Truancy Origins Read online

  How is he, Father?”

  “He seems to be a bit delirious, but it’s nothing too serious. Just a regular fever.”

  “The weather has been getting cold lately.”

  “Well, it’s not even winter yet . . . though your brother has always been rather fragile compared to you. Don’t tell him I said that, by the way.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. So, what should we do for him?”

  “He just needs to stay in bed, drink lots of juice, take his medicine, and rest. I’d watch over him myself . . . but unfortunately I’ve got some important work to do today that I can’t put off. I’ll have the staff look after him. You should too, but be careful not to catch what he’s got.”

  “Well that goes without saying.”

  “Good boy. I’ll try to be back early today—call me if there are any problems. You have my number.”

  “Of course.”

  Umasi heard a door shut, as if the sound had echoed over to him from a great distance away. The voices had ceased talking—what had they been saying again? He couldn’t concentrate. Everything seemed disorganized and unclear, as if his normally neatly arranged thoughts had been dunked into a pool where they could float about erratically, bumping off one another. It took him a while to realize that he felt hot. Fever. The voices had said something about fever. That must be it.

  He felt something cool and wet being applied to his forehead, soothing the fires in his head. Attempting to make some sense of what was going on, Umasi forced his eyes open to find that everything was a confusing blur. Cool trickles dripped down his face, and he realized that someone had put a wet towel on his forehead. Blinking to rid himself of a drop of water that had landed on his eyelid, he opened his eyes again to see a blurry shadow standing over him. The shadow reached down towards him and he felt something being slipped onto his face. The next thing he knew, Umasi saw Zen’s face looking down at him emotionlessly. Glasses, Umasi realized. Zen had put his glasses on him so he could see.

  “No . . . no school?” Umasi mumbled.

  “You’re still out of it, I see,” Zen commented. “No, no school. Today’s a Saturday, remember?”

  “Oh,” Umasi groaned, lucid enough to realize that he was both sick and not missing any school.

  “Do you recognize who I am?”

  “Yeah,” Umasi croaked.

  “Well, then, you’re not completely delirious,” Zen observed. “Nonetheless, you’re to stay in bed for the rest of the day. Leave everything to me.”

  “Leave . . . what?”

  “The truth,” Zen whispered, leaning forward as his voice took on a dangerous tone. “I’m going to investigate Father’s ‘work.’ I’m going to find out what he’s really been up to for all these years.”

  Umasi wasn’t of a mind to fully grasp the import of Zen’s words, but something about them triggered alarms in his head.

  “No . . . no, you mustn’t . . .” Umasi protested.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.” Zen laughed. “The maids will be up soon with some drinks and medicine, and then you’ll get some rest. It’ll do you some good. You shouldn’t even be conscious, really—take a nap. By the time you’re sober, everything will be taken care of.”

  “No . . . don’t . . .”

  “You needn’t worry your fevered head about this, Brother,” Zen said. “I can do the thinking for the both of us.”

  Umasi struggled to renew his protests, but his throat was too dry to speak without discomfort. The next thing he knew was the familiar, ringing sound of a door slamming shut—a sound that he knew, even in his fevered state, meant disaster.

  Zen shut the door behind him and strode off, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting. How convenient it was, he thought, that Umasi would end up falling ill today. He wouldn’t have to worry about his brother second-guessing him, not to mention that the mansion’s entire staff would be dedicating themselves to treating Umasi’s fever. With that in mind, Zen quietly proceeded to the small janitor’s room, where he knew a large number of keys hung upon one wall. Zen swiftly examined them all before carefully selecting one and slipping it into his pocket. He then climbed up a wooden spiral staircase to the top floor of the mansion, where he proceeded to a large mahogany door.

  Zen first tried the brass doorknob, but found it locked. He hadn’t expected it to be open, but even the Mayor was careless sometimes. Still, Zen had come prepared, and he smiled as he drew from his pocket the master key that he had retrieved from the janitor’s room. It could unlock every door in the mansion, and it was the only key, besides the one the Mayor carried personally, that could unlock the door before him. Zen slid it into the lock, turned it, and without hesitation entered the Mayor’s study for the first time in his entire life.

  Zen shut the door behind him and flipped a switch on the wall to turn on the lights. His eyes were greeted with a warmly lit room with varnished wooden panels and classic decor. The wall opposite the door was lined end-to-end with bookshelves, all stuffed with teaching literature. To the left side stood a large desk stacked high with papers, a computer, a telephone, and neatly arranged writing utensils. Zen was about to proceed over to the desk when the right wall caught his eye. He walked over to inspect the large bulletin board that hung from it, and as he realized what was pinned up upon the board, his fingernails suddenly dug painfully into the palms of his hands.

  The board was strewn with drawings, school papers, tests, report cards, all of them demonstrating absolutely outstanding work over the course of many years. Every one of them bore Umasi’s name, every one of them bore comments praising Umasi’s efforts. Zen searched the entire board long and hard for something, anything that he had done, but there was nothing. Nothing at all. But more sickening to Zen than that revelation was the realization that he hadn’t produced anything worthy of being placed upon the board. Zen did not cry; he didn’t even twitch. Yet something snapped inside him, and as he spun around to approach the desk, years of repressed bitterness filled his heart.

  Tests? Homework? Grades? Useless, petty things! Zen knew that he, unlike his twin, had talents geared for greater things than that. Someday, someday soon, Zen knew, he would show his father—no, show the entire City—exactly what he was capable of. If he surpassed them all, who then would be left to grade him?

  Zen seized the nearest document on the Mayor’s desk and examined it. Then he seized another, and another, his features darkening with every sheet. Every page detailed plans, schemes set forth by the Educators. Everything was there, in painstaking detail—from a program that locked student bathrooms in order to establish their use as a “privilege” to a ploy for teachers to release students late for class so that they could get in trouble with the next teacher. Seemingly everything, big or small, that Zen had ever hated about school lay there on that desk, but the one question he couldn’t answer was why? Why go through so much trouble to make children miserable? What was the reason?

  Zen was so obsessed with the search for this answer that he barely noticed it when he came upon a sheet of paper different from all the others. Inspecting it, he realized with a jolt that it was his latest report card, stating that he’d passed everything by a thread. But that wasn’t right, the report card Zen had received said he’d failed a few classes! Then realization hit, and Zen felt his bitterness redouble. All this time, his father had been changing his grades. Why? Did the man think that it would motivate him?

  Zen crammed the report card into his pocket and carefully replaced the rest of the papers before clenching his fists. He had to be absolutely sure before he acted. He knew their crimes, but now he needed their motive, and he obviously wasn’t going to find that here. For that, there was only one last place that he could look.

  Red jerked awake at the sound of gunfire. He was instantly alert, crouching down behind a fallen chunk of concrete as he tried to get a bearing on what was happening. All around him the other vagrants were already fleeing, weaving around more concrete slabs and
pillars as they dodged bullets. Even as Red watched, one of his companions caught a bullet in the back, cried out, and fell to the ground. Red immediately understood. No vagrant group in the entire City had guns. This had to be an Enforcer raid.

  Red weighed his options. Considering the utter chaos unfolding in the garage, it was clearly every man for himself at this point. Red glanced around. Chris was nowhere to be found, and that suited him just fine. Red didn’t think that the Enforcers had spotted him behind the concrete just yet, and the garage was very dark; none of the lights had been working for a long time, the vagrants’ fires had been put out in the night, and only faint, distant daylight flickered in from the entrances to the garage at both ends. Of course, the Enforcers would have flashlights, but they couldn’t be everywhere at once. Red smiled as he looked around. Another reason the vagrants had favored the parking garage was the numerous sturdy concrete pillars that provided cover.

  Red decided not to go for one of the direct exits. As enticing as the daylight was, it probably meant more Enforcers were waiting there to pick off runners. Instead, as soon as he heard the closest Enforcers firing at another target, he leapt out from behind the fallen concrete slab and darted behind a pillar. As soon as he thought it was safe to move, he darted behind another one, and another, slowly making his way deeper into the garage towards the door he knew led to a stairwell. Once he escaped to the ground floor, he would have more options.

  With his goal blazing in his mind, Red darted for another column, but this time a flashlight briefly passed over him.

  “There’s another one!” a voice shouted.

  Red swore under his breath, and then abruptly broke into a run through the dark forest of pillars. Other flashlights began skirting the area around him as loud footsteps pursued him, but he knew they’d have a hard time getting a good shot at him.

  As gunshots rang out and bits of concrete began flying off the surrounding pillars, Red suddenly came up with a risky plan. With the echo of the garage, the Enforcers wouldn’t be able to tell whose footsteps were whose. As soon as Red passed behind another slab of concrete and temporarily out of the Enforcers’ sight, he froze, his back tightly pressed against the pillar in the complete darkness. The Enforcers ran past, their flashlights darting everywhere but behind them.

  As soon as he was sure that the last Enforcer had passed him, Red quietly slid around the column and doubled back the way he had come as fast as he could without making much noise. He had spotted a small Dumpster the previous night, and upon reaching it he was pleased to discover that it was still full of trash. The trash was old enough to smell rancid even to Red, which was really a good thing: if it smelled bad to him, then the Enforcers probably wouldn’t bother digging too deep.

  “Where is he?”

  “We lost him,” an authoritative voice said, echoing throughout the garage. “He may have backtracked. What’s the kill count so far?”

  “Seven at the last tally, sir.”

  “We were told to expect more than twice that. We definitely missed some. Spread out and search the area. Shoot anything that moves.”

  Holding his breath and shutting his nostrils, Red dived into the Dumpster. He would have shut the lid, but was worried about the noise it would make. Instead, Red allowed himself to sink beneath a thin layer of trash, so that he was still able to breathe through the pockets of air between the distasteful objects that made up the garbage. As he waited, completely still, Red thought about what he’d just heard.

  These days Enforcer raids were far from uncommon, but it wasn’t often that they knew exactly where and when a group of vagrants would be hiding out—and it was even rarer for them to know how many to expect. Enforcers generally discovered them either with routine sweeps . . . or when they were tipped off. Red thought about the missing vagrant that had been mentioned the night before. Could it be that the boy had betrayed them?

  The Enforcers hadn’t always pursued the vagrants so brutally, but ever since a man named Rothenberg had become their Chief Truancy Officer, they had begun cracking down, offering generous rewards to any vagrant that turned in others. They had killed hundreds and turned more against each other. Rothenberg’s name had become more feared and hated than any other among the vagrants.

  Red’s thoughts were interrupted and he allowed himself a groan inside the Dumpster as the familiar ache in his gut returned. It was getting sharper, more painful by the day, and the only comfort Red could find in that was the possibility that he might actually be dying.

  Someday, someday soon, Red knew, he would be free of all this. But until then, all he could do was his best to stay alive. His only ambition was to prove to be as stubborn a victim for the City as he could.

  Zen strode up the steps of City Hall, a wrapped box clutched in his hands. All around him adults passing in and out of the building shot curious glances at the unusual sight, but Zen paid them no heed, keeping a bright expression upon his face. As he pushed open the glass doors of the entrance and stepped onto the checkered marble floor of the lobby, he was met by a security guard, who recognized him immediately.

  “Zen!” the guard greeted. “What brings you here?”

  “I’m here to see my dad.” Zen smiled pleasantly. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

  “Oh yes, he came in a few hours ago.” The guard nodded. “He should’ve just started his meeting right now, but I’ll call him to let him know you’re here.”

  “No, no, please don’t, sir,” Zen said. “Today’s a special day for him, and I wanted to surprise him.” Zen held up the wrapped box.

  “A special day?” The guard scratched his head. “It’s not his birthday today, is it? Thought that was last month.”

  “Come now, mister, you’re prying into family secrets.” Zen frowned. “Father won’t like that at all.”

  “Oh! No, it was my mistake to ask, sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .” The guard trailed off, sounding flustered. “Tell you what, son, why don’t you just go on up and see your dad? You can surprise him all you like; I won’t let him know you’re coming. His office is on the fifth floor, I’m sure you know the way.”

  Zen’s face split into a decidedly uncharacteristic smile. “Thank you very much!”

  Without waiting for a response, Zen darted through the lobby, through the busy crowds of people, past the stainless-steel doors of the elevator, and into the linoleum-tiled stairway. As soon as he was alone in the stairwell, his smile vanished, his carefree strides were replaced by a stiff gait, and his bright expression smoothed into a flat, emotionless face. Sometimes, Zen thought to himself, the stigma that came along with being a child could actually prove useful. Zen ran up the stairs two at a time until he reached the fifth floor.

  Then, taking a deep breath, Zen pushed open the stair doors and made his way towards the Mayor’s Office.

  You may all have noticed that I’ve not called a cabinet meeting for quite a while until now,” the Mayor said, folding his hands together upon the oval conference table at which they were all seated. “This is because, on the academic side at least, everything has been proceeding exemplarily. Indeed, though we’re only barely into the school year, it is shaping up to be one of our best thus far.”

  “So then what has occasioned this, sir?” one cabinet member asked.

  “If you’ll refrain from speaking out of turn, I will tell you,” the Mayor said. “If you’ll remember, six months ago we promoted an Enforcer named Rothenberg to the position of Chief Truancy Officer. Since then he has used most of his increased budget for a citywide crackdown . . . but on vagrancy much more than truancy.”

  All heads around the table nodded; every Educator was familiar with Rothenberg and his exploits.

  “Actually, vagrancy levels have in fact been dropping.” The Mayor smiled wryly. “This is due in large part to the fact that Rothenberg’s men have been killing them all. It appears that it has gotten to the point where even Enforcers have been filing official complaints about it. Some of them have guil
ty consciences, others worry about the legality of such wholesale slaughter.”

  “Well, one of those is easily addressed, sir,” a cabinet member said quickly. “It is entirely legally sound. If you’ll recall City Code 916 . . .”

  “‘If deemed necessary, Enforcers may shoot miscreants in abandoned districts so as not to expose the inhabitants in the surrounding vicinities to danger.’ Yes, I’m quite familiar with my own laws,” the Mayor said. “The issue here is not the killings—it’s one man unilaterally taking action that might upset the entire system.”

  “I for one think that he has the wrong focus,” one cabinet member said. “The vagrants are no threat to our society—they’re already outcasts of our system; the dredges, the failures. What we should be worried about is curbing truancy. Shouldn’t the Chief Truancy Officer be mainly focused on catching truants?”

  “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.