Truancy Page 9

  “Please, continue,” Umasi said. “I confess to succumbing to the human weakness of being fascinated by the troubles of others.”

  “Yeah.” Tack tried to remember where he had left off. “So now they’re barely giving me enough to buy lunch. It’s like I’m in prison or something.”

  Umasi smiled slightly at that. “So, you’re having a bit of a monetary difficulty?”

  “Yeah,” Tack acknowledged cautiously, wondering where Umasi was steering the conversation now.

  “Well, I may be able to help you with that,” Umasi said slowly, digging a small plastic card out of his pocket and placing it on the table. “I mentioned to you before that I have a healthy supply of money, and you asked how. I think I can answer part of that question now—this account card contains my substantial personal fortune.”

  “And you’d give me some?” Tack asked excitedly. He had only come to Umasi to talk; he hadn’t expected the boy to share his seemingly endless riches.

  “If you mean simply give it away, no,” Umasi said bluntly. “But if you’d be willing to take on a job for me, you’d be well compensated.”

  “A job?”

  “Yes,” Umasi confirmed. “It’s nothing dangerous or anything that might get you into trouble. I simply have some problems you might be able to sort out.”

  “What might that be?” Tack wondered aloud.

  “If you accept the job, I expect you should find out,” Umasi said.

  Tack thought about it. Umasi struck him as an honest person, so whatever he had planned couldn’t be awful. Really it just came down to one question.

  “How much will you pay?” Tack asked.

  “You will complete one task every day you can show up,” Umasi said. “Upon your completing that task, I’ll give you twenty in City currency.”

  Tack’s eyes widened. That would add up to a lot of money in a hurry.

  “And I can just show up any day?” Tack asked.

  “Any day,” Umasi agreed.

  “How long do you think each task would take?” Tack asked.

  “That would depend on you.” Umasi gave a faint smile again.

  “I’ll do it,” Tack said. It really sounded too good to be true. “Can I start tomorrow?”

  “I was about to suggest that you do, actually,” Umasi said casually. “Since we are of one mind, I will expect you here after school.”

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” Tack said. “Just one thing, could you tell me what the tasks are going to be?”

  “No, Tack, they will remain surprises,” Umasi said, which struck Tack as ominous. “Now, you should get some sleep. You might have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”

  The comment did little to ease Tack’s mind, though ultimately money concerned him more than Umasi’s cryptic statements.

  * * *

  In all of District 19, only one street was inhabited—if having a single boy at a lonely lemonade stand qualified as “inhabited.” The street itself was lined with old apartment buildings, generally of the brownstone variety, with balconies and fire escapes that formed a tangle of protrusions littering the exteriors of the buildings. Power still flowed through the wires of District 19, and so the orange streetlights still glowed at night, their eerie light casting strange shadows as it struck the buildings and sidewalk.

  On most nights, the street was completely abandoned, as even Umasi had to sleep. For a long time, no one had ever violated the sanctity of the night in District 19. But this night was different. Umasi remained in his seat, at his stand, a cup of lemonade in his hand, patiently waiting for something. Finally, in the darkest hour of the night, it came—something even more unusual than Umasi’s presence.

  A second boy walked up the street, his large shadow cast onto the pavement by the street lamps. Umasi was aware of his presence, but made no move to acknowledge it. Undaunted, the second boy approached the lemonade stand and, without waiting for an invitation, sat down in the seat opposite Umasi.

  “It has been a while, Umasi,” the boy said, looking him up and down. “Isolation, I see, has not stunted your growth.”

  “I had thought that we agreed never to see each other again,” Umasi said, ignoring the comment and getting straight to the point.

  “Aren’t you at least going to thank me for leaving you with power during the blackout?”

  “I have little use for light,” Umasi said dispassionately. “And again, I believed that we agreed never to see each other again.”

  “I do recall such an agreement being made, yes,” the other boy admitted.

  “And yet you have seen fit to break it,” Umasi pointed out.

  “You did not refuse my request for a meeting,” the boy said. “And we have much to talk about.”

  “On the contrary, Zen, our discussion ended years ago. It ended in violence. We have nothing left to talk about,” Umasi said firmly.

  “I told you not to call me ‘Zen’ anymore. And this time I actually have a good reason.” The boy frowned. “If the Educators were to get wind of my old name—”

  “Your real name, you mean?” Umasi interrupted. “Yes, they’d find out who you really are, and that you’re not dead like I told them you were. Would that be so bad? Do you intend to run from who you are forever?”

  “I do not intend to run from who I was, as much as I intend to bury him,” the other boy declared. “For all intents and purposes, ‘Zen’ is dead. Zyid has taken his place.”

  “Well, I am not prepared to waste energy arguing over a name, and courtesy dictates that I hear you out … Zyid,” Umasi said. “So say what you came to say.”

  “Oh, but don’t you already know what I came to ask, a brilliant prodigy like you?” Zyid asked with a mocking smile. “Things will be coming to a climax soon. I’ve come to ask what I asked of you years ago before we parted ways. I want your help.”

  Umasi leaned back in his chair, the light from the nearest street lamp casting his features into shadow.

  “You want my help in murder and destruction,” he observed, his voice dropping a few degrees.

  “I want your help in casting down a corrupt system and freeing its victims,” Zyid corrected, ignoring the chill in Umasi’s voice. “Years ago you told me that we could never succeed, and yet now you can see for yourself that, even without you, we are succeeding.”

  “You measure success in the number of enemy bodies you pile up, do you?” Umasi asked coldly.

  “I measure success in the power the Truancy is gaining and the Educators are losing every day!” Zyid said fervently. “Earlier today we managed to kill their latest Chief Enforcer! You never believed that there were people willing to die for this cause; yet they are fighting and dying now, with or without your help. You could save their lives, Umasi, since you value life so much.”

  “Save their lives by ending others’?” Umasi mused. “I wouldn’t presume to value the lives of Truants over those of the Educators, Zyid.”

  “You still have sympathies for the Educators, after what they did to you?” Zyid raised an eyebrow. “Could it be that you are feeling sentimental?”

  “And you aren’t?” Umasi asked, surprised. “The Mayor, or so we now call him, has done nothing to provoke me since we left. And he has not, as you have, dared to approach me for help.”

  “Oh? Well, it just so happens that we’ve seen evidence that he’s started to execute expelled students. Innocents.” Zyid smirked as Umasi jerked up in his chair. “You look surprised. You shouldn’t be, really—they’re just showing their true nature.”

  “Only because you goaded them into it,” Umasi retorted bitterly.

  “Please, they’ve always been like this, and have always been growing steadily worse,” Zyid said dismissively. “Our efforts only sped their schemes.”

  “Which is why I’ll have nothing to do with either of you.”

  “So what will you do instead, continue to confine yourself in this abandoned dump, leaving your mind and body to rot while your talents are wast
ed?” A note of frustration entered Zyid’s voice.

  “My talents are my own, and mine to use towards whatever goals that I see fit,” Umasi said defiantly.

  “And what goals are those?” Zyid demanded.

  “That, I’m afraid, is my business,” Umasi said.

  “You are intelligent, Umasi,” Zyid hissed, placing his hands on the table and leaning forward. “Don’t waste yourself here. Leave this district; come with me; with the both of us together, the Educators will fall within a year!” Zyid frowned. “Of course, I know full well that you’re more likely to content yourself with being lazy, doing nothing.”

  “I never said that I would do nothing, Zyid,” Umasi said. “I am, in fact, taking action—in my own way. You tend to gravitate towards the grand and the spectacular, but my accomplishments are more subtle and patient.”

  “I’ve seen no evidence of your accomplishments,” Zyid said scornfully. “And if others cannot see and recognize anything you’ve done, what is the point of doing it?”

  “Perhaps the point is simply that you’ve done it.” Umasi shrugged. “I really can’t tell you. In any case, as fascinating as our philosophical discussions always were, your purpose for coming here was to ask me a question, which you have done. Are we finished, or do you have any other requests for me?”

  “No,” Zyid said. “Just the one.”

  “Then I regret to say that my answer remains ‘no,’ and it is final,” Umasi said. “It would be best if you do not ask me again.”

  “I will respect that wish,” Zyid said, standing up. “But I hope, for old times’ sake, that you will reconsider.”

  “Ah, old times,” Umasi said reminiscently, tilting his head back. “We did have some fun, didn’t we?”

  “I won’t deny it,” Zyid admitted.

  “And yet that fun was had as students,” Umasi pointed out.

  “If you’re suggesting that we could go back to the way things were, or that things were better when we were students, you’re wasting your breath,” Zyid said quickly. “I, at least, have enjoyed freedom for too long, and seeing as how you are doing nothing else after all, I had hoped that you might consider joining me.”

  “I’ve had about two years, thus far, to consider that, Zyid,” Umasi said wearily. “But if I ever change my mind, I will make it known.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Zyid said, his voice suddenly softening. “Take care of yourself, Umasi.”

  “Oh, I will,” Umasi assured him, warmth returning to his voice. “And don’t get yourself killed out there.”

  “I don’t intend to, just yet,” Zyid said, sounding strained for the first time. “Farewell, Umasi. I don’t foresee us meeting again for a while.”

  “Neither do I, Zen … or Zyid, rather,” Umasi said. “But it was good to see you again.”

  “The same to you.” Zyid turned and began to walk steadily away down the street. He never looked back, though his feet dragged along very slightly—the only sign of his regret.

  Umasi, for his part, spent some time staring into the darkness that Zyid had vanished into, his cup of lemonade untouched in his hand, an unreadable expression on his face. After a few minutes had resolutely ticked by, Umasi shook his head and stood up.

  “Well,” he said to no one in particular, “there is work to be done.”

  * * *

  “You’re kidding,” Tack said, staring at the jar sitting in front of him.

  “No, my friend, I’m quite serious,” Umasi said, sounding oddly tired.

  Tack had eagerly left school that day and had made a beeline for District 19, wondering all the way what sort of job Umasi would have for him. When he’d finally arrived, breathing heavily after his run, Tack had found that the job was nothing at all like anything he’d imagined. Umasi had set a jar upon the lemonade stand that seemed to be filled with some sort of gray powder. Umasi revealed, however, that the jar was actually filled with mixed salt and pepper. Tack’s job, Umasi had said, would be to separate the salt and the pepper into two perfectly pure piles.

  “But what’s the point?” Tack demanded.

  “Oh, I just need my salt and my pepper,” Umasi said casually. “I think that your wages are more than reasonable.”

  Tack knew that there was no question about that. He was being paid an extravagant amount of money for such a menial task—for the same amount, Umasi could’ve buried his stand beneath salt and pepper. Still, the job seemed to define tedious for Tack, and he wasn’t particularly eager to work at something that seemed to be utterly pointless.

  “Couldn’t you just—,” Tack began.

  “You do want the job, don’t you?” Umasi interrupted.

  Tack frowned. “Well, yeah, of course, but—”

  “Then it would probably be best not to waste time asking questions,” Umasi pointed out. “You’ll need your energy: I have some exercises I’d like you to perform afterwards.”

  Tack shut his mouth, deciding that, on the whole, the amount he was being paid was worth not being able to ask questions. Without further ado, Tack sat down in his usual chair and unscrewed the jar lid. Across from him, Umasi nodded in approval, leaned all the way back in his chair, and actually seemed to drift into sleep. Tack sighed, and then emptied the jar out onto the table.

  The job was worse that he’d imagined it would be—in his haste to finish it, Tack’s fingers would slip and slide a grain of salt into pepper’s pile, or a flake of pepper into salt’s. Still, the task had a strange sort of appeal to it, the kind of basic pleasure that people get when confronted with a problem that they can overcome. It wasn’t horrible work—just not the kind of thing anyone would ever bother doing without incentives. Tack tried to keep himself from going bored by humming to himself or imagining all the salt and pepper going up in flames. As Tack progressed, he occasionally glanced up at Umasi, who was still deeply asleep.

  At long last, his eyes burning and his neck stiff from craning over, Tack finished sliding the salt and pepper into their appropriate piles.

  “Hey, hey, Umasi!” he called loudly.

  This produced immediate results, and Tack immediately decided that Umasi must’ve been in a very light sleep, or maybe was even faking, because the boy snapped back to full lucidity in an instant.

  “Quite acceptable,” Umasi said genially, leaning forward to inspect the separate piles. “Yes, this will do nicely, Tack.”

  Having satisfied himself with Tack’s work, Umasi removed a bill from his pocket and handed it over to Tack, who accepted it gratefully.

  “Now, before you leave,” Umasi said, standing up and stretching, “there are a few things I’d like you to practice.”

  Tack paused, remembering that Umasi had mentioned something about exercises.

  “Practice?”

  “Yeah,” Umasi said casually. “Physical exercises, you know. I prefer that my employees remain fit.”

  * * *

  “I think everyone knows why I’ve called this emergency meeting,” the Mayor said, shutting his lighter wearily. “It’s been confirmed that Chief Enforcer Waters has been killed by the Truancy. I don’t know much more than that, and it’s testing my patience. Someone explain to me how this happened.”

  “According to the Enforcer reports, he was with a patrol on a routine sweep through an abandoned district,” one cabinet member said tentatively. “They found what they thought was just another uninhabited Truancy storage site. It turned out not to be as uninhabited as they thought.”

  “Great. Absolutely fantastic,” the Mayor muttered sarcastically. “Announce to the public that he was killed in the line of duty, and don’t bother getting any more specific than that. Also, toss out that Bird Cold story that we’ve been saving for something like this.”

  “I’ll draft the press release right away,” another cabinet member declared, scribbling furiously on his clipboard.

  “We have now gone through five Chief Enforcers since launching a full campaign against the Truancy just two year
s ago,” the Mayor observed, his voice a blend of weariness and frustration. “I end up firing half of them for being too dull witted, and whenever we find someone halfway competent to take the job they end up getting killed. This needs to change. I’m open to suggestions.”

  The other men at the table looked nervously at each other, none of them willing to speak first. The Mayor was not a man that by nature gave the impression of being open to suggestion. The silence stretched on, until it was finally broken by one daring cabinet member.

  “Sir,” he said tentatively, “it’s just a matter of personal security. If you can find someone fit for the job, simply assign him and other officials some bodyguards. For instance, we know that the Disciplinary Officers are being heavily targeted, and yet some of them still have virtually no personal security.”

  “I presume you speak of Mr. Caine, who occupied your seat before his assignment as a Disciplinary Officer.” The Mayor flicked his lighter open. “Mr. Caine brought his position upon himself. As for Mr. Waters, he was apparently with a full Enforcer squad when he was killed—he was hardly unprotected.”

  “They ran into a whole nest of Truants,” another man argued. “Reports indicate that there couldn’t have been less than a dozen Truants there, and the Enforcers managed to kill four of them.”

  “Four of theirs for our Chief Enforcer is a bad trade, no matter how you spin it,” the Mayor countered. “Mr. Waters shouldn’t have been there in the first place. In fact, a new measure should be put in place—the Chief Enforcer is only to visit a scene if the area has already been deemed secure for a whole hour.”

  “It’ll be law by tomorrow morning,” one of the men promised, scribbling furiously on his notepad.

  “Very good,” the Mayor said. “We will also provide the new Chief Enforcer with a number of personal bodyguards. As for who that will be … we need someone creative, someone who can think like a Truant.”

  “How can we know what a candidate thinks like?” one man wondered aloud.