Caste (The Corporation)

by RaeLynn Fry

  I drop the makeshift ladder out my bedroom window, watching the dull white sink into the night. The knots thud gently against the side of the building. I wait and listen. Everything’s quiet. Without a second thought, I hoist myself

  out my window and down the chain of sheets.

  I was right; they only go a little more than halfway down the house. I grunt as I reach my leg out, trying to catch the toe of my shoe onto one of the many uneven bricks. I find a hold.

  Once I’m sure my grip is secure, I reach over with one of my hands and find a brick big enough for my fingers. I do this until I’m close enough to drop to the ground.

  I land softly, one step closer to the Inner City.

  ७

  When I told Journey I knew where to find a Black Market Artist, I wasn’t being entirely honest, but I did have a general idea, and that general idea takes me to the heart of Neech’s most dilapidated section.

  The Black Market is designed to be intimidating, in order to keep those away who might expose it. Everyone knows the Corporation’s on the prowl to find it and shut it down—which is why it’s never in the same place twice. It was a stroke of luck that I knew someone who knew someone who overheard the general vicinity of tonight’s location.

  I walk past the slaughter houses near the fields and orphanages at the outskirts of the living quarters. Past the brothels and vendors of shady reputation. The Black Market festers in an abandoned and decrepit section of old housing and shops at the back of the Industrial section, hidden in layers of shadow and grime.

  I twist down alleys, and the closer I get, the colder my skin becomes. Goosebumps crawl their way up my arms and legs despite my layers of clothing. I straighten my shoulders and take a breath through my mask so deep, I can feel my lungs stretch and burn.

  “You have just as much right to be here as anyone else. More so,” I say to myself.

  Rounding the next corner, I crawl deeper into the gloom. At least in the more inhabited sections of Neech, citizens try to fix up various buildings and homes. It may end up looking like a hodgepodge of trash a storm blew together, but there’s some semblance of order. Here, not so much.

  The structures are in crumbled ruins—worse than normal—and the ones that stand barely do so, the result of decades of neglect. Tattered and grimy blankets flap in the wind while being tacked up to cover an opening or two. No one’s willing to invest in making this part of Neech any better than what it is.

  The silence here is different from any other silence. It’s deeper, thicker. More dangerous. Even though there’s not a sound, I know I’m being watched.

  My eyes dart around to shifting shadows while I force my feet to take even, firm steps. I can’t show any fear to whoever may be watching. I take deliberately long, deep breaths to keep my heartbeat even and my head from going too light. I clench and unclench my jaw so I have somewhere to focus my nerves. I walk like this for what feels like miles, but I know are only yards.

  Eventually, faint voices seep in around me like a stale breeze. I creep closer, and they get stronger. I become even more aware of every movement and sound around me.

  Finding the Black Market isn’t as comforting as I thought it’d be. I’m starting to have second thoughts, but I can’t listen to them now.

  This area of Neech is officially abandoned, so there’s no electricity. What I’m guessing are miles of wire lay tacked against buildings’ sides and in the streets’ gutters, bringing diluted power into the Market. I’m guessing it’s not enough to give life to very much, which explains all the flickering flames housed in what look like glass jars atop poles and hanging from giant metal hooks.

  The sooty smell of coal and oil plugs my nose. The closer I get to the Market, the more of those kinds of lights there are. The air takes on a hazy, oily look from the spent flame’s residue. The silence is so pressing I only just now notice what’s missing. The hum of filters. I push my mask closer to my nose and mouth, wishing I’d thought to bring a second one.

  As I near the Black Market, I start to see citizens. Their clothes are dirty and ragged like their faces, and the men leer at me as I wrap my duster tighter around my body. I can feel their eyes peeling back my clothes.

  I quicken my steps.

  One of them calls out to me. “Where are you going, sweet thing?” He grunts, and the others laugh.

  I swallow my fear and take a breath. Then I turn around and pull my knife in the most casual manner I can muster. Given my current nerves and state of mind, I’m surprised at how tough I sound when I speak. “Why don't you come a little closer and ask again?” I let the dim light of an oil lamp reflect off the steel blade. They take a step back and spit in my direction.

  I turn around and pick up my pace, making sure I keep my knife tucked up my sleeve. I practice dropping it into my palm over and over again as I walk. I keep my head down until I make it to a more populated area, although I’m beginning to wonder if I’m safer alone.

  Finally, I make it to the Market; a road running down the center, shops set up haphazardly along its edges. A handful of people mill about, all with their heads down and hidden as much as possible.

  I mimic their posture, shoulders hunched near my ears, hood of my duster pulled over my head. It’s eerie how silent everyone stays. I guess I understand, though. The Black Market is illegal, so doing what they can to remain unnoticed would include not talking unless necessary. It would also explain the very minimum in lights. Everything is so hard to see here.

  I wonder around the shops, trying to look like I belong while at the same time remaining inconspicuous. How in the world am I going to find an Artist? I don’t suppose one will have a booth set up. I push the thought away, determined not to get discouraged.

  An old woman with stringy, thin hair is inspecting the goods offered at a fat man's stand. I can’t tell if it’s a butcher or a medicinal shop. She holds up a cluster of cock’s feet for inspection, their talons sharp and long. I cringe as her squint passes my direction. She's missing an eye, a dry, black pit where it once was. Her fingernails are long and cracked, caked underneath with dirt.

  I clear my throat, getting the vendor’s attention. “I’m looking for Morrow,” I mumble. It’s worth the shot. I might as well see if he has what I need.

  “What?” the vendor barks. “You’re gonna have to talk louder than that if I’m to hear ya.”

  “Morrow,” I say louder, the word shaky.

  “Morrow?” His laugh is boisterous and makes me want to crawl into the gutter. He doesn’t even give me an answer as he turns away. As if my question isn’t a serious one.

  “Ya don't belong here.” The old woman looks me up and down with her one eye. I try to pass, but she drops the cock’s feet back on the stand with a clatter and steps in front of me.

  “Hey, you gonna buy those or not?” the vendor says.

  She ignores him and steps closer to me, blocking my path.

  “Let me pass,” I say.

  Her foul breath chokes me as she laughs. It smells like rotting meat and I gag, which amuses her more. “This is yer firs’ time here, written all over ye. Might as well be from Dahn." She arches the brow over the dark hole which once held an eye. “What biz’ness ya have here? Mayhaps I ken help.”

  “No, thank you.” I try to step past her again.

  She slides in front of me, clamping a bony hand on my shoulder. I’m a full two heads taller, but she holds me where I stand. For an old woman, she’s quick and strong. “Ya already got the wrong kin’ of int’rest.” She nods over my shoulder.

  I twist my head and look down the alley. The men from earlier stand there, resting against the wall, chilling smiles smeared across their dirty faces. One of them waves.

  “Ya've met. Without me, they'll harass ye; even keep ye from goin’ home. Ever.” She lets her words sink in before speaking again. “Wit me guidin’ ye, none will bother ye.”

  I look back at her, trying to judge if she's telling the truth or not. My options a
re severely limited and given the current situation, this looks to be the best and safest route. What good was it to make it to the Black Market if I didn't also make it out alive?

  I nod my head tightly, and she smiles, her thin, blistered lips parting tightly over her brown and yellow teeth.

  “What’s the price?” I ask, for there’s always a price.

  “How much ye got?”

  I let out a sharp ‘ha’, and she scowls. “I may not be from around here, but I'm not stupid. What’s your price?”

  “Ten,” she says with certainty.

  “Are you kidding me? Ten? For that much I'll take my chances on my own. It’ll cost me less in the end.” I move to walk away, but her fingers reach up and tighten around my collarbone.

  Her eyes shift around, and she licks her lips. “Five, I meant five.”

  I look her up and down. Her clothes are worn and old; she has no shoes to cover her battered and filthy feet. Emaciated beyond a healthy level. She probably needs the five for clothes and food. Then I remember her rotting teeth. She's addicted to the drug. That's why she wants five; it will probably buy her one hit.

  I shake my head and hold firm. ‘Three.”

  “Three? I won't spit for three.”

  “Take it or leave it,” I say simply. Then add, “You probably haven't had a fix in a couple of days.” It’s low, and Papa wouldn’t be proud, but I can’t afford to be anything but shrewd.

  She licks her lips again, looking more desperate than when I first met her. It's as if the mere mention of her addiction transforms her. “Fine, three.” She holds out her hand.

  I shake my head. “I'm not giving it to you now. You'll just take the money and run.”

  “I'm not takin’ ye anywhere; ya’ll never pay.”

  “I give you my word,” I say.

  “An’ I give ye mine.” We stare at each other, neither willing to risk trust on the other.

  “Fine,” I say. “One now and two when you take me where I need to go.”

  She thinks about it. “Fine. Where’re we goin’?”

  I shift my eyes, making sure no one is paying too much attention to us. The men have crept a little closer, but they can't hear what we’re saying, I’m sure. “You'll make sure they leave me alone?” I ask, nodding my head in their direction.

  “Kerari, go on, get outta ‘ere!” she shouts around my shoulder, shaking her free fist.

  Kerari and his crew laugh. “What are you gonna to do, old woman?”

  “Gonna buy a fresh stock of cock's feet, that's what.”

  The laughter dies, and I venture a look. I'm not sure, but it seems as if their faces have gone a shade paler.

  “Ye gonna leave, or do I need to buy two?”

  They scamper away like scolded children without as much as a parting grumble.

  “How'd you do that?” I ask in wonder.

  “There’re benefits to bein’ rumored as the cruelest witch in Neech.”

  I swallow. “What’s your name?”

  She lets out a laugh. “No such thin’ as names in the Black Market. Where’m I takin’ ye?” She shifts her hand from my collarbone to the space between us.

  I eye her cautiously. Maybe it’s not a good idea to trust someone who considers herself a witch, but I quickly recognize I don’t have any other choice. I reach into my sweater and pull out a dull coin, pressing it into her cracked and dirty palm. Spindly fingers fold over the small metal piece, like a dying spider's legs.

  “To an Artist,” I say.

  She eyes me with new interest. “Didn' peg ye fer one’t take risks. Ye know there's one out there givin’ faulty tatts?”

  “I don't see what business that is of yours.”

  “Fine,” she says, slipping the coin into the front of her dress. “Long as I get me money ‘fore ye die.”

  “Take me to the best Artist in the Black Market.” It’s true Artists are from Dhan, but somehow, a few citizens have got their hands on the tools and info needed to complete the task.

  “As ye wish,” she says with a facetious bow. We start to make our way through the scattered crowd.

  I follow her down roads, across alleys, and around corners, venturing deeper into the Black Market than I wanted to go, before we emerge on its outskirts. I can make out the top of Corporation Tower from here, the only thing in Dahn visible from Neech. By the time we finally stop, we're in an even more abandoned section of the Outer City and farther east than I expected.

  “Why did we stop?” I ask, looking around into the dark. There are no lights here save one lonely electric bulb hanging in a door stoop.

  “We’re ‘ere,” she says. “Where's the rest of me money?”

  “Where exactly is here?”

  “Second doorway on the left.” She nods in the general direction. It’s the doorway with the light bulb.

  I hand over two more coins, but before I can say anything else, she scuttles away. I try not to think about how I'm going to find my way back home as I take a few cautious steps.

  Flaking bricks and graffiti-littered walls are all I see. Then I come to a worn and splintered door illuminated by the single smudged bulb screwed in directly overhead. It flickers in and out with an annoying buzz.

  I climb the two cement stairs and try to scrounge up more courage. There, scratched on the door’s rough wooden surface, almost invisible, is the symbol of the Corporation. Or rather, a mockery of the Corporation. Instead of three interlocking rings with one at the bottom and two at the top, it's inverted. Two rings at the bottom and one at the top. The Corporation above Neech and Dahn. From that one small act of brazen rebellion, I know this is where I’ll find my Artist.

  I knock on the wood, tentatively at first, and then with more surety. There’s a scrape as something’s drawn back from behind the door.

  “Waddya want?” a gruff voice barks.

  I look up. There's a small open section near the top of the door. Two bloodshot eyes stare down at me.

  “I'm here for a Mark,” I say.

  “Shhh!” he hisses, slamming the window shut and ripping open the door. “You want the Corporation to hear you? Or perhaps just all of Neech?”

  An old man stares at me with a wiry, white beard and matching hair down to his shoulders. His pale blue eyes are lost in a sea of red, and I know that he, too, is a slave to the drug that is so common in our city. His cheeks are hollowed and his face dirty.

  “I'm sorry, I—”

  “Don't stand there wagging your jaw; come inside.” He steps away, leaving just enough room for me to pass. I try not to touch him when I enter.

  We're standing in a dim hall. The floor is covered in pieces of paper and smells like urine. I breathe out my mouth and immediately regret coming. My stomach twists, and I become acutely aware of my surroundings. Of the old man sliding a metal lock into place behind me when he closes the door. Of the silence at being utterly alone with a drug-crazed criminal. Of the knife still hidden up my sleeve.

  He looks me over for a long while. I try not to shudder. “Kitchen’s back here,” he says and walks deeper into the house.

  I don't want to go after him. Something in my head screams what a horrible idea this is, but I take a step anyway. Then another. I have to remember why I’m doing this.

  I follow the Artist into a small room that’s dimly lit. Scuffed, stained, and broken tiles lay in patches on the floor and on the counter tops. They used to be white. I think. Cabinet doors hang from one hinge or are all-together absent. Insects and furry rodents scurry into the darkness when we enter. I cringe. The countertops are piled with rotting mounds of food and empty bottles of alcohol. Even in their condition, it’s a waste. In the center of the room is a small metal table with two chairs. In the center of the table is an ink set and needles giving off a faint glint in the dull gray light that muddies the room.

  The Artist sits and motions for me to take the other seat. He picks a stubby cigarette butt off the floor and touches it with a match which he’s lit
with a swipe along his chin scruff. He takes a deep drag. When I sit, I notice white pills mounded in a small dish next to the ink cartridges.

  He catches me looking and raises a brow. “Want one? Sell it to ya cheaper than you'll find in the Market.”

  I shake my head. “Just the Mark.” I roll up my sleeve and lay my arm on the table in front of him so my tattoo stares up at the ceiling. A small tide of sorrow sweeps over me at never seeing those same symbols again. Then it ebbs back out to sea. I will not mourn the loss of who I was. I need to embrace the future of who I’m going to be.

  “What d’ya want?” he asks, tapping ash from his cigarette onto the floor. I watch the gray cinders sift through the wide cracks in the slats.

  “Something that’ll get me into the Inner City.”

  “Oh, that’s all?” he scoffs. “Tall order, lil’ miss. It's gonna cost you.”

  “I have coins.”

  He nods his head. “Let's see ‘em, then.”

  I pull out the cloth pouch with two dowries inside. Thirty-two pieces in all—after the three I gave the old woman. He takes it from me with stubby fingers and empties it out into his wide palm. He fingers the coins, counting them quickly, then pours them back into the bag.

  “Not enough,” he says, tucking the pouch into the inside of his shirt.

  “What?” I say in a shrill voice. “I’ve just handed over all I have!”

  “Doesn’t change the fact that it’s not enough.” He takes another drag and studies my reaction.

  “Fine; give me back my money, then. I'll find another Artist who’ll do it for what I have.” I stand up, my hand outstretched.

  “No ya won't,” he says with confidence. “I'm the only one in the area. Not good to set up shop with competition to eat away at my profits. Besides, I’m the best there is. Ya don’t want to risk getting’ a faulty one…do ya? ”

  “Give me back my money,” I say with more force. The knife hiding in my sleeve almost begs to be used.

  “Simmer down.” He takes another drag. “We already entered into an arrangement when you stepped through that doorway. This here's my money. And now you owe me the rest.”