The Sons of Caine
Peter Zahn’s dark brown eyes focused on the strange visitor standing in the middle of the circular classroom. The big black man was dressed in the form-fitting robs of The Central Cadre; all white with black gilded buttons at the cuffs and neck. The gold signet, with the three concentric circles in his left lapel, announced to everyone in the room that he held the authority to instruct them in the ways of the past. The expression on his face informed them that he was here strictly on business.
Peter knew better. He knew the real reason why Mr. Crenshaw had been dispatched from Central Gold to the district of Silver-6. The spartan pedagogue had gotten wind of the academic disparities happening at Rudyard Kipling Academy. He was to be what his father called ‘The Grand Inquisitor’. He was to be the man who made sure that everyone was playing by the rules. He was here because Peter and his brother Paul had blown a massive hole into the academic scoreboard. They had blown a hole so big you could practically see it from space.
Peter’s eyes shifted from Mr. Crenshaw to the hovering Paxil Glass jutting from the far wall. Across its glossy surface rested the top 100 students in the Wormwood province. Everyone who was registered at a government-sponsored academy, within the three circles, was eligible to have their name displayed on the notorious scoreboard. Only the best, out of thousands and thousands of students got their mark up on the wall of fame.
It would be an understatement to say that The Central Cadre took this stratified social system seriously. They all saw it as the future of the human race. It was everyone’s survival and the bedrock of their whole establishment. If The Central-Cadre found out that someone was playing games with their future… It wouldn’t end well.
The scoreboard on the Paxil Glass read:
1. Peter Zahn (440.100 AU, Silver-6 Diamond Status)
2. Paul Zahn (400.875 AU, Silver-6 Diamond Status)
3. Razi Blackburn (127.800 AU, Gold-1 Gold Status)
4. Tuba Frazier (119.750 AU, Gold-2 Gold Status)
5. Brandon Oakfield (119.650 AU, Gold-1 Gold Status)
…
The massive gap in the academic ledger had forced the central government to create a whole new category for the Zahn boys. They had been elevated to diamond status and set on high alert throughout the inner circles of the cadre themselves; it was unheard of what they were doing. Peter suppressed the smile coming to his dark lips. His father had taught him to push those emotions deep down into his chest and hide them from the central occupants. They were all walking an unforgiving narrow path of no return. Any kind of deviation to the right or to the left could bring disaster upon their whole family.
Peter could feel his temperature rise slightly at the thought of what the central powers could do to any man that crossed them. He mouthed the calming words his father had told him growing up on the outer circle. The verses came from a familiar piece of history; something his father and Paster Sussex liked to called ‘The Bible’. The Old Neo-English text helped him subdue his inner pride and calm the fever inside.
“Straight is the way and narrow is the gate which leadeth to life... Straight is the way and narrow is the gate which leadeth to life...”
“He’s looking at you Pete….” came a voice from the side. Peter recognized it as Vincent Atwood’s voice. Peter tried to ignore his fellow classmate and continued the verse with his eyes closed tightly. Swerling images danced across his eyelids and referenced the text in his mind. His total recall was working perfectly despite the anxiety, “… and few there be that find it. Beware of false prophets…false prophets?”
His soul paused and reflected.
So many images streaked across his mind. The words, ‘False Prophets’ made him think of his brother Paul. It made him think of his father Noel. It made him think of his teachers at the academy and The Central Cadre. Peter stopped his recitation suddenly as he was smacked on the shoulder by Vincent. The whole classroom had transformed into a little graveyard. It seemed to get real quiet and as still as the dead. The only thing that could be heard was the air handlers cycling the atmosphere from the room; purging the bad air.
Mr. Crenshaws took off his golden spectacles and cleared his throat. His voice was deep and it filled the silence with a weight that could only be felt in the chest. There was more than authority behind his words when he spoke, “Let’s stop playing pretend here and get to the heart of this whole exhibition. I have not come to Silver-6 to teach you or entertain you. I am here because the Inner-14 Magistrates, my beloved brethren, have asked me to be here. They have asked me to investigate a phenomenon that is sweeping the mid-districts like wildfire. Do you know what that phenomenon is… Master Zahn?”
Peter habitually stood as he was being addressed. It was how the students at Rudyard Kipling Academy honored any guest that came to visit. He clenched his fists into balls and rested them next to his hips; like a soldier. He was trying to contain the anxiety welling up in his chest. Stabbing pain shot through his thoracic cavity, but he did not bend to the sickness inside. He knew this would eventually happen. He knew that someone would be sent to investigate Kipling, but even in knowing this, it was still hard to contain the fear he felt inside. He tried to sound calm and composed, “You have come to investigate the phenomenon known as ‘Diamond Status’.”
Mr. Crenshaw didn’t flinch at this direct response. His voice went suddenly hard, “Yes, Master Zahn, that is correct. I have come to investigate the phenomenon known as Diamond Status. I have come to see it for myself,” He reached out a meaty hand to his silent entourage. They handed him a ceramic comm-disk. His soft fingers rounded the edge of the device as he continued, “It says here that the faculty at Rudyard Kipling Academy can’t explain this strange phenomenon either. It says here that you are a damn miracle of science. They have searched your person for microtransmitters and receivers. They have checked your mouth, nose, ears, and hair for trasses of ‘Silver-Fish’. They had bio-scanned you for nanites and maker bots. They have x-rayed you and found nothing that would aid you in your outstanding academic progress… is this report correct?”
“Yes, Mr. Crenshaw,” said Peter as he recalled the weeks of investigation by the head occupants in charge of student conduct and academic honesty. They had been more than thorough with him and Paul; telling them how severe their punishment would be if they were caught cheating the backet. Peter could feel the sweat running down his back now, “They have conducted their tests… multiple times.”
“Are you cheating The Cerebral-Vat system?” Ask Mr. Crenshaw boldly. The big black man was tapping a finger on the center of the ceramic comm-disk now. Peter could feel the fluid pulse waves in the ceiling converge on him like a lunar tide. His body was vibrating slightly with the energy field; it was penetrating his very core. All the hydrogen molecules in his black flesh polarized and faced the source. Mr. Crenshaw was no longer looking down at the device in his hands. His face was like a piece of flint. His eyes searching.
Peter resisted the urge to blink as a tickling sensation raddled his eyelids. His eyes watered and his ears seemed to drain into his throat. He could feel his temperature rising in his central core with each question. His nose was beginning to run and his forehead was prickling with beads of sweat. The question did not catch him off balance, “No sir. I am as you take me to be. I am an honest student of Kipling Academy.”
Everyone in the classroom could hear the comm-disk in Mr. Crenshaw’s hand vibrate at this response. It was an indicator that something was off with the boy. The Grand Marshal inverted the device and held the thing up like a giant lens. The opaque surface went suddenly see-through; like a glass. The edges of the disk streamed like a chart recorder. Concentric circles formed bizarre patterns, “It says here that your body is in distress. Your core temperature is up 2 degrees…and your cortisol levels are elevated… are you feeling well Master Zahn or did you want to revise your declaration on academic honesty?”
“I knew it!” came a voice from the side of the circular platform. It was Instructor Zegree. He was standing next to Mr. Crenshaw’s entourage. His high black forehead furrowed as he spoke to The Grand Marshal, “The boys have had a fever ever since they got here. They are always coughing and blowing their noses during my lectures… and asking to be excused… they…”
Mr. Crenshaw turned and stared at the mid-district instructor. To Peter, the stair felt more like a challenge… as if he were daring the old bold man to continue his diatribe. The slender man stepped backward and fidgeted; learning his place again.
Peter stiffened at this show of power and his heart began to race in his chest. He sniffed the runoff from his nose back into his sinus passage. There was no way they could know anything about the virus running through his veins. For all they know, he was just running a fever from an autoimmune response. There was nothing academically dishonest about a perceived allergic reaction to chemicals brought home by his father in the outer circle, “I am allergic to the thrasher fluid… As you know, my father works on the outer rim of the three circles and we all have contracted Waste-Fever because of it. It’s not the easiest stuff to work with.”
“Waste-Fever?” said Mr. Crenshaw as he lifted an eyebrow.
Peter knew that the Grand Marshals comm-disk was showing trace amounts of coldtrim in his system and a high white blood cell count too. Coldtrim was a chemical the bronze class used to sterilize their water supply. The allergic reaction wasn’t uncommon to the outer rim folks, but they were in the mid-district. The sickness itself wasn’t deadly by any stretch of the imagination… but it did make life harder for all who contracted it.
Peter nodded his head and reached out a hand for his desk. He placed his fingers on the edge of the writing table to help himself balance. He did this small gesture to garner sympathy from his questioner… the gesticulation seemed to have no effect.
“It also says here that your father is Noel Zahn, the radical…” said Mr. Crenshaw. There was a level of disgust in the words he spoke; as if he were trying to swallow a regurgitant.
“Yes...” Said Peter. He suddenly felt really tired inside; as if a weight had been pulled from his shoulders after a long walk up a mountain. He was use to this personal attack on his family. He had grown almost callused to it over the years in the mid-district. All the other boys at the school knew who his father was and they made damn sure that he never forgot his disgrace. His mind ran over the epithets casually: The white devil of silver-6. The fallen angel; Lucifer. bird shit and Father Frankenstein.
It all hurt… at one point… and then it became life as usual.
The Central Cadre had shown Peter at a young age that there were fates worse than death. They had done something beyond cruel to his father, and he didn’t quite understand it. They had turned him into a monster from the history books and unleashed him on the three circles. They called it the ‘Mark of Cain’. Peter saw in his father something few boys did in their guardians. He saw how a man could die on the inside and wait for his body to catch up. If he didn’t have his purpose driving him forward; Peter was sure they would have won long ago. The Central Center assumed the social pressure would lead to a desired outcome. That the problem would ‘take care of itself’ if left to fester and rot.
Trapping a man in his mind via social contempt.
They were hoping for a peaceful suicide…
“I should call you The Sons of Cain,” said Mr. Crenshaw coldly. Everyone in the class knew the reverence, “You should thank god you don’t bear his mark… or his shame… yet.”
Peter didn’t respond to the threat. He felt like having a coughing fit. It felt like the whole class was bearing down on him now. They all held the same sentiments; and those who didn’t just keep their damn mouths shut through it all.
“Your heritage is questionable and so are your inflated academic scores,” said Mr. Crenshaw as he turned to the Paxil Board and tapped on his comm-disk. The academic scoreboard disappeared and was replaced with some old news headlines. They rotated through the browser as if on a lazy-Susan. Everyone in the class mouthed the articles to themselves. They were not ignorant; everyone had read the adulations of the local, progressive, media outlets. The whole damn Cerebral Vat was full of scandal.
Mr. Crenshaw said them Outload:
-The New Philosopher Kings of The Divine Provence; - (Impact News Now)
-A Miracle in the Mid-District; - (The Clarion Call)
-Social Alchemy, From Bronze, to Gold, to Diamonds; - (The Setting Sun)
“Most of these media outlets are radical in nature,” said Mr. Crenshaw. He showed their geographical locations throughout the three circles; as if proving a point. Most of the news outlets were close to the brass sector, “Only those in the outer rim, like the foolish brass class, would believe in what they purport. They are actually suggesting in some of these articles that high intelligence can flow from someone with your father’s genetic conditions… We might as well say that a fence post can be a fish.”
Peter watched as some members of the class hissed at the display of these inane nonsequiturs. It was all a bad joke to them. Peter clenched his jaw and tried to recite the Bible passage again; It wasn’t working. The noise of their hissing would have set anyone on edge. It was like the sudden breaking of a big pane of glass, and Mr. Crenshaw permitted the action. It was how The Grand Marshal wanted them to act.
Mr. Crenshaw pointed to the Paxil Board and made sure Peter was watching, “These ideas are dangerous in nature. Society has a very delicate social fabric; one that needs to be looked after and cared for. There is a balance in all things Master Zahn… and what you and your brother represent to the three circles… what you are linked to by your father's disgrace… and what your own academic convergence means for the future of the Central-Cadre cannot be ignored.” Mr. Crenshaw narrowed his eyes, “Do you know what I am getting at?”
Peter nodded his head, “I have a good idea what you are getting at.”
“You have no idea!” Barked Mr. Crenshaw so loud it vibrated the walls.
“It could very well mean a core discipline with the magistrate.” Said Peter boldly. He knew what the real threat was. He wasn’t stupid.
“You will be officially shackled tomorrow,” said Mr. Crenshaw. “You and your brother shall report to the occupant’s central pivot for installation. I am about to become your second guardian and father.”
Peter nodded his approval… There really was nothing else he could do.
“They praise you and your brother…” spat Mr. Crenshaw, “They disseminate social contagion and vie for the rights of barbarians! Wolves in sheep’s clothing! Nonsense!”
Peter was silent at this statement. It seemed that Mr. Crenshaw was just talking openly now; with no one to reference. Peter’s father had told him this day would come. He had trained him on how to act… how to hold back and let the depravity wash over him like a bad smell. He was used to bad smells by now, after all, he lived in the Brass District… he and Paul were the only kids that lived in the Brass District. The outer rim was the village that raised them.
“There is something more to all this,” said Mr. Crenshaw as he circled through the news articles, maps, and academic scoreboard. The Zahn brothers were the central theme of it all, “And your brother!”
Peter jumped as the speaker above called out to everyone in a low drone. The 6th period had ended in the history wing of the spire and it was time for the students to head to their next classes… Nobody moved a muscle. Nobody said a word about the topic at hand. All eyes were fixed on the Grand Marshal.
Peter watched him closely. He stood there like a terrible statue.
“Damn,” said Mr. Crenshaw softly as turned to his entourage and handed them the ceramic comm-disk, “We didn’t even get to the topic of your brother…”
