Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive.

by Joanne Armstrong

  The thought of stepping forward into the unknown does not make me uneasy - instead I feel a buzz of elation. Even the pang of sadness I feel at giving up my night vigils for good cannot cast a shadow over my excitement. For the first time I am in control of my own destiny.

  Well, maybe not completely in control, I think ruefully, as I see a figure approaching in the early dawn greyness. Although he is still a long way off, his proud stance and easy gait is unmistakably Polis. No-one else walks like a Polis soldier, with nothing to be afraid of, certain of his own importance.

  I see as he draws closer that he is not in uniform today. A check shirt over loose-fitting cotton pants, boots, a cap. He’s dressed like a hubbite.

  He stops a few paces from us and appraises my appearance. I throw the look right back at him. His hair is dark, close-cropped to his head but long enough to hint at curling. He is clean-shaven, as all soldiers are, also shorter than Bastian, and leaner.

  I motion to my woollen tunic, long leggings and leather boots. “So, is this okay for the Polis?” I ask sarcastically, and give a half-bow.

  “For travelling, yes. For the Polis, no.” Long, expressionless face. Cold, grey eyes that have a far-off look to them, as though he is in the habit of staring into the distance. Those eyes fix on the stick tucked into my belt. “I tell you to pack light and you bring a flute?”

  I put a hand protectively over it. Nothing would make me remove it or the pouch of vials next to it on the belt. Hiding in plain sight, as Grandad would say. Out of sight, under the tunic, there is also my knife. He sees my expression and waves his hand, as though allowing me to bring it.

  Without any pleasantries, he turns and heads back the way he has come, expecting me to follow. Bastian, who has stood silently all this time, takes a deep breath. “Just… stay safe,” he says. “Do what they tell you. I’ll be here when you get back. And we can… talk.”

  “You’ll see to Grandad?”

  “You know I will.” He hesitates for a second and then adds, “Arcadia, try to keep an open mind. About the Polis.” This makes me shoot him a suspicious glance, but he looks away and it’s clear he’s not willing to say any more. I leave it. It occurs to me that I might never see him again, and I don’t want to pick a fight.

  “Thank-you. For everything, Bastian. Thank-you.”

  We hug for a minute, and wrapped tightly in his arms I recall the feeling of our greeting. Was that only two days ago? So much has happened. I swallow hard, and turn away without looking at him again. I can’t risk him seeing a hint of what I intend to do. I hate keeping it from him, but I know that he would never go along with disobedience to the Polis.

  “Be well,” Bastian says formally. I nod.

  I shrug the backpack onto my shoulders and head up the track, following the soldier out of the hub and towards the coast.

  He doesn’t wait for me, and I traipse along behind him, wondering if the entire trip up the coast to the military city will be like this. However, after passing the cheese shed and leaving the Greytown buildings behind us, he stops at a small grove of willows and I see two horses grazing in the long grass. A smile spreads across my face at the sight of them. These are no Polis thoroughbreds. Their coats are shaggy and their tails matted, but this morning, with a new start on my mind, nothing could please me more. Riding was a huge part of my life when I was little. Grandad used to work with the cattle and we had a few ranch horses to help us get around. He said that I could ride before I could walk.

  The soldier is tightening the girth on one, and I mimic his actions for the other.

  I’ve got so many questions for him that I don’t know where to start. I choose the simplest. “Why am I going to the Polis?”

  “Your presence has been requested from the highest level of authority.”

  I look at him blankly. I know no-one in the Polis, highest or lowest authority. “Why? What for?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just the courier. My job is to locate you and get you there.”

  “So, you know who I am. What do I call you?” I ask. I want to know a bit more about this soldier who keeps all his cards so close to his chest.

  He fastens a saddle bag and pauses but doesn’t meet my eyes, and replies, “My name is Captain Alex Hayes. That’s what you can call me.”

  Something about his standoffishness makes me want to annoy him. “How about Al? Can I call you Al?”

  “No.”

  “How about -”

  He turns around, taking a few steps towards me and the look on his face silences me immediately. It’s completely serious with not a hint of a smile. “Listen. I have to get you to the City in one piece. This isn’t a holiday, it’s not a joke.”

  The elation I felt a moment ago drains away. I wonder if he will strike me, but he doesn’t lift his hand. He’s not at all angry, just calm to the point of coldness.

  He sees that his words are having the desired effect. He seems satisfied, and nods. “From here we will be heading inland, northwest, into the hills. The riding will be rough and we’ll be cold, cramped and uncomfortable every night. We’re not on a picnic.”

  My eyes flick away from his. I lightly finger the loose braid I have woven today, hair out of the way for travelling. His words are meant to sting and they succeed.

  His eyes follow my motion, and suddenly he grabs my wrist. He yanks it roughly towards him.

  “Unworthy?” he demands. It’s rhetorical, he can see the lasered cross on my wrist, plain as day.

  I try to withdraw from his grasp, my jaw tense. I eye him warily. He didn’t know. Does this change anything?

  “You don’t know much about me, do you?” I state, rather irritated.

  He drops my hand as though I’m contagious. “Unworthy,” he repeats bitterly, this time to himself. He takes a few paces away from me, as though reconsidering the situation, then turns back and addresses me coldly. “If you think I’m going to go easy on you, you can think again. I’ll tie you across the saddle if I have to, or drag you behind it. I’m not going to mother you or wrap you in cotton wool. Get used to it right now.”

  His speech has me stunned.

  “I don’t expect any kind of cotton wool from you! You’re Polis, why would I?!”

  He looks at me speculatively, but a hint of a smirk touches his eyes. He shakes his head and says, “You have no idea how much cotton wool your world is cushioned in. Prepare yourself for a rude awakening.”

  Chapter Ten

  He sets a cracking pace. Ahead of me, his horse keeps to a steady canter and it’s all I can do to stick to the trail behind him. His route out of town takes us north-west, through broken fence-lines and along hedges. We cross the hub road at a point which is in bad repair and is flanked on both sides by tall pines. On the western side of the road we continue inland. Even when the trail is wide enough for two horses, I stay behind in single file. It’s clear he doesn’t want to make conversation, which suits me just fine. For the moment.

  Since I’m not ready to think of a world without Grandad, I turn my mind to the puzzle of the journey. Captain Alex Hayes was in uniform last night, but is in hubbite civvies today. He says he’s taking me to the Polis, but we’re heading inland rather than north via the road. We’re not using Polis vehicles, instead riding farm hacks. And most telling of all, we didn’t go anywhere near the garrison or the hub checkpoint. I don’t feel threatened by the furtiveness of the trip, simply intrigued. Slipping through the Polis net is alright by me, but everything about it goes against all I know of them who are official to the core. I don’t plan to stay with Hayes for very long, but I certainly intend to get some information out of him before striking out on my own.

  I decide that the best way to do that is to resist the temptation to be disrespectful, and pretend to be a bit more awed by his superiority. The thought makes me want to gag.

  By midday I’m starving and relieved when he calls a halt. For the last half hour we’ve been riding through a forest of gum and light scrub. Sun
light filters through the trees and dry eucalyptus leaves slide and crackle underfoot as we dismount. I can also hear water, and a narrow stream collects in a pool through the brush.

  He sets to work with the makings of a fire. “If you want to be useful, see to the horses,” he throws in my direction. I flick my eyes in irritation but I do it. I lead them to the pool so that they can drink, before tethering them to a tree to graze. All the while I keep an eye on what he’s doing. He’s got matches, and the dry gum lights quickly.

  Once the fire’s alive on its own, he takes something that looks like a hefty black torch from his rucksack. I recognise the weapon of choice for all Polis soldiers - a dazer, able to shoot a ball of energy that can either give a small shock or drop a horse at twenty metres. I’ve seen them in use enough to be very wary. Even the sight of one now sends a shiver of apprehension down my spine.

  “Do you know how to set up a spit?” He sees the response in my face and turns for the trees before I can even answer, taking the dazer with him.

  Very soon all I can hear are the calls of birds high above and the dry rustle of the trees. I look around at the empty clearing and realise just how easy it’s going to be to leave him. As I rig up a tripod, I think of the horses and toy with the idea of taking them both, leaving him slow to follow. On the other hand, I could just slip away into the trees with no fuss. Without the horses it would be much easier to leave no trail.

  He is gone three minutes, it’s certainly no longer, and is back with two rabbits. The weapon is a silent killer. I’d heard nothing, even though he must have been within twenty metres. The knife hidden under my tunic is feeble by comparison. Deflated a little, I realise that the confidence I felt in my escape may have been rather hasty.

  While I finish the spit over the fire, he cleans and skins one of the rabbits.

  “Not bad,” he grudgingly nods towards my work. The compliment is unexpected. It occurs to me that there might be a quicker way to loosen his tongue. If there is anything which brings out their disdain, it’s weakness. Perhaps the reverse is also true for respect.

  I sit down beside him and pick up the other rabbit. Very deliberately, I take out my knife and begin cleaning the carcass.

  He pauses for a second, watching me out of the corner of his eyes, then continues with the job in hand.

  I take this for consent.

  When the first rabbit is ready and propped on the forks, he washes up and brings out a hand held device, roughly a cuboid but with rounded corners, and about twenty centimetres across. He angles it towards me so that I can see the square screen. It’s a map.

  There are a couple of buttons and arrows on the sides of the device, and he flicks these so that the picture on the screen pans out. I’m looking at the whole of our island, shaped roughly like a dog’s bone, with the curves and inlets of bays and sounds on the coasts. The hostile mountain range along the western border of my sector appears simply as a bumpy line stretching far to the north and south. I’ve seen a map like this before many times in school. The officer flicks a button and suddenly there are vivid red lines overlaid on the map, indicating the sector boundaries. There are six eastern sectors and four western ones. Each sector is shaded, and I notice that all six eastern sectors are the same shade of pale pink. The mountain range divides the island. West of this, the sectors are thinner, and vary in shade. The northernmost, Seven, is deep red, a hook looping round into the ocean. Below it, Sectors Eight and Nine are a mid shade; neither dark nor light. Sector Ten is pale and blends with the eastern areas. Off the coast, far to the south, a small island is indicated in a deep vermillion. The island was not on my map at school and has no number.

  “I’ve seen the map of the Sector boundaries before, but what do the colours mean?” I ask him. I’m half expecting him to tell me to pull my head in and to turn off the machine, but he doesn’t.

  “The colours indicate Polis presence. The paler the shade, the safer the sector,” he replies.

  “So the western sectors…”

  “These ones have been running independently from the Polis since the Isolation.” He indicates them on the map, the ones with darker colours. “They’re fairly hazardous.”

  This is news to me. We are taught in school and via the screens in our pods that the Polis is keeping peace throughout our whole country and that there are hubs in all sectors.

  He catches sight of my look of surprise. “You didn’t know?” he asks.

  “How could I know?” I reply.

  He shrugs. “You seemed fairly familiar with the Firstborn at your pod. It would be against the law, but maybe he said something.”

  “No.” Bastian has never mentioned that parts of our country are still unsafe. I can imagine why. It would fit with his desire to protect me from anything unpleasant. However, I can’t help wondering if there are other things the Firstborn know. It makes me think of Hayes’ comment about cotton wool.

  The soldier is manipulating the map on the screen. He zooms in a little and all I can see are Sectors Three and Four. Pale pink.

  “Your hub.” He taps the monitor at Greytown. “We’re here.” Slightly inland. “Our route.” His fingertip traces a route further inland, almost to the mountains, the natural boundary of Sector Four, then moves north into Sector Three and east to the Polis. The Pureborn city is two hundred kilometres north of Greytown in a straight line, but his finger completes a huge semi-circle.

  I formulate one of my many questions. “Why not go straight there?”

  “We need to avoid the checkpoints and any military interest.”

  So no roads. “Why?”

  “Your arrival in the city is a secret.”

  “Again, why?” I ask, dismayed.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s not my place to know, or to ask questions. It’s my job to get you there.” He pauses, as if for effect. “And it’s your job not to make it harder than it already will be.”

  He flicks the buttons on the monitor again, and the picture zooms in. I blink as the speed makes my stomach roll. When the picture settles, I realise that I can see contour lines indicating the rise and fall of the land we’re crossing, and the route of the small stream. Our journey north is criss-crossed with the same blue lines indicating meandering little streams, flowing from the mountains in the west to the coast. As the streams journey further east, they join, the lines becoming broader and darker.

  The image on the screen continues to zoom until I can see by the key that it spans a kilometre, top to bottom and left to right.

  I point to some shaded patches in the very centre of the screen. “What’s that?”

  “Those two are us. Those are the horses,” Hayes replies.

  I look more closely. “It can pick up living things?”

  He nods. “Thermal imaging. It’s set to show anything over fifteen kilograms. Any less and it would be registering all the birdlife and small mammals.”

  He’s practically chatty. “How far can it pick up readings?”

  “The monitor on its own can process data half a kilometre away, but there are also remote stalks - triggers - that extend its range.”

  The picture zooms out again and this time I can see that there are other shaded blobs on the outer edges of the screen. “What’s that?”

  “I’d say those ones are probably a herd of wild deer, and that one over there,” he indicates a dot on its own, “is a horse. You can tell by their shapes and the way they move.”

  I can’t tell the difference myself, but immediately I can see how useful the thermal imager is. “How far away are they?” I ask.

  “I left a couple of triggers out behind us. The deer are over two kilometres away. Eventually the triggers will be out of range too, and I’ll lose the reading.”

  I nod. The second rabbit is cooking over the fire now. As I chew a piece of the flesh I realise that he’s extending an olive branch, of sorts. But I also know that he is deliberately demonstrating one of his most valuable tools - as both my guide
and my keeper.

  Chapter Eleven

  Through the afternoon we continue our route northwest. As evening comes on he checks the monitor more frequently, for a place to camp. The map shows the location of any water sources, and we follow a brook for a short way until coming to a clearing where we dismount. There is a structure here - the remains of a building that was most likely a small home. We have passed a few of these today. Only stone is left of them, all wood and glass removed years ago. None have shown any signs of life.

  I am loving being on a horse again, but it’s been so long since I rode that my body is complaining. My legs are stiff from the long hours in the saddle, the insides of my knees rubbed red and tender to the touch. We unsaddle the horses and I wonder how many days of soreness I will have to face. As a direct trip, we could ride to the Polis in a day and a half, but with Hayes’s circuitous route in mind, I have no idea how long it will take.

  The horses are tired too, the hair beneath their saddles matted and wet with sweet-smelling sweat and dust. I lead them to the brook where they eagerly plunge their muzzles into the water to drink. There is a flurry of motion as some water birds seek the safety of the opposite bank. I look over my shoulder and see the soldier busy collecting dry scraps of wood. With the horses happily drinking and my keeper occupied, I carefully draw my blowpipe from the belt at my waist. From the pouch, I take a long splinter, handling it only by the tuft of feathers on one end. I insert it carefully into the top of the stick. It’s made of bamboo, each node painstakingly hollowed out by hand.

  Creeping along the bank, I inch closer to some ducks about five metres away. I choose one that is closest, and lift the blowpipe to my lips. The dart leaves it with a puff, and strikes the bird in the exposed chest. The dart is so silent that at first none of the other ducks are alarmed. My chosen bird, however, feels its sting and tries to take flight, which is when its companions depart. The effect of the poisoned tip makes itself felt immediately. By the time I take the duck from the shallow water, paralysis has spread through its small body, and escape is impossible. I pluck the dart from its breast and put it away in the pouch. I break the bird’s neck quickly, and it has felt no pain.