Outcast: A Corporation Novel (The Corporation) (3 page)

“I'm so tired of the same ol' arguments, Karis. I'm weary. Of it all.” He takes a long, slow breath. “Eat up before it gets cold,” he says in a soft voice.

“I'm not all that hungry.” I take a reluctant bite and try not to glance at Ajna’s empty seat. At the scratched chicken in the surface of the wood. It’s too quiet in here. I put my spoon down. “I should get going.” I push back my chair and stand.

“You haven’t even heard the Bulletin, yet.” Papa reaches for our old television set, flipping it on.

“Does it even matter? It’s just going to say the same thing it always does. Lies. Besides, I need to meet Journey.”

“She wouldn’t have left home yet. It’s still about an hour from startin’ bell. People are disappearin', Guard patrols have increased—it's not safe to be alone right now, especially at dark.”

“I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. Besides, it's the men that are missing. No women.” I walk over to the door and shrug on my duster, buttoning it up all the way. “I’ll wait for her.” I wind a rough wool scarf around my neck and pull on some gloves.

“Karis,” I can tell Papa’s on the verge of just giving up completely. I wouldn’t blame him. In a way, I’m already there.

“See you at the meeting tonight, Papa.”
If you even bother to come,
I don’t add. I snap the elastic bands of the mask behind my ears and close the door behind me.

७

I wrap the scarf tighter around my neck and clench my muscles to try and keep my body as warm as possible against the strong chill that's finding its way through the worn fibers of my clothes. I hate fighting with Papa, but it's become so normal now that anything else feels out of place. I hope it doesn't stay like this. I push the thought away. I don’t need to be stressing about that relationship like I do with Ethan and mine’s.

The thought of Ethan sends a wave of heat through my body, but not in a good way. I clench my jaw involuntarily. Every time I bring up going into the Inner City, he shoots me down. Tells me that we're not prepared, that there's too much to do here, first. It's like he doesn't care that Ajna's in a pit of vipers, being raised by the biggest, baddest wolf possible. I'm at odds with everyone lately and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was me and not them.

I have about an hour before I’m supposed to meet Journey. But Papa was wrong, I won't be early, I'll be right on time. I go around the corner of our house to our filter. I bend low and pull out my flashlight. I don’t go anywhere without one, now. That and a small knife for protection and screws. I shine the thin beam of light at the bottom corner of the filter, near the house. I unscrew a small metal cylinder, about the size of my two thumbs side by side, and glance inside. Still empty. Good.

This is what I do in my spare time: go around Neech and check as many filters as I can, taking out whatever is inside put by the Corporation, and collecting them for Eta to study. It's a daunting task, there are more filters in Neech than I care to count. The Corporation is making rounds of their own, replacing some of the ones I've taken. I'm doing my small part in protecting people from getting Maute. And even if my efforts save just one life, it's worth it. I check a dozen filters before I head to my next destination, cylinders clinking softly in the bag across my body.

I glance over my shoulder into the dark, still streets. I'm the only one out. This is good. I don't need an audience for what I'm going to try. But I can't help but be overwhelmed by the feeling that there's someone out there I can't see, someone who's following me. I've been carrying that feeling around with me whenever I step outside. Every time it tickles my neck, I search the shadows, the dark, the streets, the faces of the people around me for anything out of the ordinary, out of place, or overly familiar. Every time, I come up empty-handed. Just like now.

Papa was right, but I’d never tell him so. It’s not safe for me to be out alone right now. It’s not safe for anyone. People have been going missing. At their work shift one day, and then, overnight, just gone. It’s the strangest and scariest thing. It’s only been men, but it has everyone on high alert. There are more Guards present, making our lives hell, trying to find out what’s going on. If anyone has any theories, they’re keeping their mouths firmly clamped because I haven’t heard any—not even from my sewing circle.

I can't see far, but I can't see anything in what I can see. I roll my shoulders back a few times, trying to get rid of the feeling. 

I weave around chunks of fallen buildings and skirt darker stains in the already dark road—I know they're potholes. What I don't know is how far down they go. I try to avoid the crunch of glass when I see the jagged angles and edges glint with captured moonlight.

Finally, I'm here. The same Gate I waited outside when Journey went to pick up Kerick's Jatis gift. That feels like a lifetime ago. Someone else’s lifetime.

I stare up at the large, stone and metal structure. The pale blue light pulses brightly in the inky predawn morning. My skin prickles as the small hairs all over my body tingle and lift. But not from the electricity. I don't even register that anymore. This jolt pulsing through my body is pure adrenaline. My breathing quickens and my mouth becomes too wet but at the same time, unbearably dry. I purse my lips and clench and unclench my fists a few times, trying to pump up my courage.

I have an untested theory. I think that when I almost died from my faulty Mark, it changed. I don't think it works the same way anymore and I have yet to decide if that's good or bad. And to what extent it’s “broken” I have no idea. But I'm not here to test just
my
Mark.

Not soon after I woke up from being sick, a small package was delivered along with our firewood one day. It was nestled into the stack, it's brown, inconspicuous paper wrapping the perfect camouflage against a sideways glance or brief scan. I'm always the one who brings the firewood into the house after the ration delivery, it's my chore. Papa never did it. Neither did Ajna. It's always only been me. That’s how I knew the present was mine.

I slipped it into my pocket, put the firewood in the corner of our living room, and hurried into the bathroom, where I locked the door behind me. Sitting on the edge of the tub, I looked at the parcel carefully; turning it around, end over end, looking for clues. I couldn’t find any. No writing, no name.

The paper was wrinkled and blotched with what looked like oil smudges. I ran my finger along the seam on the underside, splitting the paper apart, and gently lifted the lid. A folded piece of paper rested on top. I opened it.
“For your endeavors, as fruitless and suicidal as they may be.”
I set it aside and looked at the thin paper that wrapped whatever this gift was. The palms of my hands had begun to sweat and my neck was getting hot. I rubbed my thumbs over the pads of my fingers and slowly peeled back the paper.

Sitting in the box, wrapped and displayed as if it were a priceless gem, was a rough cut piece of what looked like leathered human skin. I knew it was human because I was staring down at a Mark. And not just any Mark. By the swirls and lines, this was an Upper Caste Mark. It had been on the wrist of someone important. And now it was sitting in a box on my lap.

There were a handful of people who knew I had a Black Market Tattoo, and even fewer who knew it had been faulty. Whose arm had this come from? I felt my stomach boil and toss a little, but I closed my eyes, took a few breaths and the feeling passed. As disgusting and disturbing as this
gift
was, it was a gift. I couldn't throw it away, it could prove useful. And I refused to think long enough about it to realize what kind of person it made me. 

I find myself in the same place I did three months ago—standing in front of a Gate, testing my Mark, hoping it works.

This isn’t to say I’ve left the Mark untested. One of the first things I did was trying it at the Factory; after all, I needed to get into my locker and into the building.

Testing it there proved to be easy, with all the bodies and the rush of getting to stations on time, no one was overly interested in what I was doing. Not even Journey. Of course, I never accessed my locker in front of her. To my amazement and relief, it worked. Every time.

So here I am, at a Gate I've never been able to access, to test two Marks. The light at the top of the arc throbs a pale blue. I lock my elbows down by my side and stride to the reader. Without thinking about it any longer, I jam my arm into the cubby and wait for the red laser to read my Mark. As dangerous as this is, if it works, the benefits will far outweigh the risks.

Nothing happens.

I take my arm out, brush off my Mark, wipe the inside of the scanner with my sleeve, and try again. Nothing. My heart and breathing pick up. I lick my lips.

Does this mean what I think it does? Is my Mark broken completely, or is it just the Gate? There's only one way to find out for sure.

I step back and look up at the shadowed structure. It might as well be the mouth of a monster, waiting to swallow me. I rub at my arm with the opposite hand out of habit, taking a step towards the Gate. Then another. And another. Deliberately, I move my feet until I'm standing in a section of the city I shouldn’t be in.

I turn around and look at the Gate. It's still pulsing that waiting, patient, dull blue. My stomach starts to bubble with my nerves and a little bit of excitement. I still don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. But it definitely is a thing. I'd have to test the other Gates, of course, but I think this means that I’m not restricted by anything anymore. This information would be priceless to anyone who finds out. Especially the Corporation.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the wrapped Mark. I'm going to have to touch it, and I'm not looking forward to that. I take a deep breath and grab it with my thumb and forefinger, telling myself that it's something else I'm lifting, and not the skin of another person who had probably died so I could have this. I lay it in the palm of my other hand and stiffen my fingers, trying to create some sort of barrier between me and the dead flesh, like if I'm still enough, it won't count as me touching it.

I slip it into the cubby. There's a second delay before a red laser sweeps the Mark, once, twice, three times before it lets out a satisfied chirp and the Gate hums with acceptance.

I stand there, stupefied. I look down at the Mark. I'm about to scan it again, to make sure it wasn't some sort of fluke—even though I know it wasn't—when I hear gravely voices floating to me on the cold breeze. I scurry to the other side of the Gate, back where I started. I see a pair of men walking towards me. As the dawn's light grays up the sky, I can make out the uniforms of Military Guards.

Great, just what I need.

I wrap the Mark back up in the paper with stuttering fingers and jam it back into my pocket. I pull the hood of my duster down over my face as much as possible, thrust my hands in my pockets, and walk, head down, to my meeting spot with Journey—a good ten minutes away. I try to walk as quickly as possible without looking suspicious, when I make my way past them. One is young, barely into his post; the other is older—around Papa’s age. The Gate is shutting down and the blue is fading as they walk up.

I almost make it.

“You, citizen. Stop.”

I pretend not to hear and keep moving, my breathing and steps speeding just a little.

“I said,
stop
.” He sounds more irritated than warranted and I can't ignore that command again. My boots stop where they are, like they're sticking in drying cement. “Turn around,” he says.

I take a breath. I can’t run, they’ll catch me, and then there will be real hell to pay. But maybe they’ll be so sidetracked with my escape attempt that they won’t get around to checking my Mark.

Tight fingers grip my upper arm, turning me around with a jerk. The one holding me is the newbie, about my height, and the world to prove in his eyes. I recognize his dark hair and puffed out chest. I don't come face to face with many Guards, so when I do, their features are seared into my brain, the way his is. He's the young Guard that had the same something to prove back when Rebeka helped Ethan and me escape the Inner City; the night she tricked him. I can only pray that he doesn’t recognize me.

“Didn't you hear what he said? Or are you just stupid?”

“Sorry,” I mumble, keeping my eyes glued to the abused road. There are chunks of glass here. If things get real bad, I can use it as a weapon. Why did I have to test my Mark today?

“Where are you headed?” It's a deeper voice that says this, the older Guard.

“I—”

“Look at me when I'm speaking to you.” I can feel his eyes burning into me, watching my every move. Or lack thereof.

I drag my head up and meet the eyes of my interrogator. They're outlined with hard, deep lines, set in skin toughened by the sun. Behind them I see a bit of weariness and boredom. A career Guard. This is not good. “Sorry, sir,” I mumble.

“I'll ask again—where are you headed?”

“To work, sir.” My eyes flit to the ground and back to his face, trying to avoid direct eye contact.

“At this hour?”

“Yes, sir. I work over in the Industrial Section, as a seamstress. It takes a little bit of time to get over there.” I glance around. We’re still alone, but not for long.