Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive. by Joanne Armstrong Read Free Book Online Page B

moment, he seemed to have honestly forgotten. “They don’t expect anything of us that they don’t do to themselves you know,” he musters, by way of defence. “Their infants are tested for a whole load of other things that don’t show up without the right equipment out here in the hub. Their babies have to pass with better scores. Plus, their military training is way worse, and all of them have to go through it.”
    “They’re regular saints,” I say. I can’t hide my anger. This is the first time we have ever argued over anything so important, and it feels wrong.
    “You have this idea about the Polis, Arcadia, that they are the bad guys. They’re not that bad, you know. You have to look at things from their side once in a while.” We’ve stopped outside the pod, both unwilling to take our raised voices inside.
    “What you’re saying is that they have our best interests at heart, right?” I spit the words out at him.
    He tries to catch my elbow but I twist my arm away. “What I’m saying is that they’re looking at the bigger picture and that they have to make some difficult -”
    We both notice at the same time that there are people around, all moving quickly in the same direction; towards the square. Argument forgotten for the moment, we both look at each other, then start with a united purpose in the same direction. We are nearly there when I hear the sharp snap of a whiplash. My blood runs cold with dread.

    Chapter Six
    The first thing I see is the enormous marquee, half assembled, like a huge white beast with its innards ripped out. In front of the marquee, and all around the cobblestone square, hubbites gather.
    A teenaged boy is in the centre of the square, flanked by two Polis soldiers. He is stripped to the waist and the pink marks of the first two lashes can be seen clearly across his back.
    The Polisborn who coolly wields the whip is not one I have seen before; the commanding officer at the garrison must have been rotated. He pauses between blows.
    The conversation with Bastian has not left my mind. I sense a shift in Bastian’s ideals. His support of their long view of healthcare makes me feel decidedly uncomfortable, and I can’t help but wonder whether my friend is slowly and methodically being brainwashed. With growing alarm, my attention shifts from the Polisborn officer and the youth in the centre of the square to the crowd of hubbites around me. I feel that my eyes are opened and for the first time I can observe my people as though from the outside.
    They are silent. Many of the watchers grasp a neighbour’s arm, reaching for unspoken support and in the flow of touch from one to the next, I see a kind of unity. The expressions on the faces around me do not reflect horror or shock. They have seen this too many times to feel distress. They are conditioned not to react. They don’t condone it, but they cannot look away, as the next lash falls. In the silence from the crowd, I feel a powerlessness, but also a kind of acceptance. This dance of power and submission is familiar to them, and they gain a strange kind of comfort from it.
    Bastian’s words return to me, along with the feeling of creeping alarm. When did we start to rely on their oppression? When did we start to accept it as a fair trade?
    “What happened?” I whisper to a woman near me.
    “A Firstborn. He hid.” Her answer is curt, but I get the picture. Instead of going to the garrison to report for transport to the Polis, the soldiers had to go and find him. It happens from time to time. The punishment is ten lashes, delivered publicly. The marks are given to sting, although not to break the skin and ideally they will not scar. The intention is that the youth remembers the public shaming, and of course fewer youths will consider hiding as a result.
    The officer has delivered the last of the ten lashes, but he doesn’t stop. There is a murmuring through the crowd as soon as the extra mark falls. This is unfamiliar,