What Rats Do by Julie Steimle (best book series to read .TXT) 📖

Then carefully, he lifted the ladder from off the support rail and shifted the bluish sky cover into place, making sure the sky had the same intensity as the others around it. He sighed again, still feeling the P.M. stare fixed on him. Turning to look down, he signaled to his father that he was ready to go down.

Their craft lowered, and so did the P.M. flight scooter, accompanying them all the way downward as if he were their personal guard. However, the P.M. landed right next to them, climbing off his vehicle with a dutiful snap to his step while Jafarr was still clinging to the top of the ladder. The P.M. stopped next to the nervous owner of the establishment waiting for both Jafarr and Jamenth Zeldar to finish, at last taking off his helmet with a smug-thin grin at the pair of them. He was a waspy-looking platinum blonde with icy blue eyes, his mirth reflecting his conceit more than anything else. Mandrin’s eyes shifted, his mouth rattling off nervous chatter to the P.M. about his lighting difficulties, motioning upward though in between points he was wringing his hands.

As soon as the utility vehicle settled on the ground, Jamenth climbed out, walking only as close to the P.M. as necessary though his shoulders squared with professional dignity as if he had to defend his work. Looking down, his heart thumping hard in his chest, Jafarr grabbed on the ladder railing loosely as his straddled the outer poles. He slid straight down, plopping in the back of the flatbed then agilely jumping off to his father’s side. 

The P.M. watched, his eyes flickering with interest.

“And this is…?” the P.M. asked, finishing his other questions.

“Is my son,” Jamenth Zeldar answered, his voice clearly defensive.

The P.M. nodded and turned his cold blue eyes toward Jafarr’s dark blue ones. He had been thinking, no doubt, the same thoughts everyone thought when they first met him. What was a Seer Class boy doing with an undercity man?

Jafarr peered back at the People’s Military officer with irritated intensity, as the P.M. seemed to be analyzing his face. By then Jafarr realized his bruises were the main things the government officer was looking at. Jafarr turned to see if his lip was still bleeding. A slight chuckle escaped the P.M.’s lips.

“Jafarr Zeldar…. I heard about you. That name says that you are a little fighter, but it looks to me like you are a little punching bag,” the P.M. said. He then brassily stood in Jafarr’s way, letting Jafarr get a good view of all the decorations and honors that covered this particular P.M.’s chest though Jafarr had the dreadful feeling it was more to let them all know he was a dominant part of their lives and they had to get used to it. Jafarr’s own jacket was dusty from the catwalk, smeared with rust and remainders of blood. Indeed he looked the part of a punching bag.

“So, what was wrong with the light?” the P.M. asked.

There was no case to deny the P.M. an answer, though Jamenth turned his eyes downward as if he preferred to remain anonymous. It disgusted Jafarr—the same old dad, never defending himself, yet still stubbornly resisting.

So Jafarr said, “It needed a new bulb.” 

His tone hinted to ‘duh’ sarcasm, like the P.M. should have known the answer. 

The military officer glared at him for being smart-mouthed. Beside him, Jamenth cast Jafarr a warning look that should have silenced him, but Jafarr looked away, still discontent with his father’s way of thinking.

“You replaced another part,” the P.M. said more corrosively.

Jafarr walked over the conveyer and pulled out the remains of the old Okorii junction. “Yeah, I had to replace this too.”

He handled it for a moment then held it out to the officer.

The P.M. stepped closer to the boy. But instead of taking the small broken part he reached into Jafarr’s jacket pockets, turning them out like the groupies did in the metro stop. When all he extracted was Jafarr’s bloody handkerchief, he unzipped Jafarr’s jacket and searched all the inside pockets, which also came clean thanks to O2 emptying them first.

“Where is your identi-card?” Stymied, the P.M.’s face turned red with irritation.

Still holding the old junction in his hands, Jafarr frankly said, “The groupies must have busted it up when they stole my school card.”

In a sweeping look at Jafarr’s cuts and bruises, the P.M. huffed with a resigned frown, his shoulders relaxing a little.

Taking that as acceptance of his reply, Jafarr reached for his handkerchief, barely grabbing a corner from the P.M.’s hands. His father reached out to stop him, pulling his son’s arm back. Jafarr cast him a glare, already emotionally taut, but upon seeing the stern warning in his father’s eyes, he clenched his teeth, hating it. It was the same look he saw when the P.M.s massacred his neighbors because they were Tarrns. It was the same look he saw when he used to complain loudly about the oppressive hold the P.M.s used on the undercity. It was the same look his father gave him at his mother’s funeral, when he wanted to find and kill the P.M. who executed her. He hated that look. It said, ‘do nothing.’

Jafarr jerked out of his father’s hold. Instead of grabbing his handkerchief, as he would have done, Jafarr tromped toward the junky flight scooter, climbed on, and flipped the power switch, clenching the handlebars tightly as though they were a neck he wanted to wring. The P.M. followed after him with a pompous stride, dangling the blood stained cloth in front of Jafarr’s face. There was a slight grin on the P.M.’s lips as he stared with deadly eyes at him.

“You’ll need this.”

Jafarr did not know if it was a threat or a reminder of what he would be riding back to. Jafarr snatched the bloody cloth and stuffed it in his right jacket pocket. Revving up the motor to go, he noticing the P.M.’s outstretched hand.

“The part.”

Jafarr pulled the broken Orkii junction out of his pocket, placing it firmly into the officer’s palm, restraining the urge to jam in there. Letting go, Jafarr could feel the oppressive grip of the man before him.

Without any more to add, Jafarr pulled on his helmet, gave his father an apologetic nod and took off into the lower traffic. The P.M. stared after him until he was gone from sight then returned to the two men he had left next to the maintenance vehicle.

“Jamenth Zeldar…I think I remember you. It was your wife, wasn’t it?” the P.M. said.

“Yes, sir.” Jafarr’s father bowed his head, clenching his own fists.

“You make sure that boy doesn’t get into any trouble,” the P.M. said.

Jamenth nodded.

Mandrin also nodded as if Jafarr was also his son. They both watched the People’s Military officer mount his flight vehicle.

“You shouldn’t have named him Jafarr,” the P.M. said, just before he took off.

When he was obviously out of sight, both men let out an audible sigh of relief. Then they parted without much to say to each other. The job was done, and they had to keep on living.

 

Evening

Trip home, to the relief of Jafarr, was uneventful. As soon as he dropped off the flight scooter he took a long detour to another transit center where hopped onto a metro to the Surface Gate to see if his friends were still there. But when he arrived, Sandi, the favored waitress of the place, told him they had left a while ago. So he returned to the undercity, riding the metro on its long downward trip, switching trains in the middlecity. Though he had missed his friends, he had also missed the groupies that he hoped have given up waiting for him in the metro hall. Jafarr had entered the undercity cold soon enough.

After his long detour to the Surface Gate it was already late. The night police patrols had already begun. Crossing back into his neighborhood, Jafarr walked into his building then marched up the thirty-three steps of the rickety staircase in a steady even pace, catching his breath occasionally as he continued up to his floor where the litter no longer reached. On his level, he achingly dragged his feet over the long stretch of worn carpet to his door with only a glance down the hall as he searched through his pockets for his identi-card.

Pulling out his handkerchief, he sighed loudly, leaning his head against the door with a thump. Rocking his head back and forth with a weak shake as he moaned, he manually punched in his code to unlock the door.

It clicked open.

Entering in, his eyes flickered to the dim blue floor lights barely in the front room. Had it not been for the bright glow from his father’s room, he would have guessed he was the only person home. He strode into the kitchen, grabbed a mulch cake from the cupboard, and took a bite, sighing again as he contemplated how tasteless things would be until he got a new identi-card. There would be no way to pay without it.

After another bite, Jafarr walked directly to his room, feeling his body give in to exhaustion. He knew he would have some explaining to do when school started the next day though luckily he had the bruises to prove it wasn’t entirely his fault. But he had no homework now, and his teachers had no sympathy when it came to groupies.

“Jafarr.” His father’s voice came from the doorway.

Jafarr closed his eyes and turned to face his father, promptly sitting on his bed.

“You did a very stupid thing with that officer today.” His dad stared down into the darkened room.

Huffing to himself, Jafarr clenched his teeth, turning away.

“You have something to say?” his father said.

Staring up at the silhouette in the doorway, Jafarr nodded his head.

“Yeah, I do.” He bent over and pulled the pieces of chip from out of his boot. “Tell your guys that bombing an eating establishment in the middlecity does not help ‘the cause’.”

Jafarr placed the pieces into his father’s hand and then proceeded to undress as if business was done. 

Jamenth looked at the pieces of bomb first, then lifted his eyes to his son.

“I realize you can’t go around saying what you really feel,” Jafarr growled rather than talked. “And I know you were just trying to save my hide back there, but scrapes, Dad, if you look at me like that again I swear I’ll…”

Jafarr couldn’t finish. He clenched his hands into fists, making his knuckles go red and white.

“I know, son.” Jamenth closed his palm, knowing his son may have saved his rebellion from a scandal that would have knocked the support of several influential people out from under them.

His father slowly left the room. Despite his anger at him, Jafarr felt a twinge of regret. In the back of his mind he knew his father must have felt some guilt when it came to the death of his mother. He knew his father understood his anger when it came to the P.M.s. It was just his father’s ‘do nothing’ policy that he hated. Jafarr wanted to let the P.M.s know then, at that very moment, that he would not let them oppress him—but his