by RaeLynn Fry
The carvings in the granite pulse softly as I approach. I know there are more cameras here than at any other gate; I can see them hovering at the edge of the wall like a murder of angry crows. I try not to give them too much of me to see while at the same time trying not to act suspicious. I tuck my chin into my collar and stand dead center before the sealed doors, the electricity making my fancy dress cling to my legs underneath my coat. I feel and hear the voltage crackling through the air, a soft residue in the wispy strands of my hair.
There is no cubby for a scanner at this gate. I’ve seen it used enough to know how it works, though. I face the doors and hold my Marked arm out to the side, away only slightly from my body. A red beam shoots out from the keystone of the gate and sweeps over my wrist twice before vanishing.
Symbols flare to life. They burn a bright blue, almost purple, before dying down back to normal. I look around to see if anyone’s noticed, but the sanitation workers have finished their rounds here, and every other citizen is at work. I stare up at the etchings a little longer, but they’ve gone back to a stagnant, pale blue.
My wrist pricks like it’s being pressed into a bed of needles. I carefully roll up the edge of my sleeve. It looks the same.
A deep rumble vibrates beneath my feet, as if the earth’s moaning. There’s a reluctant crack before the doors start to swing outward with absolute silence, opening to a dark cavity. The doors stand still, and two by two, lights on each side of the tunnel flick on, illuminating one small section of the pathway at a time, all the way to the other end. When all the lights are lit, they expose a smooth, white tunnel with another set of doors at the far end.
I take a calming breath. Throwing my shoulders back and giving myself purpose, I walk through the Main Gate and towards the Inner City. As if I belong.
७
I step a few feet into the cavity of the tunnel, and the doors behind me close as silently as they opened, only a breeze pulling at my duster tells me something’s happened. I keep my head low and my hair hanging around my face in an attempt to avoid the cameras. I keep my pace brisk as I make my way to the other end.
The scratchy inhale of my breath mixes with the swish of my clothes and the hollow sound of my shoes as I walk. The noise might as well be a cannon blast compared to the silence the thick concrete barrier around me creates.
I come to a pair of doors identical to what I’ve just passed through. On the other side lies Dahn. With a shudder that vibrates the ground beneath my feet, the doors start to open. It's a slow and painful process. I swallow down my nerves. Hundreds of thoughts pass through my mind at once, none of them cheerful.
What if the gate announces my caste and there aren't any Corporation Personnel scheduled to enter the city this morning? What if the Corporation’s waiting for me on the other side? What if the Inner City citizens recognize I don’t belong? What if I can't find the medicine Ajna needs?
The gates finish swinging inward, displaying to the Inner City. What I see takes my breath away, and I swear that I'm in another world entirely. Living in Neech—seeing what I've seen—I never could have imagined a view like the one lain out in front of me. My mouth hangs open.
I step through the electric current shrouding the Gate, and the moment I'm inside Dahn, the gates rumble and start to close. I don't pay them any attention, though. I'm too entranced by the city.
Before me is a smooth walkway of polished and leveled concrete that reflects the sun like a stream of grey water. As far as I can see, there are no cracks, no pits, no potholes. The pavement is bright and clean and seems to go to every part of the city.
At the end of the path is the magnificence of the Corporation. The Tower rises out of the ground like sword, bright and lethal. From inside that building, my whole world is decided. The path is lined with trees and flowers so bright and sweet and fragrant.
Citizens pass by at a leisurely pace, talking with one another, glancing in my direction, offering brief smiles or head nods. But no one seems to question my presence.
I walk forward slowly, taking in the flowers and plants. We don't have colors like these in Neech. Greens in every shade imaginable, oranges, reds, pinks, and yellows are what dress the flowers. There are even some I can’t name. The only brown is from the bark of the trees.
All the buildings are intact. There’s not one with a missing wall or an exposed skeleton. Windows are smooth, clear glass. Exteriors are polished and painted. Nothing looks less than brand new. A small stab of anger passes through my heart at what they have but is soon swallowed by the sheer impressiveness of what’s before me.
My gaze travels to the right where small knolls and a large clearing are dressed in the soft green velvet of grass. Grass.
I veer off the walkway and onto the cool soft blades, my hand. We have a substance in Neech we call grass, but it's nothing like this. It's in the pastures for the goats and cows. It's tough and sparse and rough. Its purpose is to offer slim sustenance to our livestock and nothing more. This grass has the purpose of offering pleasure in its simplest form. I have the urge to take off my shoes and walk barefoot through it, but I know I can't.
As I walk through the park, Dahn comes more alive. A breeze blows through the tree leaves, filling the air with the sound of rushing water. Birds sing from somewhere in the branches. Birds. Families sit on blankets in their fine clothes, eating spreads of food. Children run and throw balls back and forth. There’s laughter, a sound that’s almost foreign to my Outer City ears.
I walk on, nodding to a few people who acknowledge me with smiles. I try not to draw too much attention, but so far, it seems as if I fit right in. My breathing starts to even out and I allow myself to relax a little. I pass by Dahn’s square, a large cobbled patch in the middle of the park, surrounded on the back and sides by large shade trees. So different from our rustic, exposed platform we use for our town gatherings.
As I cross through the park, the sounds of a living city weave in between rising buildings. Talking, yelling, laughing, haggling grow louder and louder.
I round a corner and come to the mouth of Dahn’s market. It’s easily twice as large as ours. The shops are bigger and finer. The wood’s polished and cut to exact measurements, not slapped together out of necessity. Each one is painted white with bright banners declaring their wares. Fruits and vegetables are piled high and shining with intense color and smooth in the sunlight. Fabrics in jeweled tones beg to be touched and purchased. Stands with wares coated in bronze, silver, and gold are so blinding, I can’t look at them directly. There’s much to choose from, and the selection is perfection.
Then I understand.
This is the Outer City’s food. Our apples and lettuce. It’s the best our harvests have to offer. The food we tithe to the Corporation. And Dahn’s selling it. For a profit. Papa’s lucky to get an apple twice a week, if that. We’re barely surviving on what the Corporation lets us keep while Dahn gets enough of a surplus to sell? My insides are boiling.
I take a breath and try to walk off my anger, biting my tongue to keep from saying something. I have to remember why I’m here. As I make my way through the market, the unassuming glances I’d first received are growing fewer and further apart. I’m starting to get lingering looks of confusion. Pocketed conversation behind shielded hands. My heartbeat quickens. They know. They must know.
I look around, trying to decide where I should run to and am on the lookout for Guards. Then I understand what they’re gossiping about. I haven’t seen a single citizen with a mask or duster on. They’re all bare armed and breathe the air freely. No one must have thought it strange to see me wearing these things when I first emerged from the tunnel, but now that I’m in the city, it’s out of place.
I pull the mask off and shrug my duster from my shoulders as if I meant to keep it on all along. When I think I’m not being watched, I toss the bundle behind a busy vendor’s stall and keep walking. I take a cautious breath. The air is sweet and clean. It actually feels good in my lung
s. I strain my ears and fail to find the familiar sound of filters anywhere. How are the citizens of Dahn able to breathe?
I pass a stand of bright pink and yellow apples, and the seller’s conversation catches my attention.
“The selection isn't as good this season,” he says to another man. I stop to inspect the fruit. “My sales are hurting because of it. This time last year, I had at least four varieties of apples.” He gestures to his display. “This time, only two. And they're not even the best I've tasted.” The gruff man sneers.
This year’s drought was worse than past years. He’s lucky he got any harvest. I don’t know what he’s complaining about; by the size of his belly, he’s had his fill of more than just apples. I grind my teeth.
“I know what you mean," the man he’s talking to says. “It's the same thing with the meat. The quality just isn't there. It’s tough and lean. No fat at all. How do they expect me to make a living?” The butcher spits at the paved ground in disgust.
“They’re lazy. I’ve heard it’s like pulling teeth for the Corporation to get them to show up for their work shifts on time. All they care about is themselves.” The vendor leans close to his partner and says in a lower voice, “It wouldn't surprise me if they're doing this on purpose.”
My blood’s at a rolling boil the instant the words are out of his mouth. We’re working our hands to the bone, extra shifts, giving more of our crops to the Corporation for Dahn and less and less for ourselves. The Corporation’s killing us, and they think we’re doing this on purpose?
“I know what you mean,” the butcher says. “I don't know how many times I've Petitioned the Corporation for increased rations so I can satisfy my customers. I get turned away each time with the same excuse: they can't give us what doesn't exist.”
It takes all the strength I have to ignore their comments and continue walking through the market. Tithes have been increased twice this year. If the Corp isn’t giving them to Dahn, where are they going?
The deeper I venture into the market, the more crowded it becomes. The sun climbs higher in the sky, and the open-air marketplace is getting stuffy from bodies and warmth. Voices are a droning buzz with occasional shouts and laughter to break it up. It’s hard to walk a straight line without bumping into someone, but I do my best to stay invisible, my head down as much as possible.
I find a booth of clothing announcing the finest artisanship available. I walk up, fingering through the soft fabric of the shirts and dresses. Each seamstress has a signature in the way they embroider, and the signature on this rose-red dress is as familiar as my own. Journey made it.
I pull it from its position between two others as if it were something breakable. It unfurls like a pair of wings, almost reaching the ground.
“You put that dress to shame, miss,” a voice says. I lower the garment and see a middle-aged woman staring at me with a smile that crinkles the corner of her eyes.
Laying the dress over my arm, I try to offer a similar expression, but it’s hard. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” I say. “This is well-made, and the color is none like I’ve seen.”
The woman reaches across her table of wares and slips the dress from my arm, laying it across the other items. She peeks inside the neckline. “Just as I thought. This was made by one of my most popular seamstresses. I have some customers
that won’t look at anything else.”
“Really?” I raise my brows.
“Oh yes, but like I said, a pretty young lady like yourself needs something very special.” She rummages around her inventory, ducking below the counter when she doesn’t find what she wants. I look around nervously. I don’t want to be here much longer. I need to get back to Neech before Papa notices I’m gone. The woman resurfaces, slightly redder in the face. “Here we are.” She hands over a dark green, cap-sleeved dress. “This is better.”
I take it in my hands. It is beautiful. “How much?” I ask out of curiosity.
Her eyes light. “Only seventy-five credits.”
“Seventy-five?” My voice rises, and she glances around nervously. I take a breath. “That’s a little out of my price range,” I say with control.
The woman snatches it out of my grip and clears her throat. “That’s a steal for a dress of this caliber from seamstress 2-2-9.”
My teeth lose their grip on my tongue. “She’s not seamstress 2-2-9. Her name’s Journey.” Before I can pay for my mistake, I turn on my heel and storm away from the booth, ignoring the shocked looks of the other vendors and nearby shoppers.
After a few deep breaths, I reset my thoughts as to why I’m here. I needed to find a medicinal booth and see how much Morrow root will cost me. I hope it isn't more than the ten pieces I have with me, but with the overpriced cost of Journey’s dress, I have a feeling ten pieces won’t even make a dent. I’ll just have to make peace with having to steal it.
At some of the more popular stands—bread, eggs, dairy—the crowd goes three or four citizens deep, each person shouting over the other, waiving their hands to get the vendors’ attention. I notice one that's completely empty. An herb stand. I know Morrow is regulated for Neech, but maybe it isn’t in Dahn. I inspect the herbs and medicine lying out on the wooden counter.
The woman is old, probably around the same age as Eta, her silver hair swept up into a loose knot at the top of her head. When she smiles, she reminds me of a grandma.
“Is there anything I can help you find?” she says.
I smile back. “Only looking for now,” I say. I study her selection of sage, yarrow root, and rosehip, but no Morrow. I head to the other side of her small stand, to see if there’s anything hidden there.
The woman leans forward over her table, looking past me. “What in the world’s going on over there?”
Shouts start to erupt in the air.
I turn my head and dissect the dense crowd with my eyes, trying to see what's causing the commotion. There’s a jolt of movement a little deeper in. I stand on my toes to get a better look. I can just make out a person weaving their way through the crowd at a run. I watch as shoppers are pushed aside before they turn around to yell at the culprit.
The hooded perpetrator bursts through a crack at the edge of the crowd. He’s running at an impressive speed, looking back over his shoulder, shouting something. My attention darts to the men chasing him. A fat man in a bloodied apron, a cleaver raised high in the air, and two Military Guards close behind that.
“Stop!” a Guard shouts. The soldier looks angry enough that he might let the butcher use the knife. The runner’s a good hundred or so feet ahead of them, and even
though no one makes a move to stop him, his lead won't last for long.
My attention shoots back to the runner. The hood is still pulled up over his head, and he’s looking down at the ground. I’m directly in the path of his full-on sprint, and he doesn’t even see me.
“Move!” the herbalist shouts at me. I can feel her fingernails clawing at my arms.
I try to jump out of the way, but I’m not quick enough; his body slams into mine, knocking the air from my lungs. He's on top of me, and we’re sent crashing and tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs. My head collides with the corner of the stand, and stars swim around my vision. I reach back and rub at the already growing lump at the base of my skull. I wince and groan when my fingers brush over the tender spot.
The runner swears loudly, and in the melee, his hood gets tossed back, exposing a mess of blond hair.
“Outta my way!” His head whips around, and he looks at me with sharp eyes. As soon as we see each other, the anger in his face melts, and a blinding smile appears. “Karis!” he says with a half laugh. “We really have to stop meeting like this.”
Ethan springs to his feet and grabs my hand, pulling me up next to him. In one quick movement, he yanks the hood back over his face and glances over his shoulder at his pursuers. I’m having a hard time following his gaze, as my vision is trying to blur, but I can see the men
are only a couple booths away, the crowd slowing them down.
“Let's go!” His grip tightens round my fingers as he pulls me through the crowd, away from the fat man with the knife.
Fourteen
“Wait!" I say between gasps of air as we dart in and out among the crowd. “What are you doing?” I’m having a hard time planting my feet in a straight line, and there’s a pressure in my head as if it’s being squeezed in a vice.
“Trying not to get caught.” His voice flies back to me, quick and urgent. With a little bit of...amusement?
I turn my head and try to make out the figures chasing us. I can’t see the butcher or the Military Guards anywhere. The crowd must be getting too thick for them to keep up.
“I think they're gone,” I gasp.
We've been running longer than I'm accustomed to, and a sharp pain has started to dig its way into my side. And I might as well be sucking air through a straw for as hard as it is for me to breathe.
Ethan slows to a jog and then, thankfully, a walk. Finally, we stop all together, well outside the market. I rest my hands on my knees and bend over, panting until the stitch in my side has unknotted.
When I’ve gained my breath, I look around. “What is it with you and alleys?”
The corner of his mouth tugs up into a slight smile. He's impressed with himself, I can see that, but for what, I haven't the slightest clue.
“Yeah!” he yells into the empty alley, fist in the air. I jump a little at his sudden outburst. “That was great!” His half smile has turned into a whole one, and there's something in his eyes. Addiction. To the adrenaline, I’m guessing.
His hands are on his hips, and his chest rises and falls with his heavy breaths. A question pops into my mind then. What kind of person likes being chased by Military Guards and an angry fat man with a very sharp knife? Easy, the kind I should stay far away from.