Truancy Origins (9 page)

“Not at all,” another member interjected. “Job titles aside, you're losing sight of our larger purpose. The reason we exist and the only objective we're to pursue is
control.
To me, the vagrants represent the ultimate defiance of our cause—the only individuals in this City that we
cannot
directly control. Their extermination would go a long way towards making ours the truly ideal society.”

“Please, you can't honestly believe that,” a third, elderly member said, snorting. “A society that requires regular, bloody purges to maintain control is about the farthest thing from perfect that one can imagine. In fact, isn't that just the thing that we're trying to prevent? Conflict and bloodshed?”

“We're not talking about the vagrants forming an uprising here,” the second member countered. “That's unthinkable, of course. But the fact is that the vagrants are a stain upon our otherwise spotless City, and they need to be wiped out. Rothenberg understands this better than you—he's seen it all with his own eyes. He personally goes out on patrols and raids.”

“Likely because he enjoys the slaughter,” the elderly member said disapprovingly.

“Look at this practically,” the first member said impatiently. “The vagrants pose absolutely no threat to our control. They are disorganized, starved, and can't stop fighting each other over scraps. What's more, they are feared, hated, and held up as the ultimate bad example. We've made them the demons of this City—they are what every student fears becoming, what every parent fears their child could become. Exterminating them would be expensive, and deprive us of a powerful tool.”

“I say that Rothenberg is the real threat,” a fourth member said quietly. “A single officer making such momentous decisions on his own? It sets a bad precedent. He is within his legal boundary as of now, but he is pushing it. Others might start wondering how far they can push their own boundaries. If we don't rein him in, we might conceivably lose control of the Enforcers—and
then
we'd have serious problems.”

“But if we do rebuke or demote Rothenberg,” a fifth member protested, “it would look as though we're acceding to the complaints. This might inspire others to complain, to challenge our rule more often.”

“Good points, all.” The Mayor sighed, creasing his forehead with thought. “I confess that based on what little I've seen of the man, I've never had much liking for Rothenberg. But his record speaks to his ability to get things done.”

“The
wrong
things,” the third member murmured.

“That may or may not be the truth,” the Mayor conceded. “To make a decision right now would be rash, I think. We need to take our time to devise a way to deal with this without jeopardizing our control.”

“It is certainly the most dangerous threat we have faced in a long time,” the fourth member warned.

“Perhaps,” the Mayor allowed. “It's quite definitely the greatest danger to our control right
now,
at any rate.”

At that very moment, outside the door of the office, Zen noiselessly
withdrew himself from the door and stood up solemnly, his brows creased with silent menace as a twisted smile spread across his face.

“My dear, dear father,” Zen whispered as he walked back towards the stairs. “You have no idea what kind of threat your
control
has just invited upon itself.”

As he reached the stairwell, Zen paused by a garbage can to throw his fake present away. Then, without a second glance, he entered the stairwell as an insane idea began to take shape in his head.

 

U
masi flipped the pages of the book, not really reading the words at all. As a matter of fact, he wasn't even wearing his glasses; they lay to his side, on a wooden stool that also supported a large pitcher and a cup. He didn't think that he could concentrate enough to read even if he did have them on. He wasn't exactly sure what time it was, but he knew it must be late evening already. He certainly felt as though he had taken a long nap.

The last thing he remembered was being fussed over, fed some soup and foul-tasting medicine, and then being told to rest—a request that he had readily obliged. He had awoken feeling much better, and his temperature had been taken before he'd been assured that his fever had gone down. All of that was fine, but what was bothering Umasi was what little he remembered of what had happened
before
that.

At first Umasi had been content to believe that Zen's plans had been part of his many nightmares, but Zen hadn't been in to see him at all that day, and none of the mansion staff had seemed to have seen Zen either—unusual, and more than a little worrying. As the minutes ticked by, Umasi became more certain that Zen really had gone and done something crazy in search of “the truth.” And so Umasi was a nervous wreck as he waited there in his comfortable bed, flipping the pages of a book to keep himself distracted.

As Umasi reached the end of the book and slammed it shut, a loud noise assaulted his ears. His head snapped towards the door, where he saw Zen entering. Umasi reached for his glasses, and as soon as he put them on he quickly wished that he hadn't. Zen towered over him, staring down with a dangerous, excited gleam in his eyes.

“What happened?” Umasi asked.

“It's all true,” Zen hissed. “They really are . . . they're the ones responsible for everything wrong with school!”

“You mean . . . it's all intentional?”

“Of course it's intentional!” Zen exploded. “They document this stuff, meticulously! They plan these things like experiments, as if we were lab rats!”

“But why would they?” Umasi asked. “It makes no sense!”

Zen turned to glower at a bare wall of their room, as if seeing something hanging from it that Umasi could not.

“I wondered that myself, and that's what I sought to discover today,” Zen muttered, as though to no one in particular. “It's all about control, about
maintaining their supposedly perfect society.” He spun around to point at Umasi. “They're trying to make us dependent on their instruction! Through the schools they punish individuality, they make us faceless prisoners with only the faintest illusion of freedom!”

Zen's newfound fervor was frightening to behold, and Umasi was surprised to find that he had the nerve to reply to his brother's rant.

“But . . . isn't what they're doing just maintaining law and order?” Umasi argued. “They're just keeping the peace. I mean . . . without the schools all sorts of miscreants might run amok.”

Zen looked at Umasi incredulously.

“Brother, in case you're missing something, we're talking about a government destroying self-learning in order to force its citizens, its children, to become dependent on their system!” Zen said heatedly. “Are you supporting psychological torture for the purpose of suppressing independent thought?”

Umasi had no answer to that, though some dark corner of his brain began to suspect that Zen was going crazy.

“Your schoolwork, your grades, all your precious achievements, all it represents is complicity!” Zen snarled, turning back to face the wall once more. “School is not meant to educate. It's meant to dominate! But they won't have it all their way. I'll make sure of that.”

Zen was calm again, and glanced over at Umasi.

“I hope you feel better,” Zen said quietly, changing the subject. “I think I will retire today—I'll leave you to your thoughts.”

And Umasi certainly had plenty of those.

 

H
ey, you!”

Red tensed, leaping back off the wall he'd leaned against when his pains had started acted up. Snapping his head around, he was dismayed to find a vicious-looking vagrant approaching him with obviously hostile intent. Though Red didn't recognize the girl, he knew that the odds were that this was a member of the rival gang that had been causing Chris trouble lately. The attacker was wielding a rusty knife in her hand, but Red was fairly sure that he could outrun her, unless . . .

Red glanced back over his shoulder.

Damn
.

Two more vagrants were walking up the narrow street behind him, unarmed, but both larger than he was. Red took a deep breath, turned sideways so that his back was to the wall of a building, and kept an eye on both of the approaching parties. As he did, Red wondered how he could've been caught in such a simple and obvious trap; he must really be slipping. Red
silently cursed his appendix as he prepared for the inevitable confrontation, wishing that he'd stolen something to eat since escaping from the underground garage.

“Hey guys, what's up?” Red grinned at the armed vagrant.

The vagrant tossed her knife from one hand to another as she closed in on Red, not returning the smile at all. Instead, she looked at her two approaching buddies and called out to them.

“Isn't this one of Chris' little rats?” she asked.

Red winced at that. He still didn't feel anything but wary as far as Chris was concerned, not to mention that he hadn't seen or heard from his gang since the escape from the parking garage. Red had grown increasingly convinced that someone had betrayed the group to the Enforcers, and was now entertaining the possibility that he might have been the only survivor, though he doubted it; Chris' bunch was notoriously good at staying alive.

“Beats me. Anyways, it don't matter if he is or if he isn't. He sure ain't one of us.”

“What should we do with him?”

“Kill him,” the girl said immediately. “The weather's been gettin' cold lately. All I got are rags, and I like the look of his shirt.”

“Hey, we ain't too fancily dressed ourselves,” one of the boys protested—and it was indeed the truth.

Red rolled his eyes. His clothes, picked up off the street and from garbage piles, weren't “fine” even by vagrant standards, but if he wanted to live through the winter, he'd need them. Also, they were just about the only things left that he actually owned. Red knew that if the thugs had any sense, they would've attacked him without wasting any time, but they obviously didn't think that Red had a chance at escape. Overconfidence—a cardinal sin among vagrants.

“See, I think I like his pants. Those are some warm-looking pants,” a boy observed. “Lemme get the pants and you can have the shirt.”

“Which one of his pants, nitwit? He's obviously wearing more than one!” the girl snapped.

“The kid is like an onion, with all those layers,” the last vagrant chuckled. “And he smells like one too!”

At that, Red decided to make his move. As one of the boys doubled over with laughter, Red lashed out with one foot, catching the thug squarely between the legs. No reason to play fair, Red thought as the vagrant dropped to the ground squealing. Knowing that he had precious little time left to act, Red tackled the girl, seizing her wrist with both arms and twisting as hard as he could. His adversary let out a shriek as she dropped the knife.

Red dived, seizing the hilt of the weapon just before the third assailant
could get his hands on it. As he pushed himself painfully to his feet, Red saw the disappointed vagrant charging him like a car with its breaks cut. Red didn't hesitate, thrusting the knife forward with a yell. There was a scream, and something warm and sticky poured over Red's hand. The vagrant dropped to the ground, writhing in agony as a scarlet stain spread across his filthy clothing.

By then the other two attackers had risen and were about to lunge, but upon seeing what had happened to their comrade they skidded to a halt, eyeing the blade apprehensively. Red forced a grin even as bile rose in his throat.

“By the way, yeah, I'm with Chris,” Red said as cockily as he could. “Go back and tell whoever's leading you guys this week not to mess with us.”

And with that, Red spun around and ran. He had never really been very devoted to Chris' crew—now less so than ever, as he didn't know if the gang even existed anymore. Still, Red knew that strength in numbers, or even the illusion of it, could be very intimidating among vagrants. And sure enough, the thugs let him go, glaring at his receding back.

Wiping the bloody knife on his pants, Red slipped it between his belt and his pants as he fled. Red was pretty good at running, even with the persistent aches in his gut. Night was just setting in, and it didn't take him long to vanish down a maze of back alleyways on the streets of District 7.

 

Z
en crammed the last spoonful of cereal into his mouth, glancing across the table. Umasi looked weary this morning, and Zen couldn't help but notice that he'd barely touched his toast. The maids had insisted that Umasi's fever had passed, but to Zen it looked as though his brother hadn't gotten any sleep at all the previous night. Zen vaguely realized that he should be concerned, but his newfound obsession had seized him like a fever of its own. All he could think about was what he had seen and heard the day before, and so, done with his breakfast, Zen wasted no time in darting off alone. He wasn't in any mood to be bothered, and he had a feeling that there was a good chance that Umasi would want to do just that.

Arriving at his destination, Zen turned the knob and pulled the door open as he flicked the light switch on the wall. Rows upon rows of jackets, shirts, and other articles of clothing were illuminated before him, forming a forest of garments. Zen looked around the hallway first to make sure he wasn't being watched, and then plunged into the mess of outfits, shutting the door behind him. He needed a private place to work and to hide its products—somewhere he could be sure that he wouldn't be disturbed or discovered. This was a difficult need to fulfill in the Mayoral Mansion, watched over as it was by countless staff.