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.
“She had to get back to Chloe and the baby,” Bastian explains. I nod. There isn’t anything she could do to help anyway. “She suggested you might want to have something on hand, in case he wakes.”
I nod again and stumble over to the corner. There is a nook here, under the floor, where Grandad and I keep certain things. I take out a vial of liquid steeped from poppy seeds, identifiable by the markings on the stopper.
I put the vial on the bench. I stand there looking at the rough wooden surface under my fingers, and Bastian places his hand on top of mine.
The scene in the marketplace comes back to me. I whisk my hand out, and turn away from him.
“Arcadia…” he starts.
“You did nothing,” I interrupt him.<
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“You know that I tried. You know that I did what I could.” He tries to touch my shoulder and I bat his hand away.
“You did nothing!” I repeat, louder now. “You were right there, Grandad was beaten to a pulp, you were right there, and you did nothing to stop it!” My voice is shrill now, rising with every accusation. I know how I sound, but I don’t care. My Grandad is dying in the next room.
When I look up at Bastian’s face I can see that his eyes are full of tears. He has known Grandad as long as I have, and loves him too. I can’t forgive him for standing by while the soldiers used my grandfather as a warning for interfering, but I feel the direction of my anger switch when I witness his pain. He’s hurting too.
“What will I do without him?” I wail, dropping to the floor and propping my forehead on my hand.
Bastian sits next to me, both of us leaning our backs against the wall. I hug my knees close, feeling small and very much alone.
“I told you that I had something I wanted to talk to you about, Dia. This isn’t exactly how I’d imagined it happening, but I need you to know – “
“Now’s not the time, Bastian,” I sigh, into my arms.
“Just shut up and listen, will you? I’m trying to tell you that I think we should get married.”
This isn’t how I’d imagined it either. I’m salt-stained, sweat-stained, dusty and dishevelled, and I’m sitting on the floor with my emotions in shreds around me. When I look at myself as though from the outside, I realise that it is at moments like this when Bastian is at his best. When I’m at my worst.
“Why do you want to get married?” I ask.
“Think about it, it makes so much sense. As my wife, you’ll be given certain privileges not afforded to you as a… a single girl. And people wouldn’t dare to say those kinds of things about my wife. Life will be better for you. And with your Grandad… well, if he doesn’t recover…”
He’s right, of course. He hasn’t mentioned the mark of the Unworthy, but he doesn’t need to. For a girl like me, there are few ways out of the nightmare that is my life. Marriage to a Firstborn would improve it. This thought is not a new one, but it is the first time Bastian has spoken to me of marriage, and I find myself annoyed that it comes with such clinical analysis.
A beautiful, generous and warm man has just asked me to marry him and I don’t feel a flutter of excitement or romance. I feel wary.
“Not now, Bastian,” I manage. This will take some processing. I have enough to deal with right now without having to work out why I’m not jumping into his arms.
“Just promise me you’ll think about it,” he says. “I don’t want you to be alone.”
I turn to him and take his hands. I press my lips together and force myself to look into his warm brown eyes. I see written there that he is in turmoil too, but his timing is completely off. His willingness to be vulnerable right now makes me choose gentle words. “I promise,” I say, “but now is not the time.” I let him give my fingers a squeeze before pulling them away and wiping my palms on my thighs.
A sudden sharp knock on the door startles both of us.
“Open up!” comes an unfamiliar shout, laced with authority. We both stand, but Bastian motions me to stay back, and cracks the door cautiously.
His demeanour changes as soon as it is open; he straightens up, immediately at attention.
A Polis soldier in grey and black uniform stands in the shadowy passageway.
Chapter Eight
“I’m looking for Matthias Clark.”
“Matthias… Clark? No, there’s no-one – “
“Old man, fifty-six years old.”
I realise who he’s here for. I lurch forward. “What do you want with him now, you coward? Here to finish what you started?” My anger, simmering below the surface under tight reign, bubbles up anew. I’m at the doorway, hands clenched into fists, the awkward conversation with Bastian forgotten.
Bastian pushes me away, which is probably good, because I’m about to hit the idiot who’s just showed up. Who looks amused rather than threatened by me.
Bastian pulls me behind him. “It’s a different soldier, Dia,” he shushes me. To the Polis soldier he says, “I don’t know Matthias Clark, Sir. There was an altercation in the square this afternoon. Matthias Grey was involved. He’s injured, and in the back room.”
The soldier considers this. “I’ll need to see him,” he tells us. Bastian motions towards the doorway. I’m opening my mouth for a retort when he covers it and holds me back as the soldier walks past us and enters Grandad’s room. Bastian forces me down onto the bench and as soon as my hands are free I am hitting him. A flurry of raindrops against steel. I’m so angry at him I could scream.
“Arcadia!” Bastian is calling my name, quietly but firmly. “Stop fighting me! Please!” He’s willing me to listen. He’s pinning me to the bench. “Just stop! You can’t fight this guy, you can’t win against him. You can’t help your Grandad by resisting him. Please, Dia!”
I start to calm down. I know he’s right, it’s just that I’m so mad right now. As I quieten, I begin to hear voices from Grandad’s room. When he sees that I’m not thrashing, Bastian lets me up.
“I’m sorry, Dia, you know I -” I stop him; I want to hear what they’re talking about.
I move closer so that I can overhear.
Grandad’s voice is very quiet, but he’s awake. The officer’s voice is clearer.
“- just that he requested she come. General Graham said that you would know.”
I hear Grandad’s voice again, a request. It sounds as though he is asking for protection.
“The General will - ” the soldier begins, but is interrupted by my grandfather, more forcefully this time.
“No, I said you! You need to protect her! Promise me!” When the officer remains silent, he adds, “You have no idea what you’re taking her into.”
The soldier turns on his heel and comes out to us. “You are Arcadia?” I’m frozen, wondering what is going on. I don’t know what to make of this exchange.
I nod, and manage, “He was unconscious…”
“I gave him something.” Straight back on track, he adds, “You’re coming with me to the Polis. Pack light and get some sleep. We leave tomorrow at dawn.”
With that, he’s gone, leaving Bastian and me looking at each other. What has just happened? The first thing that shakes me out of my bewilderment is the sound of Grandad whispering my name.
“Grandad!” I fly to his room.
I kneel by his head and take his hand in mine. Bastian hovers in the doorway.
“You need to go with him, Arcadia,” he whispers to me. His breathing is laboured and his voice wavering.
It takes me aback that Grandad would want me to leave him right now when he’s in such a bad way. “Shhh, Grandad, please, just save your energy till you’re better…”
“I’m not getting better, Dia. Listen to me. Go with him to the Polis.” He is trying to grip my hand, but his fingers are weak.
He struggles to move himself, and I can see pain cross his face as he tries. His grip on my hand is faltering.
“Just rest Grandad,” I plead. “I’m not going to the Polis. Let’s not talk about it now.” I adjust my fingers around his and move so that he can see my face without trying to crane his neck.
“How many have you saved?” he mumbles. When I hesitate, he repeats more urgently, “How many?”
“Twelve,” I respond, my voice quiet.
“Twelve,” he croaks. “And how many still live?”
“Seven,” I whisper.
“You’re fighting the good fight, Arcadia. With the wrong strategy.” He coughs and then continues, “Go with him… you’ll have the chance to do something bigger… save more than twelve. There are things I should have told you…” he begins, but his words are coming more and more slowly. “I always thought that there would be more time.”
I know he’s not listening to me, and I know that I’m losing
him. Bastian comes to kneel on the other side of the cot and puts his hand on Grandad’s shoulder. He has a cup in the other.
“Poppy,” he says. Grandad makes a tiny nod and I help Bastian raise him a little. Much of it spills, but he manages to drink some of the liquid. He grimaces as we lie him down again, and breathes heavily.
His eyes are shut, and as his breathing quietens I think he may have lapsed into unconsciousness again. My chest is shaking at the thought when he speaks again. “Don’t let them change you. Arcadia… remember who you are.”
Bastian and I sit on either side of the mattress with Grandad small between us. His breathing stops altogether and I realise that he has gone.
I stroke his cheek and smooth the covers around him. Bastian places a hand on my shoulder, and in his face I see my grief mirrored. His eyes sparkle with unshed tears.
Remember who you are. I am desperately trying to keep control of my emotions. My world has been turned upside-down, the strands of the carpet unravelling under my feet.
Chapter Nine
The officer’s off-hand order about getting some rest is laughable, and I don’t even attempt it. I spend most of the night with Grandad, trying to say goodbye, or with Bastian, weakly arguing that I don’t want to go. Bastian, ever practical, knows there’s no point trying to disobey, but I can tell that he is afraid for me. This reminds me that so many of his early experiences in the Polis haven’t been good. However, as the night wears on I offer fewer disagreements. I have a plan forming.
One of the soldier’s orders I follow. I have packed very few items as I figure there will be less to carry when I give him the slip.
As dawn breaks over the ocean I find myself at the door of our pod, a small backpack at my feet. As ready as I will ever be. Bastian is by my side, and as much as I appreciate his strength, I also feel constricted by it. Is it wrong of me to feel excitement at the prospect of leaving? I have no idea what is in front of me. It’s certainly not the Polis, no-matter what the soldier or Bastian might think, and despite Grandad’s encouragement. Why would he want me to go? I guiltily push my Grandad’s last words out of my mind.
Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive. Page 5