Outcast: A Corporation Novel (The Corporation) Page 2

  I sit on the edge of the chair and lean forward, stretching out my hand to rub at his fingers. His skin moves with the towel, preventing my efforts from having any noticeable result. I'm forced to touch him, to pick up his hand with my free one to hold the skin taught.

  I drag my chair across the floor and take his hand in mine. It's warm. I don't know why I didn't think of that, and it’s an unexpected sensation. His palm is rough and calloused, like he's been doing manual labor all Of his life. I scrub again, and the dirt comes off a little easier than before. I can see a patch of cleaner skin underneath the marks of the towel and I realize that he's a lighter tone than I originally thought, there's that much dirt on him.

  “I don't know why Papa's making me do this,” I say. “We need this water to survive, and it's not like bathing you is going to make you magically wake up, or anything.”

  I give him a sideways glance through my hair, to make sure it isn’t doing just that. I wait a few minutes before I speak again. Not for the first time, I wonder why I'm talking to him; he can’t hear me.

  “A very evil man has taken my brother, and instead of doing what I'm supposed to be doing—going in and getting him—I've been assigned to take care of you and give you baths. Even you would see the ridiculousness in that.”

  For the rest of my time with the Untouchable, I scrub and wipe away as much dirt as possible. By the time I'm done, the towel is covered in grime and the back of his hand and fingers are clean. I push the chair back, grab the empty bowl and dirty towel, and stand.

  “That's all for this morning. I'll see you tonight.” I walk to the door. With my hand on the knob, I turn and look at the Untouchable one last time. “I might as well call you something other than Untouchable all the time.” I think about it for a second and then give a crafty smile. “I think Gandā will do.” I open the door and step through. “Until tonight, Gandā.”

  When I get downstairs, the fire’s already going and porridge is steaming in two bowls on the table. Another giveaway that things are far from normal. I’ve always been the one to start the day, not Papa.

  “Mornin’. Hungry?” Papa’s tending the fire, but stops briefly to glance up at me. “How's the Untouchable?” His eyes are weary, but somehow, they manage to get even wearier when they take me in. Gone are the dresses, slipper shoes, combed shiny hair. I’m solidly embracing the functionality of loose pants and shirts, boots, and the simplicity of whipping my hair up into ponytail.

  “Gandā,” I say as I sit down at the table, trying to ignore his look of frustration.

  “What?”

  “I've named him.”

  “And you chose Gandā? He's not a pet, Karis. You can't treat him like one.”

  “I know he's not a pet, Papa. And the name is perfect. It suits him very well.”

  He sighs and I try to ignore the disappointment that’s seeping my way as I sit down. “It seems that name would suit you, too,” he says.

  We have this same discussion every morning, and I’m sure he’s not eager to have it again. I know I’m not. He thinks that because I look the way I look, and that I don't put as much effort into my appearance as I once did, that I don't care anymore. But that's not it at all. Other things are more important to me now than dresses and pretty hair. I hate this new us, but I can't stop it from happening.

  I play our usual conversation over in my mind as I stare down at the lumpy, gray breakfast.

  We need to keep livin’ our lives. The Outer City doesn’t stop just because Ajna’s not here.

  And we can’t pretend like everything’s normal.

  That’s not what I’m sayin’, Karis.

  How do you even know he’s safe? We have no idea what they do to Sponsors, not really.

  We have to believe he is, and do what we can to get him back.

  I’m glad we’re in agreement, because that’s what I’m doing.

  Not brushin’ your hair won’t stop the Corporation. Complainin’ constantly about helpin' with the Untouchable won’t stop them, either. And neither will actin’ like a brat.

  Having pointless meetings and not taking action doesn’t stop the Corporation, either.

  Ethan says—

  His brother isn’t the one who’s been taken!

  He cares for him as if he were.

  It’s different.

  Only because you make it that way.

  Instead, Papa says, “How's our guest doin'?”

  I stab at the slop in my bowl with my spoon for a little while. “Still sleeping,” I mutter. I can feel Papa staring at me with a look on his face similar to displeasure mixed with frustration. I know he’s going over the same conversation I just did.

  He lets out a heavy sigh, our main language of conversation, lately. “What do you want me to do, Karis?” His fingers ball into fists on the table. He looks at me like I'm a stubborn Candidate who's disobeying him for the hundredth time. “Tell me what it is that I should be doin’ or could be doin’ better than what I'm doin’ now. Tell me what you would do if you were in my shoes and one child had been Sponsored and your other one is takin’ actions to bein’ taken from you, too. After your wife had been taken, as well.”

  His words hit me where I know he wants them to, but I am just as stubborn as he is. “Oh, I dunno, how about actually doing something to get Ajna back?” I’m clutching my spoon in my hand, my grip so tight that the rough edges are digging into the pads of my fingers. “Is this what you did when they came and took Mama from us? Just sat around doin’ somethin’?” My heart pinches painfully. I shouldn’t have said that. I stare hard at the worn table top, too prideful and angry to apologize.

  “You think I'm not doin’ anythin’?” He’s ignoring my words, for now. But I can hear the pain in his voice. “You think I've just forgotten about your brother?” Papa’s gripping his spoon tight too, his knuckles are turning white. “About your mama?”

  “You act like you did before, like everything's normal. Eat breakfast, watch the Bulletins, go to work, come home. I hardly ever see you at the meetings.” I look up at him. “You aren't acting like you want to get him back.” My heart pounds through my veins. I can feel it beating in my wrists and ears.

  “We can't go in there, weapons drawn, like you want to do. We have to be careful. We have to have a plan because you know good and well that Akin has his. And it will be a damn good one. Ethan’s right, we have only one chance. “

  “That is so ridiculous! Everyone says that, but it's just an excuse to do nothing. To let the Corporation take everything we have!” Our voices are rising over one another.

  “But they already have done that, Karis!” Papa shouts. And then he quiets. “Don't you see?” There’s a new look in his eyes. He's given up. Not on the situation, but on me. “The Corporation took your mother. Akin took your brother. And you made a deal to be with him. I have nothin’ anymore. After you leave, that's it. I'm alone. So you see, I have nothin’ to lose. There's nothin’ they can threaten me with to get me to stop fightin’.”

  “Then do that! Fight! Let's get Ajna back.”

  “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. An
d 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.