Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive. Read Online Free PDF Page B

on the edge of the floodlit cobblestones, bright with electric blandness. To the side of the square, bars and girders have been stacked neatly, in readiness for the construction of the marquee tomorrow. The Spring Festival will take place here in three days’ time.
    There are two festivals a year, both organised and run by the Polis. Spring is my favourite, because except for just the once, Bastian has always been with me. At the Autumn festival I feel listless and alone, having just said goodbye to my friend. Polis officials welcome home the Firstborn at the Festivals, and thank them for their ongoing service to their country. They also put on a banquet for them and give them lavish gifts; pets and toys for their children, perfumes, fabrics and furniture.
    For the rest of us, the three-day event is all about music, dancing and food. It’s mostly about the food - roast meats such as venison, goose and wild pig, and sweet treats like cream doughnuts and spiced apple cakes. The children have their own special activities like races and games, and they have their own tent for food. Now that I’m grown up I don’t take part in their competitions, but part of me still wishes that I could. I love winning, and the last three years haven’t been as much fun. I have to admit that part of the change has been down to Bastian as well though - he just doesn’t enjoy the Festivals as much as he used to when we were children and only goes because he has to. I used to tell him that being in the Firstborn Army had gone to his head; made him think he was above it all.
    Outside the barracks some of the soldiers are playing cards, rough shouts mingling with the sounds of frogs and crickets from the brush. I skirt the square, sticking to the shadows as much as possible. I can’t avoid the guard post altogether though, and when I am near it a shadow detaches itself from the building and I nearly run into him.
    “Well, hello,” a male voice says.
    I look up at an unknown face atop the grey and black of a Polis uniform. With the return of our Firstborn, some of the Polis soldiers stationed here have been rotated. This one is so fresh faced he mustn’t be much older than I.
    Here we go again, I think. There are usually a few Polisborn, mainly men, who like to form relationships with the locals during their tours of duty in the Sector.
    “I’m just -” I start.
    “Don’t be in a rush to run away,” he says smoothly, catching my arm near the elbow. I know better than to push him away.
    “Um, excuse me please.” I step to the side, but he mirrors my actions.
    “Cole!” a female voice cries out from the porch where the card players have stopped and are giving us their full attention. “New Boots, get back here!”
    There are some jeers and guffaws, covered by dramatic coughing, and I know what’s coming.
    “I was just getting acquainted…” Cole starts.
    “With an Unworthy!” The card players erupt into laughter and my would-be admirer blanches in shock. He steps back from me, shock changing to disgust, and high tails it inside the building.
    I turn my back on the roars of laughter, hide my burning face in my scarf and dart across the rest of the square to the medical centre. Over the last year I’ve begun to appreciate the distance which the Polisborn afford me because of my Mark, but that doesn’t make the initial realisation of my status any less unpleasant. No-one wants to be reminded how unacceptable they are.
    The medical centre is the last place I want to be right now, but chances are there will be a naming, and all the women of the family are expected to be there to welcome the new arrival. I have learned to keep my distance though. The first week after a baby’s birth is the most unpredictable, when anything can happen. Even with the nano-patch applied at birth, many are sick within twenty-four hours. This is when the examination takes place, and those that are sick are marked, as I was. Unworthy. The exposure