Unauthorized

By C.L. Marin

"...dark, twisted, and sorrowful read."
"The Hunger Games meets Game of Thrones meets The Handmaid's Tale."

W3B is what they brand on her neck. They try to beat fear into her. But she’s not afraid—why should she be—she’s one of the most dangerous things left in this world.

She uses the skills she was forced to learn to become a bounty slave and plans her perfect escape. But her attempt stops cold when she realizes she’s not the only one who survived the attack on her tribe five years ago.

Now she must navigate her master’s heinous family secret while hoping for another chance to escape with her kin before they lose their lives for all they now know.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: Feb 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9780369505545

Book preview

Published by Evernight Teen ® at Smashwords

www.evernightteen.com

Copyright© 2022 C.L. Marin

ISBN: 978-0-3695-0554-5

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: Lisa Petrocelli

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

For those who feel trapped; mentally or physically. There is always a way out. Stay true to who you are and make it happen.

UNAUTHORIZED

Unauthorized, 1

C.L. Marin

Copyright © 2022

Chapter One

The city smells different than The Fringe—not better, just different—but maybe it’s my memory of this place that’s so foul. Back at the estate, at the end of each steaming day, a chilled air falls from the mountains, creeps through the darkness, and into the Dead Forest where it lays heavy on the surface of the warm lake. It conjures up the salty fog, which petrifies everything for miles—everything but the thistles. In an act of defiance and self-preservation, the thistles ooze a stinking black tar that protects it from the deadly salts. No, City Prime doesn’t smell like the rancid thistle pods, but as I lay, beaten, in the back of my master’s fine wagon, painfully jostled by the broken highway we travel to the mouth of the metropolis, I can tell the city’s sewage-kissed air hasn’t changed a bit.

Not making a sound or giving any sign of my agony, I stare into the dead eyes of the corpse next to me. At Thistle Ridge Estate, she was the wife of a prominent slave, as slaves go, and her husband will never believe me that she begged for death over return, even if I cared enough to tell him. You see, being a slave who hunts runaway slaves doesn’t afford me many friends, and this last hunt—the one where I murdered this woman and left me beaten for killing yet another slave—will sever any tolerance the estate slaves give me. If I make it back, there will surely be retaliation.

We’re swallowed up under the rusty arches of the city entrance like the tar swallows its own thistle leaves … slowly, and entirely. It’s so noisy here. I’m glad to be face-to-face with the dead woman instead of watching the lively, registered women scramble to get their long hair styled and buy expensive accessories for their extravagant outfits. But as bad as they are, the men are worse with their stiff, salon-styled hair, which stands abnormally tall, and their beards and mustaches so outrageously designed. How the women stomach the sight of them astonishes me. Even with the Authorization process being so exclusive and sought after, I’m shocked any children are born at all.

Master Ward doesn’t succumb to the pressure of the City Prime fads. Traveling the distance from The Fringe to the city is risky and usually unnecessary—though he’s been coming more often lately—which is probably why the bustling place doesn’t leave that much of an impression on him. As much as I hate him, I’m glad. He’s evil but at least he doesn’t look like a court jester.

There’s more ruckus today than any standard day I remember from my time in the city, and that means only one thing: an auction. But there’s more commotion than the routine auction stirs up. Today is definitely a biannual festival. The event that draws everyone from the territory in—the rich and the poor. I know it because the sound of the stage being built in the middle of town echoes off the cracked, fragile buildings lining the streets. They only put them up for these such events. Otherwise, the Authorized just gather around the steps of the government building to haggle on unexceptional stock.

Two more turns, and we’re off the main drag. The clamor softens as the wagon slows to a stop. Dead or damaged? a man asks.

Master Ward’s reply is calm, yet bothered. One of each.

Okay. I’ll call Disposal to come get the dead. You take the damaged around back. Put it in the hold. There’s two ahead of yours.

A hard pull on the brake to lock the wheels shakes the cart more violently than any rut we hit on the ancient artifact of a highway to get here. Every pothole and gravel patch from The Fringe to the city sent pain radiating from my stomach to my fingers and toes, but that brake … it shakes a groan from the depths of my body.

The tailgate drops hard without warning, and I jerk a little, but it’s enough to remind me how badly everything in my body hurts. Two hands snatch my ankles and yank me to the edge of the bed. I’m stood on my wobbly feet before a man leans forward and tosses me over his shoulder. He takes a small hop to better position me, but it’s just for show. In the five or maybe six years I’ve been owned by Master Ward, I’ve never known his estate hand, Bysshe, to do anything that wasn’t for the suffering of a slave. He’s the nastiest and most heartless of all Ward’s estate hands, and never risking being alone, he’s the one Ward has by his side most of the time. Bysshe knows his small jump pounds my body back down on his shoulder to dig into my bruised guts.

The pain is deafening. The city around me suffocates behind the ringing in my ears, and I try to breathe through each of Bysshe’s intentionally heavy steps. But I’d rather die than let him know the kind of pain he’s causing me, so I tighten my lips and keep quiet.

He walks the winding path around the side of the medical building heading to the back where the slaves enter. I hang there, looking at the flat stone pavers, which seem smaller than they were the last time I was here. The ground has grown up over the edges, slowly consuming each one of them the same way my memories consume me. But they won’t overtake me. They drive me.

Just before we disappear around the corner, I notice some Authorized couples who wait to see the doctor, lounging on the large front porch in nice chairs, and listening to a fiddler play lively music. The richest of the Authorized—officials and their pregnant wives—saunter right past them and go inside for their appointments first. The middle-class wives, still waiting for pregnancy approval, graciously give their crooked smiles to the extravagant women out of respect but they obviously resent them. Everyone knows what a large donation to a politician will get you, but no one says anything about the corruption within the authorization process. It’s exactly as my father taught me and the other children of our tribe in the Biome.

As Bysshe rounds the back corner of the building I’m overloaded with memories—the day we arrived, the moment we were forced through the back doors, the separation. I was only thirteen years old when two men grabbed me, three took my sister, and one thin, sinister woman ripped my nephew from my sister’s arms. He was three. I never saw them again. I helped raise my nephew. He was like my son. The pain is infuriating. The emptiness is maddening. The not knowing is a torture of a thousand scenarios, each ending in the slaughter of my family. And this tornado of despair, which I bury deep inside, whirls that jagged debris that shreds me alive. But only on the inside. On the outside, I’m a stone-cold killer.

Suddenly, my body flings forward and a wave of throbbing pain snaps me out of the past. I welcome the disruption. I’d rather go through whatever agony the masters want to give me than think about the slaughter of my entire family. Watching my father be gutted alive isn’t something I want to relive, and I don’t want to imagine what atrocities my sister and nephew faced.

I’m dropped to my feet somewhere between the back deck and the holding pen, surprised I don’t collapse immediately. There was no reason for me to be brought to the soulless place because even though I cradle my stomach in a deep hunch, my injuries are already feeling better. If Bysshe would’ve given me five more minutes, I’d have been up and walking, which is Ward’s indicator between functioning and nonfunctioning stock. But the swift kick he gave me while Ward wasn’t looking kept me down.

A medical assistant approaches, and I bite my lip to block off another wave of traumatic memories. To this day, armies of empty white coats attack me in my nightmares. This white coat, however, is filled with a worker who, with one finger and a light push on my shoulder, tips me over, and I fall to the ground.

She’s not doing too good, he said and laughed.

She’s got a bad case of Disobedient Bitch. Again, they laugh. Ward wants this little side hustle checked out to make sure her punishment didn’t fuck her up too much. Tip-top shape equals more money.

He’s not getting enough money from the family business?

The butchery gives him more money than he knows what to do with. I swear, I think he’s just bored and that’s why he got this bounty slave.

I can hear the pages on the assistant’s clipboard flip. Well, when he does something, he sure does it right. She’s got the perfect contamination for a bounty slave.

It’s the only reason she’s still alive. I’d kill her if he’d let me because it’s her fault I work at that petrified place anyway.

You had a little to do with it. The worker slaps Bysshe on the back. How’s life in The Fringe anyway? Man, we miss you around here. He nudges me with his boot. It’s old and worn down … not as good as mine. No one knows how to keep a grub in order quite like you do. The men would enjoy watching me squirm at their feet in the moist dirt, so I lay very still and don’t make a sound.

The chain-link pen next to me chimes and shakes as two additional workers wearing soiled lab coats go inside, and together remove a small woman. She doesn’t move as she’s dragged through the mud and dirty puddles and placed outside the gate. I watch as the curled-up, stained pages on the man’s tattered clipboard flap slowly in the humid air. It’s the same as before. No one moves without it being logged somewhere.

Bysshe doesn’t waver his conversation at all as the girl’s body is pulled behind his friend and dragged up the three wooden steps of the deck. I’m certain he doesn’t even notice her. Honestly, The Fringe isn’t quite the punishment the courts thought it would be. Shit, me and Ward, we’re practically best friends. I think I only went a month without a paycheck. The bitch must not be worth too much. He kicks the bottom of my boot. I can’t help but groan. I wasn’t ready for it.

You’re making the big bucks now. It just didn’t take him long to get his money back. His amusement lingers on his tongue as he gives me a kick of his own and speaks, Get up, grub. Don’t make me pull something just to get you in the pen.

I got her, Bysshe offers.

Close the gate tight. I don’t trust that lunatic in there now.

Over his shoulder I go. It doesn’t hurt anymore, but it might be because this vile place is too distracting. He tosses me on the ground in the pen like the sacks of feed we bring to the rabbits at the estate.

All I see are Bysshe’s work boots half submerged in the puddle at the entrance, and the brown waves splashing over the toe, rolling over the leather. I try to swallow but there’s nothing to take down, and the top of my dry tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I wonder how bad it would be if I had just a small sip of that disgusting water. I blink, and the boots are gone. The gate slams closed.

The power of the closure rolls through the fence like the waves of a flag and surrounds me in the clangs of imprisonment. It’s chilling. But at least they’re leaving. I’ll be alone except for the one other slave waiting to see Doc. I stay still—head against the soil—and listen to the locking mechanism pound into place. The two old friends catch up as they walk away.

I’m glad Ward’s family business is going well. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t depend on him for slave feed.

Ward will never let the family business go under. It’s another reason we’re here … to buy a breeding slave. He needs an heir.

Try not to break this one this time, okay, Bysshe?

Their laughter evaporates into the heat of the day, and like always, I swallow the urge to collapse into myself but the silence around me makes it hard. These moments of quiet are few and far between, but when they present themselves it’s the only time I let my guard down and cry. And even then, it’s a rare occasion.

You can’t just lay there. The slave’s rough voice is as deep as the empty mines dug into the mountains around here. I ignore him. I can hold steady a fearless appearance, but my voice may shake if I speak now. I need to tamp down my increasing panic.

The dead girl they dragged out of here … she fell and stayed down, and now look at her. She’s dead.

He’s right. The desire to give up and succumb to this place creeps over me like a disease. I thought I would die my first time through, but I survived and the trust I’ve built with Ward would be for nothing. To expire here, on my own terms, could be a gift I give myself, but it’s not a real option. I’m too close to getting what I’ve worked so hard for, what I’ve waited so long for.

Sure, there have been plenty of small moments I could’ve sliced Ward’s neck, and run. But that wouldn’t give me time to distance myself. His armed estate hands are plentiful, and their crossbow aim is superb. Today, in this place, I know my patience has paid off. I’ll be out of the facility before I know it and on the crowded streets of the city with Ward. There’s bound to be a moment I can get away.

With some effort, I get to my hands and knees, and with even more effort, I rise to my shaky feet, clutching my stomach. The husky voice talks to me again in the same lighthearted manner as before. You don’t look too hurt to me. That’s good, because you’re gonna be here a while. I’ve been here since yesterday.

I hear every word the man says but I don’t give any signs of it. It’s all I can do to reach the overturned stool nearby without letting on how much pain I’m in. Cage the inner demons—it’s how I’ve survived this long. So I let the little girl of the Biome inside me writhe in pain while I, the mighty defender, hold a stone face of deception for the good of both of us.

Once I have the stool, I move it an inch here and there, trying for a mostly flat piece of ground to sit on.

Here, he says. The rocky, dry dirt of the higher ground on his side of the pen rattles under his steps as he shuffles closer to me. I don’t look at him, but I can hear his shoes are worn and not good quality. Let me help you. His hand touches my arm.

I snap. Back off! And I jerk away, nearly toppling over. It’s an involuntary reaction. The suffocating nightmares that linger here have me ready to fight anything and anyone who touches me.

The dank ground on this side of the pen deadens his quick scuffle backward. I’m glad he’s no longer right next to me, but I know he’s still close. Closer than I want him to be.

My ribs are tight from straining against the new aches of old wounds, they hurt as I breathe, stretching against my expanding lungs. I bear down to stabilize myself on the stool. Once I settle, I get my first real look at the man. He’s a soldier-slave. But he’s older than any soldier I’ve ever seen. Our life expectancy is considerably less than legal citizens but a soldier’s life is even shorter.

What’s your name? he asks.

The question confuses me, and he can tell.

Look, he says, shuffling back to his chair. I can tell by your weird, tawny skin you’re not just any slave. You’re a concoction of all those old races they kicked out centuries ago. A victorious grin grows on his dirty face when he turns around and sits down. You’re an Unauthorized—born in the Biome. You had parents. That means you have a birth name.

I haven’t thought of my name since my capture, let alone said it out loud. I was taught, very violently, like every other Unauthorized, that I don’t have a name because I should’ve never been born. Not even slaves from legal breeders are given names. I’m not about to say my name and risk a beating for a guy I don’t even know. They call me Web.

Web? The man shakes his head like he’s annoyed. Slave names. He’s not impressed. You’re young. And not bad looking. I’m surprised your master’s not got you indoors using you as his own personal slave maker.

Shut the fuck up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.

Well, I was going to ask how you got hurt, but never mind. With that mouth, I think I can figure it out.

The back door opens. Ward and a medical technician walk out across the deck and go over paperwork. Okay, there she is. Now sign here verifying she was alive and in decent condition when you last saw her.

Ward takes the clipboard and scratches a pen across the top page while he speaks to me. Now, I’ve paid for a wash and a head shave as well—he holds back some laughter—so don’t give these nice people any trouble. Then he gives the paperwork back to the tech. Bring her to the auction when she’s done.

It’s the biggest one of the year. I’m sure you’ll find something you like.

Ward doesn’t give me a second thought as he walks off the deck, onto the path leading to the front of the house. Neither does the tech as he goes back inside.

The soldier is still thinking about the name I gave him. You soft slaves and the cute little names you give each other.

"Soft?" Consuming anger distracts me from my pain, even if it doesn’t stifle the dread of what awaits me behind the closed back doors.

Yeah, you heard me, he says. Soft. In the Army, we don’t get past our stock number.

But you still have nicknames, right? In that instance, my eyes dart to the door. A dull flash like it opened stops my heart. But I’m mistaken. It remains still, and grey, and somehow cold-looking even in the choking city atmosphere.

My attention moves slowly back to the tattered soldier. His head is tilted slightly and one brow is raised, and I know he knows I’m right. No matter what the masters tell us, we’re still humans. You soldiers call each other something. I know you do. No one wants to be reduced to a number. The leather-faced man is baffled. For a moment, I think I feel the muscles in my face relax. It could be because this man is the only slave who’s talked to me in years, or it could be that I know I’m right. Of course, you have slave names.

You’re smart … like an Authorized. He points a finger from his good hand. How?

My tribe was large. We had teachers. A flash of my father being sliced open bursts in front of my eyes. I slam my lids closed, squeezing it out. I’m not soft. I tell him a little about my training but I’m not one to talk, so I keep it brief.

He studies me then starts fidgeting with the filthy wrappings on his wounded hand. I was filtered at the breeding house to be a soldier. Not the fancy one they have here, but the one on the north end. Once I was old enough I was taken for training too. Made a couple of friends there. When his head rises again, he’s less ridged looking to me. Did you make any friends there?

After another glimpse toward the doors, I decide I may as well keep talking. It’s passing the time anyway. Yeah. I made a friend. While he listens, he lifts the edge of the wet, tattered wrap, and cringes at the sight of his injury. A molasses breeze wafts the smell of rotten flesh to me, and I’m sickened by the sour funk. Wow, that stinks, man. Bad.

Yeah, it does, he says and chuckles in a nervous way.

I think he must wonder if he’ll die soon. I’m wondering the same thing when I see the wrap fall back over the black, seeping decay of his torn flesh. Did that happen in battle?

The soldier laughs. Battle? There’s no battle.

It’s impossible to make sense of what he’s saying. You’re kidding me, right? It’s all anyone has talked about since I was brought to this place: ‘We need more slaves to send South, to send to the front line!’ It’s what you were born for.

"Look, Web, or whatever your name is, I was told I was going to be a soldier, but all I’ve been doing is riding on the side of trucks to protect the masters from Viper-cat attacks while they transfer slaves to the front line. Ten years I’ve been doing this, and I haven’t seen one battle. All I ever seen is slaves pushing wheelbarrows of dirt from the mountains, and slaves being marched into the warehouse to work." His good hand goes to his cheek, and he digs his grimy fingers through his short, stiff scruff.

A bang against the back door catches me off guard. Something hit it from the inside, but they remain closed. So… I struggle to retrieve my train of thought. So, you’ve seen no battle.

This here? He points to the dirty bandage. A Viper-cat scratch. Our truck was attacked by four of them on our way back to the territory. Two other soldiers were struck. They died from the poison and got dragged off … but not me. I didn’t die. He looks confused by his luck and a little shaken up as he peeks under the wrap again. I’m afraid the infection’s gonna kill me even though the venom didn’t.

The back doors shoot with a powerful burst. My body tightens. W3B! You’re up!

Well, kid, I’ll meet you at the bottom of the Black Sea, the soldier whispers.

Chapter Two

There are two of them. Their stained lab coats flap back as they trot down the steps of the deck to the holding pen. The lead man stops a little further away than he’d probably like and leans over the mud puddle at the entrance to unlock the gate. One small leap and he’s in the cage.

The door is left open—the second man doesn’t close it after he follows the tall one inside. I know if I move fast enough, I can get past the two overweight assistants. But I’m not agile enough. I’m a wounded animal being dragged into the belly of the beast, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. He grabs my upper arm and lifts me to my feet with one hand. It’s excruciating but I don’t cry out. My misery will only bring them entertainment. A low growl behind tightened lips is all he gets.

Shut up, grub. You’re not scaring anyone.

The second man moves by us with purpose. He’s going for the soldier. As soon as I lose sight of him, I hear the crumpled pages of his clipboard being flipped around. Well, it’s safe to say you had no exposure to venom—we’ve left you long enough you would have died by now. Another flip of a page and he mumbles to himself before tossing the clipboard on the ground. Must have been a female, but we don’t have to put that in your chart.

The tall one continues lifting me until the toes of my boots are the only thing touching the ground but I never stop clutching my aching stomach, not even when he lets go, and I drop back down to flat on my feet. I have no balance as I’m forced to the gate. A couple of tugs and I stumble landing facedown in the muddy water gathered at the entrance. Instantly, I know it’s not water at all. It’s urine, possibly gathered from the slaves inside and tossed into the most disregarded area on the property, or maybe it’s from the prisoners in the pen themselves. Most likely, a collection of the two.

I can’t stay down. The tech will find his own ways of moving me along if I hesitate, so I slither forward hoping for momentum to help bring me to my hands and knees. The thought of getting through the fencing first and onto my feet pops in my head, and spurs some extra strength within me.

If I get out first and I’m on my feet, I could try to run. I’ll try anything to keep from entering that building. But as soon as I’m on all fours a solid kick to my backside takes me down again. The tech laughs as I twist in pain and roll to my side. I see his partner checking the soldier’s brand on the back of his neck.

He nods to himself, confirming he has the right guy. You’re too old, grub. Then he reaches into the front pocket of his coat. There’s no money in the budget to fix you up, and you know too much to be integrated back into the slave pool.

The tall one gets past me, bitching about how I splashed his shoes when I fell. He snatches up my hands and flips me onto my back, and works my wrists a couple of times before getting the grip he likes to drag me the rest of the way out.

Now I can see the second tech’s every move. From his pocket, he pulls out a large syringe and bites the cap of the needle between his teeth, pulls back, and unsheathes the sharp metal. There’s no reluctance as he plunges it through the dirty bandages, directly into the festering wound underneath. I’m impressed with his lack of empathy. He’s got a job to do too, and he does it. But the deranged giddiness that comes over him as he pushes the plunger to inject the unknown liquid into the soldier’s body is unsettling. A true display of soullessness. But who am I to judge?

My back bangs against the bottom step of the deck just as a barrage of godless screams erupt from the soldier, but the only thing I can think of is how to keep from entering that building. While it’s supposed to be just a wash and a shave, I know what could actually happen—everything that happened the first time I was here. The sound of unspeakable cruelty doesn’t faze