History Test by Julie Steimle (first e reader TXT) 📕

“I don’t know what you want!” Jafarr cried out for the fifth time as blood dripped from his lip. His eye was starting to swell from the blow the large interrogating P.M. had laid on him.

“I think you are lying! Now tell us what the code was! What did you say to that man on the metro?” The Dural screamed every word, panting in anger as sweat dripped off of his face, holding up the heat stick he had been beating Jafarr with in the air to strike again. Its green hue made him look like a moldy ogre stooping over its prey.

Dural Korad leaned against the wall with his arms folded, sipping a small drink in his right hand. Jafarr leaned an arm against the same wall for balance, panting angrily, knowing that the next blow might not be as nice as the last one.

“Come on, boy. Just tell the Dural what he wants to know, and you can go home,” Korad said with a slight tone of amusement, and certainly mock concern.

With all the resentment in the world, Jafarr glared up at the Dural, exhausted at the game, tired of the ordeal, and mostly sick of knowing that no answer he could give would ever suit the men anyway.

“Listen, I told you,” he said. “My father brags. He tells people we meet on jobs exaggerated stories about my grades. They are doing nothing more than mocking him.”

The dural inquisitor kicked Jafarr in the ribs. Jafarr collapsed again, grabbing his sides as he fell.

“Tell another lie, and I’ll do it again,” the dural said.

Dural Korad shook his head in mock disapproval. “Dural Mo’ron, really. Must you be so harsh? He’s only a boy. Perhaps he doesn’t know. Perhaps he has just been used.”

“Nits make lice, Korad. He’s a Zeldar and a rat. I see nothing good in either piece of him.” The inquisitor glared down at Jafarr as he spoke. “I’d kill his father if we had proof.”

Jafarr closed his eyes, clenching his chest.

“I’d kill this kid if I had reason enough,” the P.M. continued.

Dural Korad straightened up and shook his head disapprovingly, this time sincerely.

“No my friend. We are here to save his soul. This boy is capable of being a productive member of society. I’d like to see him that way,” he said. Adding, “He has a future—if he keeps clean.”

Jafarr knew that that was a warning. He remained where he was crouched near the floor, holding himself and rocking for some sort of comfort.

The sweaty Dural crouched down to Jafarr’s ear, grabbing a hold of his hair to lift his head for attention. “You are lucky Dural Korad is here to keep you alive. Behave yourself, and he might succeed.”

The man tossed off his hold and stomped out of the room. Jafarr shuddered and pulled his limbs in closer to his body, concentrating on his breathing.

Dural Korad leaned back against the wall where he pulled his gloves out from his inside jacket pocket, slipping them on. “You know kid, there is only so much I can do to keep you safe.”

Jafarr rolled over with an attempt to sit up. Peering up at the clean suited Dural, he squinted through his black eye and wiped his split lip. “Then why didn’t you just leave me in the Surface Gate?”

Korad smirked. “Dural Heyes already called you in. He made positive identification. I had to go to make sure you were treated fairly.”

Jafarr closed his eyes. “Great.”

“Dural Heyes was ready to drag you off to the big blocks, and so was Dural Mo’ron. You should thank me,” Korad continued.

“I thought Dural Mo’ron said he wanted to kill me.” Jafarr leaned against the wall to get up, grabbing his side as he moved. The pain still smarted within every muscle. He slid down again.

Korad chuckled. “He’d like to exterminate the entire undercity.” The P.M. paused. “He’s shortsighted.”

With a look at the amused People’s Military officer, Jafarr grimaced at what the man was truly saying. “I suppose it is in your best interest to keep us alive. No one to rule over without us.”

Taken back, Korad immediately looked down at the bruised boy. “That’s pretty cynical, kid,” he said, adjusting one glove so the fingers fit better, “but almost on the mark.” Dural Korad laughed. “Come on, Zeldar, someone has got to lead this nation and you can’t expect you rats to do it.”

The People’s Military officer left Jafarr in the cell, adjusting his other glove then fixing his collar to complete the image of neat perfection. Jafarr rested his head on his knees painfully drawing in his breath while clenching his teeth against the pain. As his breathing slowed, he closed his eyes as he waited for what would happen next.

The P.M.s dropped Jafarr off on the street in front of his house at around three in the morning. Dural Korad watched him as Dural Mezela unlatched his cuffs. Jafarr said nothing. He stared at the floor, nursing his split lip with his tongue. 

When Dural Mezela walked back over to his flight scooter, Jafarr looked up. He watched the two officers casually adjust their clean uniforms as though they were shaking the dust of the undercity off their clothes. He waited for them to leave. Dural Korad turned back once more to look at Jafarr.

“Stay out of trouble. I don’t want to have to see you at ISIC again,” the P.M. said.

Jafarr did not nod. He did not look away. He did close his eyes as if taking a breath to retain his remaining mite of self-control. When he opened his eyes Dural Korad gave him an I’ll-be-watching-you look then pulled his eye shield down. Jafarr watched both P.M.s ride away down the street to the transit tunnels. He closed his eyes for another breath, opened them, and turned toward his apartment building, walking in.

The trip up the stairs and down his hall seemed nothing now compared to the trip he had had with the P.M.s, despite the pain he felt all over. They had taken him to many poorer sections of the undercity—of course they were only poorer because they were right next to the factories and the compost recomp plant. They reeked worse than anything Jafarr had ever smelled. All the time Dural Korad had talked about careers and choices, laying out how if Jafarr acted right, if he played by the government’s rules, he would not have to end up with a factory job. 

Normally Jafarr would have corrected a questioning person when the subject of his career came up, but with a P.M.—especially Dural Korad—that subject was simply taboo. He knew Dural Korad wanted to scare him. The man wanted to influence Jafarr to accept his caste, accept his social status, and above all, agree that he was the lowest of the low. Mostly Dural Korad wanted it clearly understood that if he or any of his other comrades had any inclination, he had the right to extinguish Jafarr and all that associated with him because he was nothing more than a rat. Jafarr got the message clearly enough. He had to be more careful.

Jafarr entered his apartment door by his code card. The dim blue floor lights were on when he walked in. His father’s bedroom door stood wide open. He peered through the doorway.

The room was vacant.

Closing his eyes, Jafarr grasped the doorjamb and took in a painful breath, fighting back the tears that forced their way to his eyes. There was no point. He trudged over to his room to go to bed. There he abruptly stopped. 

A figure in the dark was sitting on the small padded platform where he usually slept. “They picked you up, didn’t they?”

Jafarr caught his breath and grabbed for his seat at his computer desk.

“I wondered if they’d let you off because of your age, but—”

“Dad…” Jafarr closed his eyes and shook his head.  “You… Don’t scare me.” Then gathering his sense he snapped. “Don’t do that to me again! Don’t make me your message boy without letting me in all the way.”

“You could have told,” his father said, standing up.

Jafarr shook his head. “I don’t care about the risks. I just hate the way you play both sides. You want to keep me safe and you don’t want me involved, but you need messages sent…” He threw up his hands. “I can’t do this.”

His father sighed and nodded. “I won’t make you messenger again.”

Jafarr folded his arms with a frown. It was not exactly what he wanted.

His father stood up and headed towards the door.

Jafarr watched him go but stopped him in the doorway. “How did your operation, or whatever it was, go?”

Jamenth Zeldar smiled slightly. “It went well. There was only one casualty,” looking at his son’s eye and lip, “and that I’ll take care of.”

“I thought they had killed you when I saw your empty room,” Jafarr murmured.

His father lowered his head and nodded again. “I’ll be careful.”

He left.

“You better be,” Jafarr said under his breath.

The scars you acquire while exercising courage will never make you feel inferior—D.A. Battista—

Jafarr had a lonely trip to school the next day. Neither Dzhon nor Alzdar were at their usual spot in the transit hall. When they did not arrive in time for their metro, Jafarr started to worry. Was it possible they were both still at ISIC? He hoped that was not the case. 

A sick feeling churned in his stomach. Jafarr stared at the floor inside the metro car as he traveled alone to the middlecity. The air in the car was stagnant. It contributed to his already exhausted state left over from his late night at ISIC the other day.