Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive. (10 page)

“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.

He is right though; they look exhausted. There are four women and two men, all possibly in their thirties. Their clothes are worn and dirty, their hair hasn’t been washed in weeks. Their faces tell of a long, rough journey even before they speak. Two of them are walking awkwardly; limping, and another carries dark bruises on his face. Their cheeks are painfully sunburned, their chapped lips swollen and dry.

The fish is done within minutes and their hungry eyes are drawn by the delicious smell. They eat quickly, their glances darting this way and that, as though expecting to be interrupted at any moment. I’ve never seen such uneasiness, and it’s infectious. I find myself checking the landscape, and wishing for the reassurance which the thermal imager brings.

While eating they appear to relax a little, but still regard us suspiciously.

“How far have you come?” Hayes enquires, amicably.

The younger man seems to be the spokesman. The others look to him, and he answers us, “Through the pass. From Tika.”

Hayes has told me to let him do the talking, but my curiosity gets the better of me. “Why?” I ask.

“Invasion. Those damn soldiers,” he replies bitterly. “You haven’t seen any have you?” He suddenly regards us closely, as though we could be hiding an army in our back packs.

Captain Alex Hayes laughs easily and explains that we’ve come from Sector Four, and have seen no Polis presence since there. That we have a three-day pass and are turning back later today to return to the hub.

I wonder what would happen if I told the traveller that the relaxed man sitting opposite him is Polis. There are six of them… maybe I could get them to do my dirty work, or at least escape in the confusion. Then I sigh inwardly as I appraise them. There may be six of them, but they are tired, hungry and physically weakened. They don’t look like they could truss up a chicken, much less a Polis soldier. No, alerting them to his true identity would only put them in danger, and make the chances of my escape tomorrow much less likely. I’m on my own.

“You fought?” Hayes motions their injuries.

“No,” the man replies ruefully, “we left before the army arrived. We were robbed.”

Hayes’s eyebrows fly up. “By who?”

“We were eight when we started. They took our weapons, horses and hunting gear and left us behind.”

“You were robbed by someone from your own group?” I ask in confusion.

The man nods bitterly. “Through the mountains a couple were lagging behind, and they wanted to move faster.” Two of the women look at each other guiltily. “We told them to go on ahead, but they wanted our supplies as well.”

“Where are you headed?” Hayes asks the travellers.

I can see by the looks on their faces and the sideways glances that there is dissent amongst the group. The spokesman shrugs. “We set out for the south, for Rakiura. But now…” he shrugs.

The name Rakiura is unfamiliar to me. “Why Rakiura?” I ask, hoping to gain more information.

“They say it’s still free,” he lifts his chin defiantly. I picture the map in my mind, sectors in pink. Deep red, far to the south… could he be meaning the island off the southern coast? If so, I now understand the reason for their divided goals. They have only come a fraction of the way, and look ready to give up.

Hayes’s voice softens. “Life in the hubs isn’t that bad,” he says. “It’s safe, at least. There’s food, and shelter -”

The man cuts him off. “So speaks the Polis pet!
Hubbite
!” he swears, and spits into the dirt.

Hayes says nothing to that, and there is an awkward silence as the travellers finish eating.

One of the women looks very uncomfortable, and I see her watching me very closely before addressing the leader. “Think about it, Pero. We need to be practical.”

He shakes his head and grunts. He stands and moves down to the water, leaving the women and the older man with us. When he’s gone, the others seem more willing to talk.

The woman who spoke up before addresses me. “What’s it really like?” she asks.

“It’s…” I struggle to find words. I’m rather bewildered by her interest, and I’m not sure what she wants to know. “It’s all I’ve ever known,” I confess.

“Being fed and cared for like pets; bred as livestock,” another of the women mumbles through cracked lips. “I couldn’t stand it.”

“Hang on,” I begin, alarmed. “That’s how you think we live? Like livestock?” I shoot a glance at Hayes, but his face is carefully neutral.

The older man intervenes. “We left as soon as we heard their army had entered our region. It’s been coming for months; they’ve been scouting further and further west of their city.”

“Was there much resistance?” Hayes’s question reminds me of his professional interest.

The man shrugs. “I know there were many prepared to fight for their independence. I don’t know though. We left before it could come to that.” He sighs. “In all honesty, Tika wasn’t a peaceful place to live even before the soldiers. There were many ready to embrace the Polis way of life. Protection from the raiders - ”

“You won’t make it to Rakiura,” Hayes interjects. “But you could reach Greytown.”

The weary travellers are looking at each other. I get the feeling they are very close to giving in and heading to a hub, but that their direction depends on the younger man.

I feel extremely conflicted about the group and their destination. On one hand, I always felt trapped living in the hub, my life under complete control of the Polis. I dreamed of the possibilities outside the hub and the chances of survival in the wilderness. However, on the other hand, this group is not one made for survival in the bush. They are artisans or teachers, perhaps farmers, but certainly not hunters or soldiers. They would not survive another week out here, much less reach the island in the south.

Looking at them, comparing myself to them, makes me realise just how different I am. Different not only from them but also the other hubbites in Greytown. I’m different in a way that has less to do with my mark, and more to do with my upbringing. Grandad made sure that I did not settle into a contented hub life, instead teaching me skills which other hubbites never had. Even the fact that he encouraged me, behind closed doors, to question our way of life sets him apart as a parent. What was his reasoning? Was he equipping me for eventualities such as freedom from the hub? Did he always intend for me to leave?

Later when we part company with the travellers, they head south-east and we continue north. Hayes has described the quickest route to Greytown and it looks likely that they will follow his advice, even though the younger man is reluctant.