I shake my head. “No, that’s his last name, O, h. He’s Japanese-American and might be working as a doctor or in a medical job.”
He thinks for a minute, then shakes his head. “I don’t know any Asian guys named Ken . . . and Doc’s the only doctor I know of, and I’m his only help.”
Frustration wells up. Suddenly an image of Baby strapped to a table flashes through my mind.
“Then I’ve got to look myself. Am I clear to go inside?”
“Almost.” He stands and shakes his arms out. “Have a seat.” I sit back down on the examination table. He opens a drawer and pulls something out, plugging it into the wall. I realize it’s a tattoo gun. “I just have to mark you clean.”
I think of the scar that Rice and Baby share on the back of their necks. They were marked as part of an experiment. I swallow. “I don’t want a tattoo.”
“Sorry, but if you want to come into Fort Black, you need the mark. It lets everyone else know you’ve been tested and you don’t have the Pox.”
“And what is that, exactly?”
“It’s like the chicken pox, but you break out in black bumps. It’s extremely contagious. You don’t want to touch the victim at all, especially not any of their sores. They either die or get better. Only about half make it.”
“Sounds fun,” I mumble. “So this tattoo . . . Will it hurt?” I wince at my weakness. After all that’s happened to me, why would a silly tattoo bother me so much?
Because it’s not my choice. It’s Fort Black’s.
“It’s not too bad, but you’re going to have to take off those gloves.”
I look at my hands. They aren’t gloves. They’re part of the synth-suit. I stretch down the fabric of my suit, the same as I did when Doc wanted to take my blood, freeing my arm through the neck hole. The material bounces back to my body, making it look like an off-the-shoulder spandex top.
I sigh and hold out my hand. “I suppose I must just screw my courage to the sticking place.”
Jacks looks at me blankly. “What?”
“It’s Shakespeare.” Rice would have known Lady Macbeth’s famous quote. “It just means I have to stay strong. My father loved to read Shakespeare. . . . I used to read a lot of his plays, for fun.”
“Sounds like a laugh riot,” he mumbles. “Here”—he holds my wrist gently—“it sort of feels like your skin is being scraped with a really dull knife. It only hurts a little.”
Right. A little. I force a smile over the pain.
“What other tats do you do in here?”
“A lot. People like to look tough. And the women get tattoos once they’re claimed. . . . They get their man’s name on their arms to show they’re under someone’s protection.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope . . . There aren’t a lot of women here. This used to be a men’s prison, and last year a lot of the women died from some superflu that Doc couldn’t cure. He came up with an immune booster and injected them all, but most of them died anyway. It’s easiest for a woman to find a protector and keep safe.”
“What about the Warden? Isn’t he in charge? Shouldn’t he protect people?”
“My uncle . . . He’s just out for himself, really.” Jack’s tone changes yet again, and he shakes his head. “He keeps the walls guarded and has Doc keep track of the diseased, but he doesn’t do anything to keep things peaceful. I think he likes people scared. It keeps them from realizing what the real problems are, like him. Only murderers get punished. Everything else is allowed to sort itself out. He doesn’t protect anyone unless he sees an advantage to it.”
“Charming.” I’m seeing the Warden in a new light.
“All done!” Jacks removes the needle from the tattoo gun, throwing it away before placing the gun back in the drawer. I study my wrist: there’s just a small black square. It didn’t hurt that much. I place my arm back into the synth-suit, the material forming back against me like a second skin.
Jacks looks me over. “Hey, do you have any other clothes? That skintight catsuit thing you have on now will get you a lot of unwanted attention.”
I shake my head, crossing my arms over my chest. I know the suit leaves little to the imagination; I left the clothes I was forced to wear in the Ward where Kay dropped me, and my pack didn’t have room for anything else.
“Well, walking around here with that on will make you a target.” Jacks peels off his shirt, revealing more tattoos over a well-muscled chest and stomach. My face reddens when he catches me staring.
“Here, put this on for now.”