FIFTY-TWO

Wednesday night

At first, because of the tattoos on his face, Caitlyn didn’t recognize Razor. When he’d stepped into the shanty, she thought he was just another Industrial. Until he spoke.

“Not surprised,” she said.

“To see me again?”

“That you look the way you do. You must live and breathe deception.”

“You learn fast,” he said, grinning, his teeth white against the dark tattoos of his face. “Not even interested in how I manage this?”

“Don’t care,” Caitlyn said in a flat voice. “I just want out of this prison.”

“Think of it as protective custody.” The web of tattoos on his face blended into the shadows, and Caitlyn couldn’t read any expression there.

“What gives you the right to decide I need protection?” Caitlyn exploded. “And if I did, what right do you have to decide you’re in control of it?”

“Those questions prove how much you need my help. Outside the city wall, nobody is given rights. Not to air, water, shelter, or even life. Outside the city wall, all rights belong to the strong and the smart.” His voice, in contrast, was mild. Almost amused. And certainly smug.

This angered her even more. “Get it into your head. I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t want your help.”

“You’d rather be dead?”

“I’d rather be free.”

“Then you will be dead. I suppose that’s a form of freedom.”

“I’m a survivor.”

“Tell me what you know about life outside Appalachia.”

Caitlyn had been ready to stand and leave. That one word froze her. Appalachia. She’d never told him about Appalachia. Had she been betrayed by Emelia? She didn’t want to believe that. Not betrayed. Again.

Razor continued. “Don’t be so shocked. It makes sense. The missteps, the odd questions or statements. You don’t understand this culture. You haven’t lived in it. And because you haven’t lived in it, chances are it will kill you.”

“I’ll learn.” This was an admission of sorts. But would it do any good to deny her background?

“Here’s some history for you. Generations ago, when America was flooded with illegal immigrants, the lawmakers at best ignored them. At worst, they persecuted and killed them. Hundreds of thousands of families essentially lived underground, out of sight. But not without value to the established. Those illegals needed to live. From my great-grandparents down, to survive we’ve had to perform menial tasks for little pay. We became too important to the economy. As much as politicians postured, getting rid of the people without citizenship became unthinkable. Making them legal wouldn’t work either, because then they’d have rights too. Persecution, however, played well for the economy. The fewer rights, the more those illegal immigrants became commodities. Powerless people are worth a lot to people with power. And lawmakers, the early Influentials, only reflected the will of the people. All the people. Because to remain silent in the face of injustice is to be part of the injustice.”

Razor sneered. “Your Appalachia? The religious freaks? Those who tried to rule people in the name of Jesus? Where were they to help the so-called downtrodden? Just as silent.”

Caitlyn had no answer. Jordan had never talked to her about this.

“Then came the Wars,” Razor said. “America needed water. Canada refused to sell. America took water. Countries chose sides. America turned to their illegals for help as soldiers. But the illegals, for the most part, refused. They weren’t citizens. Think that created more of a barrier between the haves and the have-nots? At the same time, the government used the war as an excuse to erode civil liberties, promising to return them at the end of the war. They didn’t. When the war was over, this is what evolved from the anarchy. Influentials at the top. Descendants of illegal migrants at the bottom, without citizenship but willing to accept cheap labor like their parents and grandparents to survive. Industrials. Marked by tattoos. Those who refused tattoos became the bottom-of-the-bottom, the Illegals. But that far down, you’re free again. Unlike the Industrials, who became slaves.”

He paused. “It’s become ancient Rome.”

Caitlyn cocked her head. “Ancient Rome? How do you know all this? You’re an…”

She caught herself, but too late.

“An Industrial?” he said. “A brainless hive worker bred to serve Influentials? Or an Illegal who paints himself like an Industrial when it suits his purpose? And someone who reads voraciously because knowledge is power and knowledge gives the power to sustain illusions?”

When she didn’t answer, he continued, smiling coldly. “Or am I truly the lowest of low? One of the Illegals who lives beneath the city.”

Caitlyn smiled just as coldly. “Illusion is your life. Maybe you don’t even know who you are.”

“Influentials leave us to feed ourselves, shelter ourselves, and govern ourselves. They only care about us in terms of preventing revolt. Heard of Spartacus?”

“No.”

“Invisibles don’t fight for power. They are laptops to the Influentials, protected by them. In the other three worlds—Influentials and Industrials and Illegals—the strong rule. Survival of the fittest. It’s that simple. If you don’t understand, when you leave here, you’ll be eaten.”

“So your lecture is over? I can go?”

“Why are you so determined to refuse help?”

“Your lecture isn’t over. But still, I go.”

Caitlyn stood. She stepped toward the entrance.

“I know what your father did to you,” Razor said, stopping her. “I know how you got your wings.”