Truancy Origins (2 page)

Before the Mayor could renew his protests, the girl had already turned her back to him and begun walking away. As the girl reached the door to the Mayor's office, she was flanked and then followed by the two armed bodyguards that, up until that point, had been doing their most convincing impersonation of statues. The Mayor watched their shadows recede out of sight through the open door, dazedly wondering how he had been left speechless by a child barely taller than his own desk.

For one suspended moment, the Mayor remained motionless in his padded armchair, wishing that he could sink into the soft folds of leather to escape the troubles that had so suddenly been foisted upon him. But before
he could convince himself that the girl's visit had been a bad dream, a shrill, wailing cry from the hallway cut through the chilled air of his office. Unmistakably the cry of a baby.

The Mayor forced himself out of his seat, and, in an almost dreamlike stupor, stumbled over to the doorway. Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the brighter light of the hallway, he found that the shrill wail doubled in volume. The Mayor forced himself to stand straight. Then he saw it—the source of the cries, a crib resting in the hallway, containing two infants that looked to be about six months old. The noise came solely from a baby lying on his back, bawling as loud as his little lungs could manage. The other child, in stark contrast, was completely silent, but not at all inactive. He was crawling around the edges of the crib, exploring the bars with his fingers, and occasionally reaching outside them with tiny arms as if by doing so he might escape.

The Mayor found himself inexplicably awestruck by the sight, so much so that he barely heard the cries of the first baby. Then he was snapped out of his reverie by the rough sound of the clearing of a throat. The Mayor looked up, and was surprised to see the girl and her bodyguards still standing at the far end of the hallway, watching him strangely.

“I trust that everything is in order?” the girl called over the cries, dislike visible on her face even at a distance.

The Mayor didn't answer, but instead looked up at the girl's purely light complexion, and then down at the babies, who clearly had a yellow tinge to their skin.

“What are their names?” the Mayor suddenly demanded. “Tell me their names!”

At this, the girl slowly approached the Mayor, still flanked by her bodyguards. No longer caring if he was in any bodily danger, the Mayor patiently waited until the eight-year-old stood right under him, exactly level with the Mayor's waist.

“Their mother named them,” the girl explained, gesturing towards the crib. “The noisy boy is Umasi. The restless one is Zen.”

With that, the girl spun around and walked away as though she had just completed a casual errand. The Mayor didn't know whether or not he would ever see the girl again, but in that instant he swore to himself that he would do everything within his power to make sure that the children called Zen and Umasi would never meet their half-sister. He looked down at the crib again, and for an instant was unpleasantly surprised to find the child named Zen staring up at him with dark eyes that already seemed to be assessing, analyzing, sizing him up. The infant's stare reminded the Mayor altogether too much of the vicious gaze of his older sibling. Rattled,
the Mayor looked instead at Umasi, who was still crying loudly. Gingerly, the Mayor picked Umasi up and cradled him in his arms as best he could. Almost instantly, the wailing subsided, and the Mayor found another pair of dark eyes looking up at him curiously, and in them the Mayor saw intelligence, yes, but also innocence that sparkled so clearly that it was unmistakable.

The Mayor swayed his arms, rocking Umasi to sleep. As he did so, he couldn't help but notice Zen's eyes tracking his twin's every movement. Only when Umasi had finally fallen asleep and been placed back in the cradle did Zen stir, crawling back to his brother's side, where he also promptly fell asleep.

Maybe this wouldn't be so unpleasant after all, the Mayor thought as he watched the sleeping babies. But already guilt encroached upon his conscience. These children would have to be put through school. The City's schools. Schools meant to ensnare the children of others would now be used on his own. If he could, he would have saved them from that hell of his own design.

But that was impossible. Education in this City was absolute.

“Forgive me, you two, for what I'll do to you,” the Mayor murmured quietly. “You will suffer, but it'll be for your own good.”

On that day, the City's schools had all reported perfect attendance. It was a day when the City knew no truancy. But that night, the Mayor willingly accepted two unfamiliar children as his own, and welcomed them into his City, a City that he also valued as his child. He had no way of knowing that in that crib slept the inevitable undoing of his City.

 

 

When death lies ahead . . .

 

. . . it's natural to look back.

 

 

  
You looked . . .

 

 

. . . didn't you?

 

Yes. Yes I did.
So did I.

 

 

 

T
he fifteen-year-old boy slowly turned a page of his textbook, relishing the crisp sound of the shifting paper. He had never really liked social studies, though this passage on the subject was not actually an uninteresting one. The topic was agriculture, something that one did not often observe within the City. The student couldn't help but find something whimsical about the idea of vast spaces with no buildings and few people. Small garden terraces were one thing, but large areas that existed solely only to grow plants? It was an alien notion, though obviously a necessary one; after all, the City had to get its food from somewhere.

The boy absentmindedly took a sip from his bottle of lemonade and sloshed it about in his mouth. Produce imports into the City had increased by five percent in one particular year . . . grain shortages had occurred on three separate occasions due to rural drought . . . the City had once issued migration permits allowing select citizens to move out onto outlying farmlands . . . that program had been canned the next year owing to an excess of volunteers, and the existing volunteers were forbidden to return. The boy inscribed notes on all of it into his binder mechanically, sipping his lemonade as he went.

He paused only once, taking the opportunity to zip up his jacket and adjust his glasses. Chilly winds had begun making their way through the concrete ravines of the City, and the student was seated outdoors, upon a backless bench in his school courtyard. Thumbing down the pages of his book to prevent the wind from ruffling them, he watched idly for a moment as leaves flew by in a flurry of ruby and gold. He had always been fond of the fall season, as it was rarely ever hot or cold enough to be truly uncomfortable.

Satisfied with his fleeting break, the student returned to his textbook, taking another swig of lemonade as he did so. The chapter he was reading hadn't been assigned by his teacher yet, but he found that working ahead of the class schedule often paid off. Besides, he never did have anything better to do during his free periods.

The boy was soon completely immersed in the text, lost among the figures, statistics, and historical minutiae. He became so focused on the reading, in fact, that he didn't notice the sound of running footsteps behind him . . . until one of the feet connected squarely with his back.

The boy was flung forward, landing face-first on the hard ground. His
textbook and binder landed in shambles to his left; his bottle of lemonade flew to the right and came to rest in a large, sticky puddle of its own contents. The shock disoriented him. His glasses flew several feet away, leaving him with a blurred perception of the world. Even so, he knew what was coming next, and instinctively tried to lift himself off the ground. A hard kick to his ribs floored him again, leaving him to clutch his side in pain. Before he could attempt any other movements, a heavy boot came to rest atop his head. It wasn't applying much pressure yet, but the message was clear, and the boy remained still.

“Hey guys, looks like we've found ourselves one of the princes of the City!”

“Which one is it? They look the same to me.”

“Don't be stupid, this one has short hair and glasses,” a third voice snarled, this one belonging to the owner of the offending boot. “It's obviously Umasi.”

“Not Zen,” the first voice said, disappointed.

“No, not Zen,” the owner of the boot agreed. “But I can't say that I like this one much either. He's a real teacher's pet. Always sucking up in class. Isn't that right, Umasi?”

Umasi realized that there was no right answer to the question and opted to remain silent. But even as he clamped his mouth shut, he could feel anger bubbling up inside him. It was not a rational, focused anger, but more of a general fury that he knew could prove more harmful to himself than to his assailants. Umasi forced himself to be calm, even as his silence prompted the owner of the boot to remove it from his head and instead seize a fistful of Umasi's hair.

“Your brother's got quite an attitude, you know that?” the boy said as he yanked Umasi upright. “Thinking he can run around like he owns the school and everyone in it, just 'cause his daddy's the Mayor. What about you? Does it run in the family?”

Umasi shook his head stiffly, his teeth grinding against each other behind sealed lips. Tears of shock and anger ran down his face, mingling with the dirt that had rubbed onto him from the ground. This reaction produced hearty laughter from the trio.

“Aww, you made the baby cry!”

“Anyone got some tissues?”

“I think he's had enough,” the third bully said. “I'm done wasting time here. Let's let him off easy this time.”

Without waiting for a response from his cohorts, the brute roughly shoved Umasi to the ground again, holding his head right above the newly formed puddle of lemonade.

“You like that stuff so much, why don't you have some more?” the boy suggested. “Lick it up. We just want you to drink a tiny bit, and we'll let you go.”

Umasi remained silent, but didn't move. As hard as he tried, he couldn't act rationally. Just a drop of the lemonade, dirty though it might be, wouldn't do him much harm, and would save him a world of trouble. But what was left of his pride and dignity wouldn't allow him to do it, and with the idea of fighting back being so obviously suicidal, Umasi was paralyzed with indecision for several agonizing moments.

“Come on, do it!” the boy ordered again impatiently.

Slowly, hesitantly, Umasi lowered his head as the boys jeered behind him. He halted just above the puddle, breathing deeply to steady his nerves, fighting one last battle with himself. But he would never know what the results of that struggle might have been, for another voice chose that moment to make its presence known.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but it appears as though you've confused me with my brother over there.”

The three bullies spun around, instantly forgetting all about Umasi. Sitting up shakily, Umasi turned around as well, to see the three boys staring almost dumbstruck at a fourth. The new center of attention wore a black windbreaker jacket over his gray school uniform, with matching black boots and a backpack slung over one shoulder. His sleek, dark hair was tied back into a simple ponytail, and his cold, intimidating gaze radiated both strength and menace.

For a fleeting second Umasi saw fear on the faces of his tormentors, but it swiftly passed, replaced by dogged determination.

“Zen,” the first boy spat.

“Correct,” Zen agreed, leaning against the brick wall behind him.

“Still growing out that girl's hair?” the second boy jeered.

“That would seem to be the case, wouldn't it?” Zen replied, his glinting eyes surveying each one of them thoroughly.

“There's three of us this time,” the third boy warned. “Think you can take all of us at once?”

“Probably,” Zen said, his gaze coming to rest upon the first boy, who reflexively took a step back. “But the real question is ‘Are you brave enough to find out?' ”

There was a moment of silence, as all three of the bullies faced the same indecision that Umasi had experienced moments before. On one hand, Zen had made a challenge that couldn't be ignored. On the other, each of them had experienced humiliating defeat at his hands before. But with them outnumbering him three to one, there was no way for them to back down
without losing face. Almost simultaneously, the three boys reached the same decision and lunged forward from all sides, charging Zen with arms outstretched.

Theirs would prove to be a very painful mistake.

Zen shed his backpack and smoothly ducked the first boy's assault from the left. He then stepped forward, bringing his fist arcing upwards into the boy's belly, the whole motion taking less time than it took his backpack to hit the ground. The impact of the punch was tremendous, and the hapless boy made a noise halfway between a whimper and a wheeze, followed by a gurgling sound as Zen jabbed at his throat, cleanly tipping him backwards like a domino.