Caste (The Corporation) Read online

  “Remember the breathing exercises Eta gave you,” I say.

  He hates those exercises, but Eta says if he doesn’t control his stress and temper, someday he’ll pay the price. So, he breathes in, holds it five counts, and then slowly exhales. He repeats the pattern until his face returns to its normal shade. His feelings, though, are becoming more and more common in Neech. Even if nobody’s saying so. Including me.

  The teakettle's sharp whistle stings the air. I get up and grab a thick towel from the sink, carefully lifting it from its hook above the fire. Steam rises up from my thermos as I pour hot water into my loose tea.

  "Want some?" I ask, not turning around.

  “No,” he growls, still trying to calm his temper. “Get on to work, but don't stay too late; the Jatis is tonight.” The air whistles as he sucks his breaths through gritted teeth in five second intervals.

  “That's tonight?” I groan. The days have been melting into one another lately. I could have sworn I had another day at least before the festival.

  “Kerick's getting his Mark tonight!” Ajna says—something important enough to rip his attention from the newsletter. He's already flipped it over, having devoured the entire front page. "And I get mine next month. Then there’s no more secondary classes cuz I’ll be a man." He smiles, two teeth missing front and center, and paws his bangs out of his eyes.

  Papa wanted me to cut his hair. I estimate the energy required in getting him to sit still, figure in the time I’ll spend fighting him off while I’m cutting—trying not to stab him—and decide that the length of his hair is just fine.

  “You have to be there, Karis,” Papa says. Only he would know I’d consider skipping a Jatis for work. “You know the Corporation’s rules.”

  “Yeah, well, it's a stupid rule.” I screw the lid of my thermos on tight.

  “This guy thinks so too.” Ajna waves the newsletter in the air.

  I tuck my thermos into my bag, along with a meager lunch of a stale sandwich and overripe fruit, and kiss Papa and Ajna on the tops of their heads. “See you tonight.” I grab a facemask from the hook by the front door and slip it on. Eta says medics used to wear masks like these all the time to keep germs out of their bodies, back Before.

  “We're meetin’ the Cambrais and Maliks in the square a half hour before the festival. Make sure you’re home in enough time to get ready.” Papa comes up and puts my knit cap over my head, pulling it down over my eyes and ears.

  “Alright, alright.” I readjust the hat and pull my duster over my sweater, buttoning it all the way to my neck. I put my gloves on last and step out into the early morning air, the chill creeping through my layers. Fall’s coming fast this year. The Biozone tries to regulate the season changes and temperature, but outside the dome is getting so bad and there are so many holes that it doesn’t work how it’s supposed to anymore.

  The streets of our neighborhood are still empty this early. My best friend, Journey, and her Pair, Dhevan, live in the apartments a few sections over. It’s a nicer area than ours—meaning that all four of their walls are original and intact.

  I follow my usual route to our meeting spot, hearing faint beeps and feeling a slight tug at my wrist as my Mark passes checkpoints. I try to steer clear of the more dilapidated parts of Neech. All parts are rundown and broken, but the dark parts more so. It’s where the Black Market is held. Or so I’ve heard.

  I cast an uneasy glance at the half-broken, leaning buildings. The once pristine interiors are turned inside out, belching down brick and steel. The ground glints and sparkles with broken glass and sharp shards of metal. Larger than life posters of Akin Hughes are plastered on the sides of buildings. Most are faded and ripped off, hanging limply to the exterior of the walls. The ones intact are defiled in some other way—usually a crude drawing over the President’s face. The Corporation has promised to make these sections more habitable, but I don’t know of anyone who’s holding their breath.

  I pick up my pace when I notice a shadow darker than the rest moving along in rhythm with me.

  The livable parts of Neech aren’t much better than the uninhabitable ones. No building stands the way it did when it was first built. We’ve had to make our own walls with whatever we could find—rotting wood, sheets of plastic, rocks. Anything and everything. But it’s the only home we’ll ever know, so we make it work.

  Air filters are posted around the city, working overtime with threatening sputters and coughs, trying to clean the air enough so we can breathe. Even with my mask I feel the acidic, thick air burning my lungs.

  Cameras are posted on every building—sometimes in groups of two or three to cover multiple angles—their red eyes blinking at steady intervals. Wires hang like cobwebs from the tops of roofs and out windows, carrying both legal and illegal electricity into homes and businesses.

  The sun’s starting to peek up over the horizon, and the line separating the earth from the sky is a thin strip of hazy yellow-brown above the crumbling buildings.

  I’m going to be late, I realize. I clutch my bag to my chest and start to run through the streets.

  T wo

  “You’re late,” Journey says as soon as I show up. She drags a finger down part of my exposed cheek and examines it with a frown. “And you're sweaty. What'd you do, run here?”

  “What'd you do, get up extra early to spend hours in front of the mirror? And yes, as a matter of fact, I did run here.” I keep moving and my best friend picks up her pace to match mine, wiping her soiled glove on the side of her pants. “I know how much you hate being kept waiting,” I say.

  “Well, it didn’t help,” she says with a smile. “You were still late.”

  I crease my brow and eye her perfect blond curls spilling out from beneath her cap and the hint of blush on her cheeks. She always looks pretty—it’s somewhat annoying. “You should be wearing a mask.”

  She smiles at me and snaps the elastic bands of her mask behind her ears. “It was only off for a minute.”

  I lift up the edge of my cap and wipe my sleeved arm across my forehead, catching the sweat beading at my hairline. I’m glad I don’t care about appearances the way she does, if I did, I’d be perpetually late for everything. It’s why most of the time I wear my dark hair back in a ponytail and don’t bother

  with makeup. It feels funny on my face, anyhow, not to mention I can’t afford it.

  “I don't know how Dhevan's gonna to survive being your Pair.”

  “You hush.” Journey blushes even more under her artificial coloring. “Can you believe I'm actually getting Paired? And in a month!” She does a spin in the middle of the street.

  Muffled light is filtering into the Outer City and with it more citizens. Some are heading in the direction of the market, but most are on their way—like us—to the Industrial Section. No one gives Journey’s slightly crazy dance a second look. I roll my eyes. She’s always been over the top. About everything.

  “I'd better not lose my best friend in this deal. Otherwise Dhevan’ll have a lot more to worry about than the fact that you’re high maintenance.”

  Journey pushes me in the shoulder playfully. “In two months you're going to be in my shoes, and you’re gonna be acting the same way.”

  “Kavin already knows to shoot me if that happens.” I smile at her and bat my lashes.

  “Oh, I almost forgot!” she says, changing the subject. “I have to make a quick stop on our way to the factory.”

  I see a pair of Military Guards and duck my head, instinctively pushing Journey and I closer to the buildings. There have been more and more of them around the city. They look for any reason to harass a Neech citizen, so it’s best not to be noticed at all. We’re lucky. These two are too involved in whatever it is they’re talking about and pass us by, leaving

  laughter and a conversation in their wake.

  “You were just whining about running late.” I follow her as we turn left down another street.

  “I know,” she says, “but th
ere's something I need to get for Kerick's Jatis tonight.”

  “Is he feeling any better?”

  She gives a strained smile. “I think so. I mean, he looks better than yesterday.”

  Neither of us wants to talk about it for long. It’s never a good sign when someone gets sick, especially with this rash of an illness that’s been swelling up and claiming so many lives.

  “Have you talked to Eta?” I say. If she doesn’t have the herbs to heal you, then you’d better believe in God or miracles, but it’s best to have faith in both. Journey doesn’t believe in either.

  Her curls bounce across her shoulders as she shakes her head. “We haven’t said anything to anyone, really.”

  “Why haven’t you told Eta?” I think of what would happen if Ajna were to get sick. I’d move mountains and redirect rivers to make him better.

  Journey bites at her bottom lip and starts to twist her fingers. “It’s only been a couple of days. Besides, it's not that bad.” She sounds like she's trying to convince herself.

  “Journey, this is important!”

  “I know it’s important,” she snaps.

  “If Eta doesn’t know what’s going on, how can she treat Kerick? What if it’s the sickness?” I throw my hands in the air, beyond frustrated. Journey always does this sort of thing. “I can't believe you're keeping this to yourself.” I love her like a sister, but sometimes she can be so foolish.

  “What if she can’t help him?” Journey stops and faces me, tears brimming in her eyes, a few spilling over. “Anyway,” she says with a false smile, whisking the drops away, “I really

  think he’s turning around. Always darkest before the dawn, you know?”

  I raise a doubtful brow. There’s no such thing as a dawn in Neech after the dark of sickness. Only death. Journey knows this.

  “Besides,” she adds, walking again, “he's excited about tonight. He promised me he’s doing better.”

  “Any eight-year-old would crawl out of their grave in order to go to their Jatis.” I give an inward cringe at the comparison, but Journey doesn’t seem to notice.

  We stop before one of the many gates sectioning off different areas of Neech. This one leads to a wealthier district of apartments and shops.

  “I'll just be a minute,” Journey says. “Promise.”

  She sticks her arm under a scanner and waits while a red light passes over her Mark, verifying her caste and access level. There’s a high-pitched beep, and she scuttles off through the metal arch. The gate pulses dimly as she passes beneath, humming with electricity. The hairs on my arm stand on end until the surge quiets down.

  This is as far as I go; I can’t follow Journey. A simple thing like walking through the gate would kill me—or anyone else—without the right Mark.

  I push my sleeve up past my elbow and look at the ink that spreads across the underside of my right wrist. I've lived with it for over half my life. Like all the other eight-year-olds, I was Marked at my Jatis. Nine years later, it still looks as new and fresh as it did when the Artist first scratched it into my flesh.

  Marks were an ingenious development by the Corporation in its earlier days. At first, it was microchips inserted just below the skin, used for census and population purposes. They gathered data so cities could have all the information they needed to best take care of their citizens. Then, they started gathering and storing everyday information on the chips for convenience—credits, medical records, contact information, legal issues—any important data a citizen might need at any given moment.

  Then the world around us started to deteriorate. Everything pretty much went to hell. Pollution, resources getting used up, species extension, war, sickness, death. Nothing could be wasted. Something had to be done to preserve what we had left so we could survive. The Corporation couldn’t find a way to eliminate our problems, so they found a way to make our problems easier to live with.

  They developed a new nanobyte. One that worked with a person’s DNA, identifying their strongest characteristics—where they should be placed in the order of things to make them most productive. These nanobytes marked a citizen’s greatest potential. After all, if a citizen were better at farming, why would you let them be a carpenter? Now every city had the strongest chance of surviving.

  It wasn’t long before the Corporation convinced our leaders in charge that this was the best with reproduction, too. The nanobytes were programmed to scan our genes and match us with the best candidate possible, for the survival of the human race.

  Citizens began to grow suspicious and fearful. Started to dig out the chips with anything that would break the skin. The Corporation caught on quickly and transitioned from chips to tattoos with specially saturated nanoink, more permanent and far less likely to be cut out.

  That was seventy-five years ago or so. Anyone that would’ve been alive to remember times before the Corporation are long dead. Most of them taken by the sickness, as it seemed to claim the old and infirm.

  I’m still tracing the straight and curving lines of my Mark as Journey rushes back through the gate. “Okay,” she says breathlessly. “Let’s go.”

  We double our pace to make up for the detour. “You're going to sweat and ruin your hair,” I tease. She rolls her eyes. “So what'd you get Kerick?” I say when we’re back on the main road.

  She pulls out a small wooden box from the pocket of her duster. “I had it specially made for him.” She smiles and hands it over.

  I open the small box and look at the metal pendant hanging from a leather cord.

  “It's a hammer,” she says excitedly. “You know, because he's going to be an official Steelworker after tonight.”

  “Nothing’s ever guaranteed in a Jatis,” I say, handing the box back. It’s true. There’s no way to tell where a citizen will truly be the most productive and useful, although the same blood tends to run in a family.

  She tucks the box back into a pocket, refusing to let me bring her down. “Come on, Karis. Every male in our family, as far back as anyone can remember, has been a Steelworker. Our mother’s were seamstresses, their mothers were seamstresses, we’re seamstresses, and our daughters will be seamstresses. It’s how this life works.”

  I only smile. “You're right.”

  We’re almost to work when a scream pierces the air, stopping my heart. Journey’s fingers dig through my layers and into my arm. “What was that?” she says.

  “I don’t know.”

  The entire city has gone still. Shuffling feet have stopped. Droning conversations have come to a halt. I can feel it all the way down to my bones. People are frozen in the midst of whatever they’re doing. It’s as if the entire city is holding its breath.

  Then the scream comes again.

  A man bursts out into the open street from an alley and yells, “It’s another body!” He turns around and runs back the way he came. Journey and I look at each other and dash after the handful of citizens following the figure.

  I don’t know why we’re chasing this thing that terrifies us so much, but we are. I already know what we’ll find. This will be the third body this month.

  Journey and I don’t have to run long before we come to the source of the scream. A woman’s pressed up against a building, her hands covering her mouth, eyes wide with terror. She stares at the ground.

  The body’s been dumped, like all the others. It’s sprawled face down in the pitted pavement, limbs bent at odd angles. Journey and I stand at the edge of the crowd; she’s still gripping my arm. Some people are crying, some are murmuring. But mostly, we’re silent.

  There’s a man with a long stick in his hand. He pokes at the body. When nothing happens, he nudges it a bit harder. It rocks back and forth a little. The skin must be stretched too taught; because the next time his stick touches the flesh, it pops; like a dead, bloated goat left too long in the sun.

  I jump back, surprised by the sudden sound. The woman against the wall screams again. Everyone’s silent until gasses from the body
creep out between the crowd. Groans and shouts erupt as people scamper to get away from the body. The putrid fumes make their way over to Journey and me. It takes everything I have not to lose my breakfast.

  “Did anybody comm this in?” I ask through the collar of my jacket. The barrier helps only a little against the smell. I’m sure the half dozen cameras in the area have already captured what’s going on and filtered it back to the Corporation, but I’m tempted to find one and call it in myself. I’m looking around the clearing when the sound of trotting boots fills the cavity.

  Military Guards decked in masks and oxygen canisters flood into the tiny area. There are at least a couple dozen, but I can’t be sure because of the chaos that has suddenly erupted around us. It’s as if everyone has finally registered what’s going on and what the presence of the Military Guard means.

  Citizens hurry to get out of the Guard’s path, but they’re still being pushed away from the body. The Guard’s make a large circle around the figure, keeping us from getting too close, while two others go in and grab the dead man’s hands and feet with gloved fingers.

  I can’t see much of anything, but I suspect the dead body’s identical to the others—bluish skin, burns, lesions, white eyes. I shudder.

  The ring of Guards breaks at the far end, letting the dead body pass through. When it’s safely out of the area, the rest of the circle breaks down, and the Guards exit single file. Except for two.

  They hang back, scanning the crowd. “Who discovered the body?” None of us says anything. Several gazes shift to the ground. “I said, who disco—”

  “She did!” The man with the stick points to the woman against the wall.

  The Guards grab her by the arms and start to drag her away. She doesn’t fight at first. Then she seems to understand what’s going on and starts to pull at them.

  “Please, no! I have a family! Let me go, please!” The sleeves of her dress tear as the Guards struggle to hang on. “He’s a liar! It was him who found the body! The man with the stick, I swear!”