Caste (The Corporation)

by RaeLynn Fry

  The Guards ignore her and continue to drag her through the street. “Help!” she cries out, looking at the gathered group, her eyes like a cow before the slaughter. But no one dares say a word or offer any help.

  “They took her away,” Journey whispers after the Guards have gone.

  “I know.”

  This is a new development. They’ve never taken one of us away before.

  T hree

  Squatting between the market and the fields and pastures is the Industrial Section, the biggest single section in all of Neech. It’s where most everyone in the Outer City works.

  In the center is a rock pit so deep, I can’t see the bottom. Only the Quarrymen know where it ends. Papa works in the lumber mill, which is next to the quarry, and Journey’s family works and manages the steel mill, which is between the waste management center and the water purification units in the back east corner. We also have coalmines, but those are in the west end. Everything needed to sustain the Inner and Outer Cities is nestled right here, the nucleus of our survival.

  The factory Journey and I work at is in the front of the Industrial Yard and is the newest, most maintained building in Neech, which means absolutely nothing. It’s ancient and dilapidated and towers above us—a dull, three story brick monstrosity. The tan mortar between the bricks is corroded and crumbling away. I’m surprised to see it standing every time I come to work. Like our homes, the Corporation’s promised us renovations. They’ve promised lots of things.

  We walk through the front door, filing in with a stream of workers into a room only slightly warmer than the outside. The checkpoint beeps at a rapid pace as it scans each of our Marks.

  Journey and I head to a row of tall lockers on our right, scan our Marks, and wait for the metal doors to pop open. I pull off my knit hat and my mask, tossing them onto the top shelf and shrug my duster from my shoulders, hanging it on an inside hook. I slip my lunch sack next to the mask and shut the locker with a metal clang.

  “See you at lunch,” I say.

  “See ya.” Journey turns and trots up a flight of stairs to the third floor where the more detailed seamstresses work.

  My station’s towards the back of the lower level, past the flimsy double doors, where rows and rows of sewing machines sit on tables. I don't mind not working with Journey. I don't have the steady hand needed for the embroidery work she does, nor the attention to detail. Plus, I'd rather work on garments everyone wears, not just citizens of Dahn.

  I scan in again and push through the swinging doors and into the heart of the factory. The shift hasn’t officially started but already the large cavity is filled with the mechanical thump of dozens and dozens of motors powering needles that jump across fabric at a blurring speed. It’s blaringly loud in here compared to the front room.

  I pass stooped women, feeding and tugging dull tan and gray fabric through the open space of their sewing machines. I take my seat in an area near the very back that is set up for sewing circles. Here, we hand-mend items that are either too delicate or too worn to survive the pulling and tugging of the machines.

  The only seat left open in the sewing circle is mine; everyone else is already well into in their work and gossip. I set my bag down and settle in. I’m the youngest in the circle, everyone else is so old, they could probably do with a good darning of their own.

  White and silver heads are bent together with arthritis-riddled fingers poking, pushing, and pulling needles and thread with surprising agility. I’ve walked in on what seems to be an already absorbing conversation.

  “Karis!” Devna says to me, anxiousness pressing her thin lips together. “Did ya hear about the body?”

  Why am I not surprised they already know? “I was there,” I say.

  Devna gives me a look that’s a cross between awe and jealousy. “You saw it?”

  “Him.”

  “What’d he—”

  The look I give her stops the words in her mouth. She ducks her head and goes back to sewing.

  “Think any Sponsors will show up at the Jatis tonight?" Aaral asks, mercifully changing the subject. She’s threading a needle, one eye closed, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. She’s the youngest, besides me, at sixty or so, her gray hair still highlighted with her once natural honey brown.

  “When was the last time a Candidate from Neech had enough potential to catch the Corporation’s eye?” I say as I sit.

  “The Corporation ain’t Sponsored no one in ten years,” Devna says, squinting through the glasses perched at the end of her nose. “And I'm startin’ to think that was a fluke.”

  I remember that Jatis, the boy was a year ahead of me. Once the Corporation took him, they erased any evidence he’d ever existed in Neech. I don’t think anyone even remembers his name.

  “I still keep my hopes high with each Jatis,” Aaral says with a whimsical air.

  “What do you think happens to them?” I ask.

  “The Corporation takes them in and schools them to take a position there, I suppose,” Ami says. She’s the oldest person left in Neech. The only one left that still has stories about Before.

  For some reason, I’m not so sure it’s as cut and dry as all that.

  Ami lowers her voice and leans in. Every woman in the group, including myself, takes the cue and leans in as well. “Did you see it this morning?” She keeps her eyes locked on the sock she’s darning.

  I roll my eyes and lean back in my chair. How could I’ve forgotten that the newsletter is always the major topic of conversation? I grab my work board and punch in my ID code. It turns on and flashes my quota for the day. Three hundred and six units. That’s more than double last week’s. I try not to sigh at the impossible goal as I reach into the tub at the center of our circle and pick up the first item in need of mending. I begin to sew, listening absently to their chatter.

  “I found the article about what's really in the Further most interesting,” another woman named Kala says, looking around to make sure she hasn’t been overheard. They know the dangerous game they’re playing. Why can’t they just keep their heads down and do their jobs like nice old ladies?

  “You mean the lack of what's there,” Sahira says. There’s a chorus of low chuckles.

  “You want to know what I thought was the most interesting?” I say, setting the pair of pants I’m working on in my lap.

  Ami stops her needlework and raises a brow at me. “You mean you actually read it, Karis?”

  I ignore her sarcasm and lean into the circle. “What I found particularly interesting,” I make eye contact with each of them, “is the way it went up in flames when I tossed it into the fire.”

  Ami and the others cluck their disapproval like ruffled hens. Devna throws the sock she’s been working on at me. I toss it back. “You're too young to be so cynical, Karis,” she says. There’s a round of agreement.

  “And you’re all too old to believe such foolishness,” I counter with a sweet smile, picking my sewing back up.

  “Who are you to say what’s in the newsletter is a lie?” Sahira asks.

  “Who are you to say it's the truth? I think whoever’s printing it is trying to stir up more trouble than we already have,” I say. “I know one thing for certain; when I find out who’s slipping these under my door, I’m going to give them a piece of my mind and a taste of my boot.”

  “It can't get any worse than it already is,” Ami says. “And we could all do with a little hope to cling to around here.”

  “Speaking of things to cling to, Karis,” Aaral says with a sly smile, “did you do anything fun this past weekend? With Kavin?”

  I don’t like the way she says the word fun, and I scowl, but I can’t help it as my cheeks flush. “Journey and I went to the Tavern. I haven’t seen Kavin in a few days.” I give the shirt I’ve picked up extra attention.

  Aaral stops her sewing. “Isn’t that a little strange?”

  “No, not really,” I say with a shrug, darning once again, already behi
nd by humoring these old women in their conversations. “We aren’t Paired yet, and I still have my own life. Besides, the Corporation keeps him busy in the fields.”

  Just because we’re to be Paired doesn’t mean Kavin and I spend every waking hour together. We aren’t Journey and Dhevan. But that’s not to say I don’t miss him when we’re aren’t together or that I wouldn’t mind spending every waking hour with him.

  Kavin’s my match in every sense. He’s my strength when I’m weak, and I’m his light spirit when work’s been especially hard. Our hearts were meant to be stitched together, and in a couple of months, they will be. Sure, we were Paired by the Corporation; our genes are a perfect match. But I loved Kavin before I was told I should.

  The topic of our young love has already become too boring to discuss further because Devna changes the subject. “I don’t suppose any of you heard that he struck again?” Devna is Neech’s biggest gossip, or Official Information Collector, as she’s titled herself. If a citizen wants to know what’s going on around the Outer City, they go to her.

  “Who struck again?” Aaral asks.

  The old women swivel their heads in the air like a brood of hens, looking for the foreman. When they’ve established the all clear, they lean in for what Devna has to say. I shake my head but follow suit, mentally kicking myself.

  “The Black Market Artist who’s purposefully handing out faulty tattoos,” Devna says. There’s a series of gasps around the circle. Black Market tattoos are beyond dangerous. They can kill.

  “No,” Aaral says breathlessly.

  “But surely they knew what they’d get?” Ami says.

  “Why would anyone do that?” I ask in shock.

  “Desperate people do foolish things," Sahira says.

  “It's true,” Devna continues. "Eta saw it with her own eyes. She came for tea the other night and told me all about it.”

  “Did she say who it was?” Ami asks.

  “Only that it was a young man.” Devna says.

  “What else?” Sahira asks.

  “She said it only took one look for her to know it was faulty. Said you'd have to be blind not to see what was happening. She tried to mend the Mark the best she could, but only a true Artist has that skill.”

  “That’s awful—his poor family.” I can’t even imagine what it’d be like to watch Papa or Ajna die that kind of death.

  Devna’s fingers are busy with their stitches, and her words come faster and faster—she’s in full gossip mode now. “It wasn't pretty. And I don't want to go into details, but I will say this—what the Corporation tells us about faulty tattoos is true, and they were toning it down.”

  A million horrible images pass through my mind like a movie reel. The Corporation’s told us getting a Black Market tattoo will kill a person. It’s a slow, painful death, they say. A body shuts down and slowly starts erasing who the person is. The mind goes, and if they don't die, they’re left a drooling shell of their former selves, a burden to their family for the rest of their life.

  “How long does the boy has?” Ami asks softly.

  “Eta said it could be a long process before he’s finally taken. If that happens at all.”

  Our hunched position has caught the attention of the foreman. He starts making his way to our station, databoard in hand, a scowl dug into his pudgy face.

  “Shhh,” Ami hisses. “Everyone back to work.”

  “What's going over here?” the foreman says, irritated. He’s scanning his data board for our names.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Just trading mending secrets.”

  He hovers a while longer. “The Corporation’s P& LS have just been released.”

  “Profit and Loss Statements already?” My shoulders slump. “It’s not even the middle of the month.”

  “The Corporation’s taking an aggressive stance on increasing productivity. You heard the announcement this morning. I’m feeling the pressure to produce just as much as you all.” He sighs. “Bottom line: if we can’t get our output up, they’re going to start replacing you with someone younger, faster.

  So stop talking and start sewing.” The foreman turns and walks away.

  ७

  “How's your morning going, Karis?” Journey's bright voice chips away at me from behind. “I figured out this new double stitch and was able to add another dress to my quota. I think I can get two more out before the day’s over. You should see the outfits some of the other girls are working on—completely ridiculous with beads and feathers, and the colors—hey, what's up with you?” She grabs my hand, slowing me down.

  I shake my head and clear the film lingering like a second skin. “Devna just told us a citizen got a Black Market tattoo, and they’re not doing well.”

  “No!” Journey gasps. “Who?”

  We grab our lunch sacks from our lockers and head out to the courtyard. We pass through a curtain of blowing air when we walk through the doors and out into the enclosed area. It’s small enough that we don’t need our masks; the filters are effective enough.

  Journey and I keep our conversation hushed. “She doesn’t know,” I say. “But Eta says it’s faulty, and they’re not going to last much longer.”

  “That’s awful. Their poor family.”

  Journey and I take our normal perch on a weed dotted hill under a brittle tree. There are a few leaves left, but the weather never calls for the need of shade. This afternoon is like every other day, temperate with a thin layer of yellowish haze and the slightest undertones of a chill. Every once in a while the sun passes through the clouds and through the Biozone, but other than that, the days are identical—ugly and diseased.

  I unwrap my meager lunch and pull out my thermos of tea. Journey and I begin to eat; our twenty-minute break will be over before we know it. I take a bite of my sandwich. It’s bland and dry, falling apart in my mouth. I swallow; trying not to choke as the lump slowly makes its way down my throat to sit heavily in my empty stomach.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Journey says, pulling out some cheese from her lunch sack.

  “Like what?” I say, a little too flat.

  “Our Pairing Ceremonies.” Her eyes light up.

  “Seriously?”

  “Sure. It’s the perfect thing to get our minds off that horrible news.”

  I decide that it’s in my best interest to play along. “Alright.”

  “Goody! Okay, so, yours is a month after mine, so you can use whatever decorations of mine you want. I’ll make sure my mother keeps them pretty for you.”

  “Thanks, Journey.” The gesture’s nice, but I already know my Pairing Ceremony will be more…simple…than hers. She’ll have anything she can that will draw attention to her. Kavin and I want something simple and plain. We’re not a Pair that stands out like Journey and Dhevan. We’d be happy to just run off together and start our lives quietly. Actually, that’s kind of what we’ve planned. But we haven’t told anyone yet.

  “I was thinking the streamers—”

  An earsplitting crackle echoes from oversized speakers mounted on a tall pole in the center of the small courtyard. All the main buildings have one. There’s a screech before a brief anthem plays, followed by a recap from this morning's bulletin and the standard Jatis pre-recorded message.

  “A reminder that the Jatis begins promptly at six o'clock tonight and ends precisely at eleven. Every citizen is required to be in attendance. Every citizen is also required to be at work on time the next morning—so choose your drink wisely. Irresponsibility is a weakness the Corporation cannot tolerate.” Then it goes silent.

  Journey turns to me, concern deep in her features. “What if it’s someone we know?” she asks.

  I ignore the question and push down my own, identical thought.

  Four

  I sit as close to the fire as I can for the light and, as a result, am working against sweltering heat. I’ve been bent like this for the past few hours, and I think that even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able t
o unfold my body.

  A slick of sweat drips down my neck, and it’s getting hard for me to keep a decent grip on the needle. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, dropping what I’ve just finished into the basket on my left. Reaching down to my right, I pick up another piece of clothing. I turn it around and find the ripped seam. Picking up my needle, I resume my steady pace. If I work through the night, I'll be able to finish what’s in the basket, making a small dent in my increased quota.

  Footsteps too heavy to be Ajna’s sink into the wooden stairs behind me. “Hi, Papa,” I say as I bury my needle into the worn cloth.

  “Karis,” he says with a sigh, “you're not even dressed.” He takes the shirt out of my hand and drops it into the wrong basket.

  I stoop over and pick it out. “I need to finish these tonight.”

  “If you don't get ready for the Jatis, you won't have a tomorrow to worry about.”

  I groan. “I have too much to do to go to a party.”

  “We’ve been over this.” He holds out his hands and helps me up. “Now go upstairs and change. Wear your blue dress; it brings out your eyes.”

  I sigh and clunk up the stairs, letting him know I’m doing this reluctantly.

  “I know, Karis. I know,” he says with a chuckle.

  “Outta my way!” Ajna knocks me into the wall as he flies down the steps. “Kerick's gettin' Marked tonight and next month, it's my turn!” The ‘s’ whistles a little through the gap his missing teeth create.

  I walk into my sparse room and shut the door. There’s a bed in the corner next to a window, a small table, chair, and dresser across from that. I know the dress Papa’s talking about. It’s the last thing Momma made me before she left. I didn’t understand then why she'd made it so big; it didn't fit my eight-year-old body at all. Now, I know. She’d planned to leave us all along.

  I pull the dress out of the top drawer of my dresser and start to change. The soft material hits just below my knees, with a scooped neck and short sleeves. It’s a perfect match to my bright blue eyes. Momma even managed to catch the grey flecks everyone else seems to miss.