Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive.

by Joanne Armstrong

  Tucking the blowpipe back into my belt, I return to where the horses are wading into the creek. I encourage them back up to the dry clearing. They shake their heads when the bridles are removed and start to graze.

  I’m not ready yet to reveal all my secrets, but I do want the Polisborn to see that I can look after myself. I know that he still has a lot of information I want before I leave him, and I get the feeling I’m going to have to work for it. Having a reputation for being weak or needing to be looked after has never sat well with me anyway.

  He’s built up a fire beside the ruins of a stone wall, which provides some protection from the wind I can feel picking up. The fir trees all around us sigh and creak. I sit down in the dry pine needles near the fire and begin to prepare the duck.

  He assembles a tiny bubble tent, which springs into shape straight out of its bag. A tarp goes over the top. I check the darkening sky. Does he expect rain? I sniff, and can smell it too. Mixing with the pine of the trees around me, there is an earthy plant smell. Tonight could be very uncomfortable.

  I am removing feathers, my knife on the dry needles at my feet, when I hear, “Don’t move.” The soldier’s low, steady voice is unexpectedly at my shoulder. I lift only my eyes, my hands and neck still. At the same time, I hear a rumbling growl. Standing tall only a few metres from me is an enormous black dog. Seated, I am smaller than it is. Its eyes are fixed on mine, muzzle wrinkled and front teeth bared. Its ears are flat on its head, the threatening growl from its throat becoming louder. My thoughts have immediately flown to my blowpipe, but it is tucked at my belt. It would take too long to load.

  “Very slowly, toss him the duck,” the officer says calmly. The huge beast takes a step towards me, lengthening its neck in my direction and pulling its lips back further to reveal sharp yellow teeth.

  I lift the duck, and everything happens at once.

  The dog lunges, as does the soldier from my side. He intercepts the beast in mid-air, smashing into it with his shoulder and knocking it sideways into the ground. In a blur the dog’s head turns and goes for his throat. The soldier ducks to the side, locking his arms around the beast’s head and pinning its jaws shut. With a convulsive heave he rolls over, swinging the dog in an arc. The snap as its neck breaks is like ice cracking.

  Hayes stands up slowly, goes to his bag and gets his dazer, tucking it into his belt.

  I’m still sitting on the ground, holding the duck.

  “Are you okay?” he asks me.

  “I’m fine,” I shake myself out of my stunned stupor. “That was… unexpected.”

  “That was stupid. You should have thrown him the duck.”

  I raise my eyebrows in surprise at his judgment. My mouth opens but I can think of no response.

  He relents, and says more quietly, “I should have put out the triggers first, before doing anything else. My mistake.” I get the feeling he’s not used to admitting errors, and that this is a kind of apology. Seeing his discomfort, my ire dissipates. After all, he did just save me from certain injury and possible death.

  “It’s alright… thank you for saving my life.”

  He shrugs. “I’m putting out the triggers,” he says, self-consciously changing the subject.

  “You’re bleeding,” I observe.

  He looks down at his torn pants leg and the blood seeping through it as though he hadn’t been aware of the injury. He finds and roughly winds a bandage around it.

  I see him take out four or five small rods, about five centimetres long and sharp at one end. He goes out into the trees and returns five minutes later empty handed.

  He pulls out the monitor. “They’re out. An alarm will alert us if anything else breaks the perimeter.”

  He fills a small pot with water and sets it up over the fire to heat. He drops some white powder into the pot. “Purifier,” he explains, when he sees me watching.

  Although he’s moving round the campsite, his movements are stiff and a little deliberate, and I can tell his leg needs seeing to.

  “Is your leg okay?” I ask.

  “Fine. A scratch,” he dismisses me.

  I roll my eyes in exasperation. I am loathe to waste my precious first aid equipment on someone who won’t admit he needs help, but the calm voice of my inner conscience is reminding me that I owe him one. A dog bite… he’s ignoring that? Seriously? I shrug the voice off.

  He takes a while at the stream refilling our water canteens, and when he returns a fresh bandage has replaced the stained one. After that he moves more easily, and the tension round his mouth is gone. I smile to myself. Proud to a fault.

  I remove the meat from the carcass and drop it into the pot. After disposing of the waste and washing up at the stream I return to the campfire and take a blanket from my backpack. I also bring out some bread and cheese, both hard as nails and days old, but all that I could bring from the house.

  We eat with our backs to the stone wall, the fire at my front offering a welcome warmth. The sighing from the firs has turned into more of a roar and the wind is beginning to gust. The night draws in quickly and it’s not long before I’m thankful for its light as well.

  He must be considering the mark he saw on my wrist, because as we eat, he suddenly asks, “Are you often sick?”

  “No,” I answer in surprise. It’s the first time he’s shown any interest in me. “No more than anyone else. Why?”

  “You don’t seem to have any problems keeping up. I wondered if your problem was more with catching sick.”

  I shrug. I don’t know, and it’s not something I want to analyse with a Polis soldier. “My Grandad said I must be very strong in order to survive.” A scoffing noise escapes Hayes’s throat, and immediately I feel defensive. “Well, how would you explain it?”

  He flicks his palms upwards. “Luck. Chance. In any case, you’re not what I would have expected.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugs. “Just that I can’t see any weaknesses.”

  I sigh and lean on my knees. “Grandad always told me that there was nothing wrong with me. I thought it was just his way of reassuring me that I was all right, in his eyes. I always hoped there really was nothing wrong with me.”

  He is unwilling to follow this train of thought, but offers a suggestion, “You might be a carrier.”

  Much as I don’t want to discuss my so-called “problem” with him, this is a term I haven’t heard before. “A carrier?”

  “Someone who doesn’t show signs of sickness themselves, but passes it on anyway. They are the most dangerous kind of Unworthy.”

  It’s my turn to scoff, but the sound doesn’t quite make its way from my mouth. I want to find the idea that I’m dangerous ludicrous, but somehow my mind is connecting ideas together and the thought of being a “carrier” and spreading something invisible without showing signs of it myself makes a lot of sense.

  I’m thankful for the darkness because I don’t want him to see my face as I process the thought.

  His curiosity in my status is a refreshing change from revulsion, and feeling bold, I take the opportunity to ask, “Are there many of us? Unworthy?”

  He shrugs, as though it’s not something which he’d given much thought. “There aren’t many in the hubs. Maybe more in some hubs than others, but generally your tradition of exposing sick babies sees to that.”

  “Not my tradition,” I retort, testily. “Are there more in the Polis?”

  “I don’t know. Probably,” he replies, casually.

  “Probably? You don’t actually know?” I feel annoyed at his disinterest.

  At my tone he looks directly at me, and the evasive tone disappears. “Unworthy aren’t visible in the City. We all know they’re there, but they remain unseen.” The words sting, as intended.

  A large raindrop lands on my face. He turns away and begins to organise the campsite, and I move to gather my belongings, relieved to have something to occupy my hands. By the time the horses are secured and our belongings are
safely under cover, the rain has become a steady patter.

  “Get some sleep,” he says. “I’m going to keep an eye on the monitor.”

  I crawl into the tent and arrange a blanket around myself, with my rucksack for a pillow. I keep my pouch and blowpipe close at hand, and leave the knife sheathed on my thigh. I feel more secure knowing it’s there.

  I lie on my side and close my eyes. Although I’m exhausted and sore in places I haven’t felt for years, sleep is slow to come. Instead, thoughts of my loss, which have hounded me all day rush in to fill the space. I am too weary to push them back.

  Grandad, teaching me to ride. Setting and mending my broken arm. Showing me how he distilled plant essences. The look on his face when I gave him a jersey I’d knitted in secret. It had taken me four months and was full of holes and dropped stitches, but he wore it anyway.

  Tears are in my eyes and I let them slide across the bridge of my nose and onto my backpack. It’s hard to believe that Grandad is truly gone. I don’t want to believe I’ll never see him again. Why would he want me to go to the Polis? And what was it that he should have told me? That he loved me? Grandad was never one for emotional speeches, but I always knew that he loved me. He didn’t need to tell me in so many words. It’s more likely he meant that he should have told me about my mark.

  Remember who you are. I am Arcadia. Grandad was actually a Clark, according to the Polis anyway, so does that mean I’m a Clark too? My Grandfather was Matthias Clark.

  I can hear the wind roaring through the firs as the analytical thoughts chase my emotions aside, and Hayes comes into the tent to sit in the doorway. There is a faint glow from the monitor in his hands.

  “All quiet on the western front?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Just something my Grandad used to say.” I’m not sure why I used this phrase. Maybe because I was thinking of him.

  “I know the term. Yes, there’s no activity on the monitor. That dog might have been on his own after all.”

  I hadn’t given the dog a second thought, but I suppose they are pack animals. “Perhaps this is his territory.”

  “Perhaps.”

  I turn to something which has been on my mind all day. “You called my Grandfather Matthias Clark.”

  He allows the monitor to go dim, but I hear him turn in my direction. “And?”

  “We always called him Grey, Matthias Grey.” There is silence from the doorway, so I continue. “Is my last name Clark, too?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Now it’s my turn to be silent. How could he not know my last name?

  “But… I thought… you came to Greytown to find me?”

  “I came to Sector Four - Greytown - to find the Firstborn Matthias Clark, possibly Grey. I was told that he would be able to point me towards the child he raised, likely to be called Arcadia.”

  “The child he raised?” The wording is awkward and immediately I am wary.

  He shrugs. I get the feeling he thinks it’s odd too, but is reluctant to question authority. I’m convinced of it a little later when he breaks the silence by adding, “I tried to find out a bit more about Matthias before I left the City. The first time Matthias Grey appeared on our records was seventeen years ago.”

  “That’s when I was born.”

  “It’s also when Firstborn Matthias Clark finished his Polis service and, by official records, died.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The terrain changes drastically the next day, as we leave the canopy of the forest for the foothills of the mountains, riding in a more northerly direction. There is less shelter here, and fewer signs of habitation, abandoned or otherwise. Nevertheless, Hayes keeps his thermal imaging monitor close at hand. There is very little cover and I’m guessing he would need a lot of warning if we had to hide.

  The horses reach the top of a rise and an expansive view opens out in front. An enormous arid bowl greets us. The rugged mountains rise to the west, on our left, vast and formidable. Dry grasses and gently rolling hills stretch out as far as I can see to the north. Hayes indicates our route, following a stream as it winds its way across the grasslands, then leaving it for the hills on the far side. He points out the valley in the distance, where we will pass between them. After that we’ll cross the plains, heading north-east to the Polis.

  The day is absolutely stunning. Riding through a landscape like this one is simply good for the soul. I look at the bowl ahead of me, the blue sky above and the hills on the far side, and I know that today will be my last day in the company of the Polis soldier. After we cross the pass ahead of us, I will head northwest, making for the freedom of the western coast, rather than east to the city. With this thought in mind, I feel so positively buoyant I can’t help but look ahead at the scenery with new eyes.

  The night had been long and uncomfortable. The soldier didn’t spend much of it in the tent; in fact I don’t know whether he got any sleep at all. He sheltered in it when the storm was at its worst but left as soon as it blew through in the very early hours of the morning. I had little respite from my unanswered questions. My constant swings from sadness to anger about Grandad and his secrets played on my mind. Who was Matthias Clark and why did Grandad want to leave him behind? Grandad a Firstborn. Grandad spending half of his life in the Polis.

  When the cold dawn finally filtered through and lightened the tent, I came to the conclusion that these endless questions could never be resolved. There may be some answers to be found in the Polis, but I knew they would never be enough. My Grandfather is the only one who could have answered my queries, and he is dead.

  During the night, the image from the Polis monitor kept returning to my mind, divided up by red lines into the distinct sectors. I recalled how the eastern sectors were a pale pink shade, and the way three of the western ones were not. The Polis map, one I had never seen before. When I thought about it, my path became clear. I would make for the west, to the sectors where the Polis had never tried to establish a hub. Hayes may have called them dangerous, but with less of a Polis presence, they would still be a better place for me to disappear. Until yesterday I had never realised that there were areas of my country which had escaped Polis rule. Somewhere my mark was unknown, where I could lead a normal life.

  By the time I rose to the sound of a magpie performing its melodious morning gargle, I knew that I would never reach the Polis, and that I had a day to plan my escape.

  I close my eyes and relish the feel of the sun on my lids and the breeze lifting my hair. Something swells in my chest with a deep intake of breath - something I’ve not felt before. Hope.

  Today reminds me of the best days from my childhood, when I helped Grandad mustering. We’d have one or two day passes and get out on the horses to bring the cattle down to the flats for winter. I always felt a kind of freedom when rounding up with Grandad, released from the claustrophobia of the hub. The hardest part about Grandad’s arthritis was that he could ride less and less, so the mustering had to come to an end. I’ve missed being out in the wide open space, blue sky above, the rhythmic rolling of a horse beneath me.

  I turn my mind to my plan. I know I’ll have to take the monitor with me; either that or disable it, and the same goes for both horses. My fingers lightly brush the blowpipe at my belt. I’ve never used the darts on a person before, but I know how well they work on cattle. It’ll be enough.

  Hayes reins up in front of me, and has been scanning the riverbed ahead towards the north-west with some heavy lenses. “Company,” he says.

  “Polis?” I ask.

  “No, a small group of people on foot. They’re moving very slowly, coming from the mountains. It’s my guess they came through the southern pass from Sector Nine. Refugees.”

  The mountains are hostile, snow-capped even through most of the summer. I couldn’t imagine the desperation that would push someone to risk them.

  “Refugees? What’s happening in Sector Nine?” I ask.

  “War,” he replies.


  This gives me pause. I had no idea there was unrest in Sector Nine, on the west coast. In fact, it was where I was headed. “Will we avoid them?”

  “They’ll be hungry,” he replies. “Let’s make camp.”

  Making its way through the parched scrubland is an enormous braided river. Its banks are almost a kilometre apart and between them the water weaves in and out, a tangled plait of cornflower blue. The small strands are only ankle deep, the larger ones up to the knee, but there will be more than a dozen strands to cross.

  We make for the river, but instead of crossing it to continue north, we remain on the southern bank and set up the camp. The forms of the travellers are coming closer to the centre of the monitor screen, following the river downstream, and have separated into six distinct shapes. Hayes scoots down the bank and takes some trout from the stream with the dazer, then packs both it and the monitor away deep into his backpack. With his hub clothing and the facial stubble he’s been allowing to grow in over the last few days, nothing at the campsite gives him away as Polis.

  The travellers make no attempt to hide their passage through the low scrub alongside the bank. It’s clear they are not expecting to see anyone else, and stop short when they stumble into our camp.

  Hayes stands up from his crouch by the fish and the fire, but there is something very different in the way that he moves. One of the men calls out, his tone questioning, unsure. Hayes carelessly crosses the space between them. He is smiling broadly and shuffles forward, kicking up dust. His shoulders are relaxed and his stance has a slight stoop.

  “G’day!” he calls out warmly. “You fellas look beat!”

  My mouth pops open in shock. I have never heard a broader hub accent. Everything about his demeanour is relaxed and non-threatening. It takes me a moment to recover from my astonishment, by which time my Polis guard is offering them food and a place by our fire.