by RaeLynn Fry
The Artist studies me more. I don’t know how it worked, but I think he’s actually considering my argument.
“I don’t do nothin’ for free.”
I decide not to remind him that thirty-two pieces doesn’t really constitute free. “Of course not.”
“I’ll be needin’ somethin’ else from ya.”
I’m almost afraid to ask. “What’d you have in mind?”
“That duster of yours is pretty nice. And I can’t remember the last time I had me a mask.”
I stare at two of the most important items I own. “I’ll die without those.”
“Honey, there’s a good chance you’re gonna die when the Corp finds out what you’re doin’.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “If I give you those, we’re square?”
“As square as you can be in the Black Market.”
“Deal.” I hold out my hand.
He looks at my open palm with a smirk and gurgles out a laugh. “Sweet,” he mumbles before taking my hand in his. “So, what do you plan on doin’ once you’re inside Dahn?”
“I'm paying you to fix my Mark, not talk.”
He lets out a husky laugh. “You da boss.” The Artist fingers through a small pile of ink cartridges, putting them back until he finds the one he wants. He clicks the needle to life with the press of a button, and a mechanical buzz fills the small space as the needle starts to pulse faster than my eye can follow.
I've been through this once before—nine years ago—but the bite of the needle is still unexpected. I wince like Jules did only two nights before, but I resolve myself to sit still until this is over. I don't look at what he's doing. I don't want to witness him defiling my Mark. If I do, I'm afraid I'll make him stop.
The only reprieve I get from the pain is when the needle is lifted from my skin, and even then, it isn’t much. My eyes sting from the mix of sharp pain and cigarette smoke, welling them up with tears. I blink them back and remember why I’m here. It helps to choke the pain.
As soon as the Artist goes back to work, the fire returns. It feels like someone is stretching my skin so tight that it’s ripping apart. I feel each cell, each string of nerves, as it tears away from itself. Then there’s a sharp sting as something slices through my skin, like a knife.
I see him from the corner of my eye, engrossed in his job, pulling the needle back, smearing the blood and ink with a cloth to see what he's accomplished so far. He wipes the needle off and goes back to work. It drags and scrapes and scratches across the surface of my wrist, exchanging bits of skin for a crimson smear.
Ten more minutes follow before the Artist sits back and wipes my arm down for the final time with a soft cloth. A surprise I didn't expect from a back alley ink job.
“All right,” he says, grinding his spent cigarette onto the table’s surface. He flicks it onto the floor.
I bring my arm to my lap and find the courage to look and see what it is I've let him do. If it weren't me looking at my Mark I’d think it was the same design. But it is me looking at it. And I know it isn't the same.
There are more swirls than there used to be, and the lines are more dramatic. I can see where he melded the new and the old, and I’m in awe. He’s done an excellent job. I twist my forearm in the light, watching the pigments catch and reflect.
“I added blue nanos. Corp Personnel clearance will get you pretty much anywhere you wanna go in Dahn, even the Corporation’s Tower—should you be stupid enough.”
I look up at him and carefully roll down my sleeve.
“Not yet,” he says and reaches to a table pressed up against the wall a few feet away. He fumbles around in a small box and pulls out some cloth pads and paper tape. “Keep it covered for at least six hours so the nanos can dig deep enough into your blood and fully set. Otherwise it may not work.”
The Artist reaches for my arm and wipes it down again. The bleeding is less, and I'm surprised at how gentle he is. He places the pad on the ink and wraps it with the tape. “This caste will get you back and forth between the cities without as much as a raised brow.”
It’s true. Corporation Personnel were always going back and forth as a part of their duties.
When the bandage is in place and he’s pulled my sleeve back down, he offers one last piece of advice. “Drink as much water as ya can—I know that’s gonna be hard. Messin' with your Mark’s gonna have side effects. The water’ll help flush the toxins this is gonna create. You might feel a little funny, but you won't die.”
“That's comforting,” I say. I stand up, and the room starts to go black around the edges. I grip the edge of the table to keep myself from falling to the floor. I hear the Artist laugh from somewhere far away.
“Told ya,” he says. “Now go home.” He starts to clean up. “Don’t forget to leave your duster and mask.
I gain my footing as much as possible as the room continues to spin and stumble out of the kitchen. I run my fingers down the grimy hall until I reach the door. I almost fall down the front two steps when I leave. I'm glad for the cool air; it shocks me awake a little.
I stagger down the streets, not sure what's wrong but at the same time surprised the side effects have descended so quickly. The streets are emptied; the Black Market has closed. I can make out the dusty gray and pale purple of the sun nearing the horizon in the east. Dawn will be here soon, and Papa and Eta will be awake.
I quicken my pace, stumbling in potholes and slopping through puddles. My mind starts to play tricks on me, and I see dancing light and figures darting about in the shadows. My skin starts to itch from the polluted air, and I can taste my lungs burning with each breath I take. I think I hear footsteps behind me, but when I strain my ears to listen, I can’t find them anymore.
A fire lights in the middle of my body, spreading out through my core, chest, and limbs, ending at my face. I start to sweat everywhere, and all I want to do is throw off my clothes to put out this fire. I take off my sweater and tie it around my waist. It’s not enough. I peel off my shirt so I’m only in my tank top and in a daze, toss it to the side. The heat lessens, but it’s far from gone.
Sweat drips from my face and down my back. What did the Artist do? Fear shoots through my veins, and I start to think that maybe I’ve been given a faulty Mark. But then I remember him telling me to expect a reaction. No matter what happens, it’s too late to go back now.
I don’t recognize where I am. Every building looks like the last black blur. I think this is my neighborhood, but I can’t be certain. And the footsteps I heard earlier are getting louder and faster. Someone’s chasing me.
I run through the streets faster. My toes catching in cracks and potholes, my hands and body slamming into building walls. Then I hear a shout.
“This way!”
My breathing catches and the blood is rushing in my ears. I find a dark crevice next to a building to slide my body into, covering myself the best I can in the tall weeds that surround me. A flash of white catches my eye just as the sound of the racing footsteps is almost on top of me. The sheet from my window hangs just behind me. I made it. I’m home. But I know I can’t climb the rope into safety just yet. If I do that, whoever’s after me will see me and know where I live. I can’t put Papa and Ajna in danger like that. Instead, I try to lie as still as possible while the world around me tips and spins, to wait out my pursuers.
It’s past Curfew, and no one is supposed to be out at night. Which means only one thing. My pursuers are Military Guards. They must have found out about my Black Market tattoo. Or maybe they’re coming for Ajna. Maybe they found out about Sai. The reasons for them chasing me are endless.
The sound becomes almost unbearably loud before I can make them out. The movement becomes clearer, more precise. There are two of them. My eyes dart to a nearby pole where a red light blinks. I take two breaths before it blinks again.
The figures are tall with broad shoulders and thick builds. Men. The crunch of their boots against the chunky asphalt is shar
p and clear as they walk past our apartment. They stop short, turning instead to the one across the street from ours. My heart lets out a silent sigh, but I know the people who live there. I used watch their daughter, Tula.
One of the men knocks loudly on the door, making me jump back with a start. A light flickers on, seeping through the cracks in the cheaply made house, but the door remains closed. They pound on the wood again and I see my neighbors’ drapes twitch. Their door finally opens. Light floods out, illuminating the after-hours guests, threatening to spotlight me. I shrink back.
My neighbor’s voice comes through clear. “May I help you?” His words are strained.
“Raj Verma?” one of the Guards says in a gruff voice.
The man almost takes a step back. I see his head look to each of the Guards before glancing back inside.
“Raj Verma?” the Guard repeats. His hand goes to something at his waist.
“Yes, what’s this about?” Raj finally says.
“We’re here under orders from the Corporation, to detain you for illegal consumption of power, stealing from the good of the majority. We have permission to use unrestrained force if you or your family resists.”
Raj’s eyes flit upwards. I follow his gaze. I can barely make it out, but I’ve seen them enough around Neech to know what he’s looking at. Hidden in with their clothesline, tethered from their roof to a nearby power pole, is a wire used to siphon illegal electricity. Everyone does it. If we didn’t we wouldn’t be able to live.
One of the Guards reaches out and yanks Raj from his doorway, wrenching him into the street. Raj struggles against the Guard. A woman screams from somewhere inside the house, rushing for the doorway. Tula bolts outside after her father.
“Daddy!” she screams.
“No, don’t!” Raj yells.
Her mother reaches out, trying to snatch Tula back inside, but she’s not fast enough. The second Guard pulls something from his belt. There’s a loud crack, like a large tree splitting in two, and a bright flash shoots out from the Guard’s hand before the little girl falls to the ground.
I cover my ears to block out the screams and watch in terror. My heartbeats and breaths are coming so fast, I can’t keep up with them. Fear grips my body. Tula isn’t getting up.
Raj’s fight intensifies. “You bastards! She’s just a little girl!”
Her mom flies to Tula’s sprawled figure. A pool blood is already spreading out from her still body.
“Disgusting Kengaal’s,” the Guard says. He points the weapon at the woman’s head. There’s another sharp crack and burst of light. Her body crumples onto Tula’s.
I try not to scream, biting down on the back of my hand until I taste blood. A familiar pull at the back of my throat starts. I’m going to be sick. I watch the fight leave Raj’s body as he stares down at the still figures of his family.
“Comm this in; get someone here to clean up the trash,” the first Guard says and starts to drag Raj away.
I know I should cry, but my whole body is too numb. My brain too confused by what’s just happened. I hear the last Guard comm in the bodies as he walks away, his figure and his voice fading into the black.
I choke back the sobs that are screaming to escape and bite down on my fist instead. Without taking my eyes from Tula, I reach for a finger hold in the bricks of our house. I find one, but as soon as my nails get a grip, the corroded stone crumbles in my hand. I reach out again, searching, the pads of my fingers scraping and scratching against the rough surface.
Through the sweat, and the heat, and the dizziness, I manage to scale my way up the side of the house to the rope, only slipping twice. I find my rope of sheets with fumbling fingers and somehow manage to get a tight grip.
I clutch it in sweaty hands. I slip a few times, but manage to climb the wall and hoist myself over the sill, rolling onto the floor of my room with a dead thump. I crawl to my bed and pull myself onto the thin mattress, trying to forget what I just witnessed.
My head settles on the pillow as a wave of nausea passes over me. I try to hold back everything that wants to come out and am rewarded. Eventually sleep finds me, but not as quickly and for not as long as I would have liked.
Day four
Thirteen
There's a pounding in my head, like a fist beating a door.
Sun streams in through the small window of my bedroom, and I feel the weak rays spilling over my body, warming my legs.
Sun?
As my mind finds its way through the fog of sleep, I realize the pounding is Papa on my bedroom door. “Karis!” he shouts with each meaty thump.
I sit up, my body stiff and reluctant, the motion lagging behind the movement. I reach back and rub my neck, the events of the night before slowly coming back to me. I feel so strange.
“What?” I say with a dry, cracked throat.
“Get up; you're late for work! The foreman had me come back and find you.”
“I'll be right down.” I’m not worried about being late. I never planned on going in.
“You'd better be, because I don't have time to warn you again. I have to get back the mill,” he says through the door. “Eta’s gone to see some other patients for a bit. There’s a bowl of oats for you on the table. Eat it on your way to the factory. Don’t worry about Ajna, he’s sleeping and’ll be fine alone until Eta comes back.”
“Bye, Papa,” I mumble and push myself to my feet. I can hear him tramp down the stairs and out the front door. The house shudders when he slams it shut. I'm alone; this isn't my original plan—it's better.
My nausea and fever must have passed sometime in the night, and I feel better, if not a little different. I can't place what it is, but my body isn’t quite my own anymore. I walk over to the window, pull back the curtain, and flood the room with more light. I’ve never slept this late, and I feel like I’m already behind.
I rip the paper tape and bandage from my wrist, holding my arm in the sun’s rays. I rotate it, inspecting the Artist's work. The lines are full and bright, and for the first time, I’m able to really appreciate his artistry. The Mark is beautiful, even though the new lines feel and look out of place on my skin.
The only thing I’m taking with me is Journey’s dress and ten pieces I left here for safe keeping. My new Mark may get me into Neech, but I have no idea if it will buy me food or the medicine Eta needs. I curse myself for not asking the Artist. I dig at the bottom of my closet and pull out Journey’s dress. I admire her detail and talent with embroidery before I slip it on. The silk is soft and cool on my skin; I look at myself in the mirror and am stunned.
The blue is so vibrant; it makes my eyes almost glow. My long hair falls back in loose, black waves. That’s what happens when I don't put it up before bed. My skin looks paler, milkier; my cheek bones a little sharper. I wonder if it has something to do with my new Mark or if I’ve just never taken the time to really look at myself before.
I’m fighting down a nervous excitement bubbling up in my stomach. I readjust a few more things, smooth out my dress, and head down the stairs. I stop by Ajna who’s been moved into the guest bedroom. He’s sound asleep and hasn’t gotten any better.
“I’m going to get something to make you well again.” I lean down and kiss his forehead. That’s all I allow myself before I dig in the closet for my mother’s old duster and mask and head out the door. Time to test my new Mark.
I figure it best to test my Black Market tattoo somewhere in Neech and not the Main Gate. That way if it doesn’t work, it won’t raise as much of an alarm as it would at the Main Gate, and I’ll have enough time to get away. I don’t want to get arrested before I even make it into Dahn.
I make my way to the same gate where I waited for Journey when she picked up Kerick’s Jatis gift. Only a few citizens mill around—most of them sanitation workers. Everyone else is already at work. Besides the occasional disinterested glance, I go unnoticed.
My Mark itches, and I glance down, rubbing at it distractedly. Not
hing’s out of place. I study the small cubby where the scanner sits, waiting to read my Mark. Its little eye blinks red, telling me it’s powered up and ready.
I lick my lips and look around one more time, trying to ignore the camera perched at the top of the gate, watching me like a hungry hawk. I think for only a second before I pinch my eyes shut and thrust my arm into the dark cavity. It lets out a a bright, contented chirp and the red eye at the gate turns green.
I release the breath I’ve been holding, long and slow, and roll my shoulders back. Just because the scanner liked my Mark, doesn’t necessarily mean the gate will. I take another deep breath and walk towards a part of Neech I’ve never before been allowed to enter.
The fine hairs at the back of my neck lift, and my scalp tingles. The pale blue light surrounding the arching metal pulses and intensifies in brightness. It buzzes softly with electricity and lets me pass easily through. A smile explodes across my face. It takes everything I have not to jump up and down with excitement.
The Mark works. I can get into Dahn.
“Hang on, Ajna,” I say under my breath. “Hang on.” I pull the hood of my duster over my head and spread my mask so it covers as much of my face as possible.
In a matter of minutes, I’m face-to-face with the ten-foot tall, twelve-foot thick concrete wall that encircles and guards the Inner City from the Outer. The only thing visible of Dahn from here is the reflective spire of the Corporation as it towers over the wall.
The dark granite frame of the Main Gate stretches up in front me. It’s larger than the other gates in Neech and the only one with doors. Thick, heavy doors. I think the whole thing’s meant to be imposing. It works. It stands tall as a firm distinction between the upper and lower Castes, reminding us that there is a difference.
But not today. Today, I’ve torn down any distinction.
The hum of electricity is louder and stronger than the other Outer City gates. It excites me, and my heartbeat quickens, my body anxious to start moving, to be doing something. I’m about to pull one over on the Corporation, and they have no idea. I’m about to tell them I don't agree with the value of worth they’ve given to my life or my brother’s.