you were home!” He folds me in his arms, then easily picks me up and swings me round in a full circle. I let out an undignified whoop. There is no-one in the world like Bastian. He’s sort of my cousin, being Auntie Marama’s son, but since Auntie Marama isn’t really my auntie either, we’re not blood relatives.

  While he holds me up, I plant a quick affectionate kiss on his cheek. I could never do this from the ground. His reaction surprises me. His face immediately turns beetroot red and he puts me down. His eyes don’t meet mine, but he’s beaming from ear to ear. I’ve known him since I was born, and we’ve grown up together. I’ve never gotten that reaction before though, and I can’t help but like it. Maybe he has finally noticed that I’m a woman now.

  We pull apart, and I comment on his size. “Do they inject something into the Polis food? You need to stop growing, or you won’t fit through the door.” He just grins down at me.

  It’s true though. He’s always been bigger than the other boys his age, a head and shoulders over the rest of his class, but now that he’s eighteen he’s filled out too. It’s like hugging a bear. Bastian is the eldest in his family, and since the eldest spends half the year working for the Polis, I haven’t seen him for six months. It’s been like this since he turned thirteen, and I miss him every day he’s away. Although hard to tell from his military haircut, his hair is a pale shade of brown. By the time his six month reprieve is up it will fall in a thick shock over his eyes and he’ll be forever pushing it back.

  “It’s good to see you, Arcadia,” I hear his voice rumbling in his chest while he squeezes me against him.

  “How’s Chloe?” The newest mother in our hub is Bastian’s sister, and the same age as me.

  Bastian shakes his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her yet.” I notice for the first time that he’s still in khakis and has dropped a duffel bag at his feet. I realise that he came straight to me, which warms me from the inside out.

  We go around to the back where Grandad and Bastian greet each other. He has some canes that need putting up for beans and snow peas, so we set to work setting them out for him, and he heads inside to make tea. It’s good to have something to do, because I can turn my face away from Bastian. An inane grin has stapled itself in place and I don’t want him to see it.

  “So, what did they teach you this time? How to make daisy chains?”

  He knows I’m laughing at him. “I’ll have you know, making a good daisy chain is pretty techn
ically difficult. It takes months to master. And it has many military uses.”

  “You could use it to trip up your enemy.”

  “Or to spring shut like a trap.”

  I shake my head, but I’m smiling.

  Calling the time spent by hubbites in the Polis as “military training” is something of a joke. Essentially, there are two types of armies in the Polis, both trained completely differently. One is for the Polis citizens – all their kids go through it from thirteen to eighteen. They concentrate on combat training and a host of other useful defence and survival skills - although for the rest of us this is a bit of a guess. The other army is made up of teens from the hubs; the eldest child of every family, who go to train in the Polis for six months of every year, like Bastian. When they graduate from their training at eighteen, they continue to serve the Polis for their half year, the rest spent on Reprieve back in their home towns. This Polis service continues until they are forty.

  “Polisborn and Firstborn,” I mutter, as the smile slips. “Not that I mind you learning about daisies…”

  “I know, Arcadia.”

  “But they take you away for half a year and they don’t even teach you anything interesting.”

  He’s become more serious too, matching my tone, but he’s defensive also. This is a familiar subject for us. “I think it’s interesting. You should see the kind of trucks they’ve got up there. And the two-wheelers, trail bikes, fuel tankers, ATVs, the tanks… I’ve even gotten to work on a helicopter. They’re really cool, Dia. Interesting.”

  Although he’s in the army, Bastian’s military training is just the basics. It seems to be marching, running about, shining boots, and standing in a straight line come rain, wind or snow. I think it’s all about learning to follow orders. Maybe there’s some self-defence and Polis history. The army part ends there, and the skill specific training begins. For some, it’s medical. For others, clerical, electrical, or construction. Bastian has been put into the automotive section, which basically means he’s a mechanic. That part, he loves.