by Isamu Fukui
“Who is he, exactly?” Gabriel asked as he looked down at the photograph that Zen had presented.
“He’s called Ralph, but his name isn’t important. What’s more significant is that he’s technically the Chief of the Enforcers,” Zen said.
“Technically?”
“I’ve done a little investigation, and it seems that our notorious friend Rothenberg has been temporarily given complete control over the Enforcers to aid him in his . . . search,” Zen explained. “That would create a conflict at the highest level of command, and that simply won’t do for a functioning organization. I can only presume that the Mayor has ordered Ralph to step aside to allow Rothenberg to pursue his search. That would explain his recently acquired habits, at any rate.”
“What habits?”
“He tends to frequent one particular bar in District 9 these days,” Zen said. “It seems that he’s taken to drowning his woes in drink. Having his power stripped has not agreed with him.”
“So that’s why you want us to take him out in District 9,” Gabriel observed.
“Exactly.” Zen nodded. “When he stumbles out in his usual stupor, he’ll hardly be in any condition to make a fuss. Make sure that there are no witnesses, and then take him out.”
“This guy hasn’t done anything to us,” Gabriel said uncomfortably. “I haven’t heard of him ever killing anyone.”
“Don’t go soft on me, Gabriel,” Zen said sharply. “It was by this man’s hand that Rothenberg was promoted into a position to slaughter the vagrants. Ralph knew the type of man Rothenberg was. He just hired him to do the bloody work he didn’t want to take responsibility for himself.”
Gabriel frowned. It seemed that no one was truly innocent in this City.
“All right,” Gabriel conceded. “But why not go after Rothenberg himself?”
“Several reasons,” Zen said. “Firstly, while he is not quite stupid, he does have the fatal flaws of overconfidence and underestimation. He keeps expecting frightened runaways, not an armed rebellion. Consequently, he can only bungle to our advantage until, perhaps, he is forced to face reality.
“Secondly, he’s much more dangerous than the real Chief at present. Aside from his considerable Enforcer protection, he is renowned for his own physical prowess and marksmanship. I caught him by surprise once, but were he to be cornered alone again, it would take someone of extraordinary cunning and brutality to match Rothenberg,” Zen said. “Finally, he’s notoriously unpredictable. He follows no exploitable patterns. He rarely even goes home, except to beat his son.”
Gabriel grimaced at that final pronouncement.
“I’ve already provided the details and the names of individuals you’ll be working with,” Zen said. “This will be an easy operation, but also an important one. The Enforcers will learn that they are not safe even when off-duty. If you have no more questions, you may go.”
Gabriel nodded again and threw a quick salute—not because he was required to, but out of genuine respect—and then spun around and left the flower shop. Barely taking time to catch his breath, Zen turned to address a waiting Frank.
“Frank, you and the other former vagrants know the abandoned districts better than any of the other Truants,” Zen said, to which Frank nodded. “Therefore, this most important assignment will fall to you. The Truancy’s future success depends on turning the City’s abandoned districts into safe zones where we can be relatively safe from Enforcer scouts.”
“I don’t understand,” Frank said, frowning.
“It means that you will form a number of tiny crews to establish a presence in every abandoned district in the City,” Zen said patiently. “Not for long-term occupation, not to establish bases, but to heavily mine these districts with explosives—and whenever possible, attack Enforcer scouts and patrols.”
“If we’re not gonna use ’em, what’s the point of mining these districts?”
“To make the Enforcers fear them,” Zen said. “I want them to think twice about entering an abandoned district. I want them to know that they cannot do so lightly. Otherwise they would simply systematically search the City, and find and destroy our hideouts within weeks.”
“What if the Enforcers come in a big group?”
“If you’ve had time to prepare the traps, then you will be able to inflict far more damage on them than they will to you,” Zen said. “The goal here is to cause maximum damage with minimum cost. Take whatever Truants you need, and speak to Aaron about the explosives. I want you to move out tomorrow—I have no doubt that the Enforcers will have begun sweeping the abandoned districts by then. This is a race for control, and if we lose then we will have nowhere to hide. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. If you have no more questions, you may go.”
As Frank left, Zen let out a tired sigh and looked around. The shop was nearly empty, all the other Truants with orders having already left. Slumping slightly, Zen walked over to a small folding chair in a dark corner of the shop and sat down. Over in another corner, Noni was quietly stealing glances at him as she threw knives at a wooden target. She had very quickly graduated from darts.
Zen shook his head and leaned back to think. Zen’s guts still churned like butter every time his mind strayed to his latest encounter with Umasi. Up until that battle Zen had not spared his brother a second thought, certain that he’d given up and gone home long ago. His sudden reappearance mystified Zen. Umasi no longer looked like a vagrant, and yet he clearly had not returned to being a student. So what had he been up to? What had he become? It frustrated Zen, having known Umasi all his life and yet not being able to understand or recognize him anymore.
Zen thought about the brown-haired boy that he had killed, the one that had set everything in motion that day. Had the boy been a friend of Umasi’s? Zen did not recognize him, but it was the only thing he could think of that would explain Umasi’s unprecedented reaction. Did Umasi even know that it had been an accident, that Zen hadn’t meant to do it? Had he seen what had happened? Didn’t Umasi realize that Zen was—and here Zen’s gut churned most violently, for he could barely admit this to himself—sorry about what he had done?
No, Zen decided, definitely not. No wonder he had been so upset then. But what really bothered Zen was how easily Umasi had managed to beat him. Yes, Umasi had taken him completely by surprise, in more ways than one. But Zen had barely been able to put up a fight. That was unlike him. It had been as though his limbs had frozen, his mind blanked. It was as though he’d been paralyzed by . . . by guilt.
Zen shook his head like a dog drying himself of water. Little though he liked to dwell on it, he knew that he deserved what he’d gotten. Perhaps that had been why he could not fight properly. But still some credit had to go to Umasi, who, aside from his uncharacteristic ferocity, had demonstrated a fighting prowess Zen had never expected of him. Gone was the naïve and weak boy he’d humiliated on the piers, and in his place had risen something undeniably powerful.
Zen clenched his fists. The next time he met Umasi, if there was indeed a next time, he swore he would hold nothing back, for he knew that their next fight would be to the death. After all, this one had very nearly ended with his. The crowbar that had almost done it now lay in a dark corner of the shop as a grim souvenir. Zen glanced over at Noni, who had retrieved her collection of spent knives and resumed throwing them at the target anew. Her determination to protect him had shocked him. As far as he knew, no one else had ever literally been willing to die for him. It was a strange feeling, and not an unpleasant one, though when Zen had told Noni to get out of the way it had only partly been out of concern for her.
Zen hadn’t wanted anyone to interfere, not on his behalf, not even to save his life. He didn’t like being saved, or protected. It was an irrational pride of his, but one that he cherished deeply. To him, there was a sort of sanctity about a battle between two people, one that absolutely had to be preserved. If it came down to another confrontation be
tween him and Umasi, he would make sure that it would truly be just between the two of them.
Ten lemons, one and a half cups of honey, and half a gallon of water.” Umasi read aloud from his list, checking each item on it against a pile of ingredients assembled on the counter. “Looks like I didn’t miss anything.”
As he began making his favorite beverage himself for the first time in his life, Umasi contemplated what he would do now. If he could not kill Zen, then any attempt to stop him was doomed to failure before it began. Zen had already proven his resolve. He would not stop until killed.
“Cut lemons into halves . . .” Umasi muttered as he sliced the yellow fruit, blinking as juice spurted into his eye.
“You’re willing to die over this?” Umasi had asked.
“ . . . then thoroughly squeeze the juice out . . .”
“And kill over it too” had been Zen’s reply.
Umasi still didn’t understand why Zen had shot Red. He knew that Red couldn’t possibly have done anything to provoke him, but perhaps Zen had mistaken him for an enemy? No, Zen’s enemies were the Enforcers. Umasi shook his head, stubbornly refusing to believe that his brother was so far gone that he had simply murdered a defenseless boy without reason.
“And you obviously don’t know me.”
With a particularly violent squeeze, Umasi wrung the last lemon, noting that he now had about three-quarters of a cup of juice, and then set aside the empty peels. Glancing over at the recipe again, Umasi began to read the next step aloud.
“Combine the water and the honey in a saucepan . . .”
“You can’t talk me out of this, Umasi.”
“ . . . and heat until completely dissolved,” Umasi finished, setting the saucepan atop the stove as he poured the two appropriate ingredients into it.
For a moment Umasi glanced at the dancing flame of the stove. Reminded of Red’s funeral pyre and the killer who had necessitated it, Umasi reflected on how disturbing it was, to see the brother he knew so well vanish for a while, only to reappear as a complete stranger.
“To be honest, I prefer it that way.”
Before long the honey had dissolved nicely in the water, until only a consistent syrup remained. Umasi shut off the stove, and then looked to the next step.
“Pour the resulting mixture into a pitcher . . .”
“Were you going somewhere?”
“ . . . and then add the lemon juice.”
“I still am.”
“Refrigerate and serve cold.”
Umasi smiled wryly as he poured the separate ingredients into the pitcher. Cooling the drink certainly wouldn’t be a problem—he could stick the drink into the refrigerator—but it would be just as effective to bring it outside, which was what he intended to do. Picking up the hot pitcher with cooking mittens, Umasi gingerly carried the lemonade outside, where he already had a stand waiting in the glow of a streetlamp.
“You’ve shown me that I cannot count on anyone else.”
Making the stand had been the work of a few minutes. He’d simply unfolded a table and two chairs in front of his makeshift apartment, and then placed a plain sheet and stacks of plastic cups on top of the table. To complete the effect he added a cardboard sign to the front upon which he had scribbled “Lemonade—1 Bill.”
“You won’t even have to fight if you don’t want to.”
Umasi placed the pitcher down on the stand with some pride and stood back to admire it all. It was majestic in its simplicity, a place where he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his days . . . and perhaps he would do just that. He spontaneously resolved that everything he was, everything that he had become, would be tied to this spot.
“It’s not a matter of pride.”
Having waited long enough, Umasi poured himself a cup of the still-warm lemonade and drank deeply. It had turned out well, and would only get better as it chilled. As Umasi finished, he wiped his mouth and let out a placid sigh.
“Open your eyes and look at the City! We hold its entire fate in our hands.”
He would spend as long as it’d take, here in the peace of District 19, merely pondering the fate of the City, even as his brother sought to master it. There was no hiding from it anymore. Umasi knew who he was, and he was a pacifist at heart.
“Still determined to conquer the City, eh, Brother?” Umasi muttered to himself.
“Then try, Zen. I won’t stop you. But I won’t help you.”
Rothenberg stormed along the streets of District 18, not even wanting to know what time of night it must be. He had spent tedious, fruitless extra hours slaving away at Enforcer Headquarters, planning his aggressive new campaign. He was exhausted, but he knew that there would be no sleep for him just yet. Rothenberg sorely felt a need to unload some of his stress onto Cross.
Rothenberg breathed into his hands to warm them as he walked. Off duty as he was, he’d left his favored patrol car behind. The cold didn’t bother him too much, however, as he had dressed warmly and traveled more stealthily on foot anyway—all the better for sneaking up on any vagrant foolish enough to cross his path. Indeed, Rothenberg was so tense that he found himself desperately wishing that one of them would show themselves, but he was consistently disappointed.
Rothenberg scowled at the City in general, lit only by the faint orange glow of streetlamps. It wouldn’t be long now; his apartment was only a few blocks away. As he walked, Rothenberg idly reflected upon how the neighborhood was almost as silent as an abandoned district at night. With that in mind, Rothenberg carelessly turned a corner and looked up, expecting only more empty sidewalk and pavement.
And that’s when he saw it.
Rothenberg stared, and then rubbed his eyes, wondering if he was more tired than he’d thought. But it was still there, an unearthly, pure-white figure, crouching down as it examined a garbage can. As Rothenberg continued to gawk, the figure jerked its head up to stare back at him, and Rothenberg felt goose bumps prickle all over his body. The apparition had the appearance of a young girl, except it was unnervingly pale, impossibly pale. As she crouched directly under a bright streetlamp, Rothenberg could have sworn that her eyes flashed red.
Then that moment, which had seemed to be frozen in time, thawed abruptly, and the white figure darted around a corner and out of sight with shocking speed and grace, never making a sound. Acting on instinct, Rothenberg pursued the fleeing figure, drawing his gun. As he rounded the corner, he heard a strange metallic tinkling. The next thing he knew, something slammed into his forehead with calculated force, causing him to stagger backwards, momentarily stunned. Before he could even react, his pistol was knocked from his hand by a similarly precise blow.
Rothenberg looked up in confusion, wondering what it was that had hit him. Then he saw the pale figure, standing luminously under another streetlamp, a metal chain wrapped around her left arm, its end dangling from her right hand. The chain swayed slightly in the wind, tinkling as it did. The spectral figure didn’t say a word, but glared piercingly at Rothenberg before spinning around and vanishing in the direction of District 19.
Rothenberg was left to stand there, wide-eyed, for several long minutes, unable to believe what had just happened. Wondering if it might all have been some mad delusion, Rothenberg glanced behind him where, sure enough, his pistol lay uselessly on the ground. His effortless defeat was real. That meant that the chain that had struck him was real . . . and that the impossible girl that had wielded it . . . was real.
All of a sudden Rothenberg realized just how cold it was out there on the streets, far from the comfort of a car heater. He actually shivered, and knew that no amount of heat would help him. What he just experienced had chilled more than just his flesh.
And as he stood there shivering on the sidewalk, Rothenberg couldn’t help but be convinced that he had literally seen a ghost.
Dear Sirs,
There has been a fortunate turn of events since my last correspondence. The Mayor has assigned me to observe the Enforcer Rothenber
g. While I suspect that the Mayor may be trying to remove me from his presence, I am not distraught, for this may be a perfect opportunity for me to shed some light on Rothenberg’s activities. Unfortunately I am not yet privy to the secret behind his mission, though I have discovered that whatever it is, it’s been consuming an incredible amount of resources—enough to personally concern the Mayor. I hope to question the man in person soon—perhaps I can leverage my new position to get some answers.
As a personal addendum, I would like to inquire about the possibility of having my own family relocated out of this City. My children have been born and raised here, and for this reason I do not expect my request to be granted. However, I cannot help but notice that this City’s education has been taking its toll on them. I understand that that is the point of this City, but as a parent, I find it difficult to accept that point in good conscience.
Your Servant,
207549627
22
FOG OF WAR
Fog.
It rolled across the waters surrounding the City in the early morning, the citizens awakening to find their whole world shrouded in gray. An unusual quiet now hung about the City, any sound strangely muted. In most parts of the City, people still walked the streets, children still attended school, but all of them felt, somehow, that they were but shadows in the endless gray.
For Umasi, fog, like sunlight, had always been a natural phenomenon to take for granted. Now with little else to occupy his attention, Umasi realized that he had never noticed fog descending like a carpet upon the streets, nor had he ever known it to be thick enough to reduce his world to a gray blur. He walked alone through the streets of District 19 as if through a dream, and whatever he could make out in the mist thoroughly awed him.
Umasi felt very small and isolated, as though he were the only person left in a world of infinite gray. It was a humbling feeling, and Umasi sighed as he breathed deep of the mist, feeling at complete peace with the City. It was in this state of mind that he walked back to his stand in silence, tendrils of fog swirling all around him. But as he rounded the corner he came to an abrupt halt.