Free Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive. by Joanne Armstrong

the western side of the road we continue inland. Even when the trail is wide enough for two horses, I stay behind in single file. It’s clear he doesn’t want to make conversation, which suits me just fine. For the moment.
    Since I’m not ready to think of a world without Grandad, I turn my mind to the puzzle of the journey. Captain Alex Hayes was in uniform last night, but is in hubbite civvies today. He says he’s taking me to the Polis, but we’re heading inland rather than north via the road. We’re not using Polis vehicles, instead riding farm hacks. And most telling of all, we didn’t go anywhere near the garrison or the hub checkpoint. I don’t feel threatened by the furtiveness of the trip, simply intrigued. Slipping through the Polis net is alright by me, but everything about it goes against all I know of them who are official to the core. I don’t plan to stay with Hayes for very long, but I certainly intend to get some information out of him before striking out on my own.
    I decide that the best way to do that is to resist the temptation to be disrespectful, and pretend to be a bit more awed by his superiority. The thought makes me want to gag.
    By midday I’m starving and relieved when he calls a halt. For the last half hour we’ve been riding through a forest of gum and light scrub. Sunlight filters through the trees and dry eucalyptus leaves slide and crackle underfoot as we dismount. I can also hear water, and a narrow stream collects in a pool through the brush.
    He sets to work with the makings of a fire. “If you want to be useful, see to the horses,” he throws in my direction. I flick my eyes in irritation but I do it. I lead them to the pool so that they can drink, before tethering them to a tree to graze. All the while I keep an eye on what he’s doing. He’s got matches, and the dry gum lights quickly.
    Once the fire’s alive on its own, he takes something that looks like a hefty black torch from his rucksack. I recognise the weapon of choice for all Polis soldiers - a dazer, able to shoot a ball of energy that can either give a small shock or drop a horse at twenty metres.  I’ve seen them in use enough to be very wary. Even the sight of one now sends a shiver of apprehension down my spine.
    “Do you know how to set up a spit?” He sees the response in my face and turns for the trees before I can even answer, taking the dazer with him.
    Very soon all I can hear are the calls of birds high above and the dry rustle of the trees. I look around at the empty clearing and realise just how easy it’s going to be to leave him. As I rig up a tripod, I think of the horses and toy with the idea of taking them both, leaving him slow to follow. On the other hand, I could just slip away into the trees with no fuss. Without the horses it would be much easier to leave no trail.
    He is gone three minutes, it’s certainly no longer, and is back with two rabbits. The weapon is a silent killer. I’d heard nothing, even though he must have been within twenty metres. The knife hidden under my tunic is feeble by comparison. Deflated a little, I realise that the confidence I felt in my escape may have been rather hasty.
    While I finish the spit over the fire, he cleans and skins one of the rabbits.
    “Not bad,” he grudgingly nods towards my work. The compliment is unexpected. It occurs to me that there might be a quicker way to loosen his tongue. If there is anything which brings out their disdain, it’s weakness. Perhaps the reverse is also true for respect.
    I sit down beside him and pick up the other rabbit. Very deliberately, I take out my knife and begin cleaning the carcass.
    He pauses for a second, watching me out of the corner of his eyes, then continues with the job in hand.
    I take this for consent.
    When the first rabbit is ready and propped on the forks, he washes up and brings out a hand held device, roughly a cuboid but with rounded corners, and about twenty centimetres across. He