Chapter 14 and now for the real work
I stood in the headmaster’s office, with two days before the beginning of term, reflecting that this would look very good on my resumé, if I ever cared to use it. And if I survived to use it. I was hoping to be finished before I was needed to go for my usual stint of bringing on the low achievers at the school where I had started a career in teaching. Somehow, I doubted I would be there this year, and Tarquin could bloody well explain that. The principal was, after all, a friend of his.
Here, I had a bunch of either cowed or entitled kids, who were either Bratpack or they weren’t. I had a bunch of West Point veterans to help me, and security was a bunch of street ronin. I don’t mean that they were literally ronin, Japanese masterless warriors, but the term is fairly ubiquitous for the lone street warrior. I’d trained all of my security, in my dojo, and they called me Sifu or Sensei, which means teacher in Chinese and Japanese respectively.
Two were of Japanese extraction who had avoided being associated with either the Yakuza or the Zaibatsus; one was Chinese American, one was black American, and the other four were some species of white American, one with Sioux heritage, one with Irish heritage, and the other two the usual sort of mongrel mix which makes the true American. They were loyal, personally, to me; I had saved the lives of most of them, and taught them to defend themselves. They would not take any shit.
One of them was the lad whose life I had saved by the simple act of giving him water in that elimination round of ‘Extreme,’ where ‘elimination’ could be a little bit too literal. Many of them came from the rubble, either from Needlecrash or actually from the Forgotten. My building projects were going well, but there were those misfits who did not want a military surplus prefab duplex with lawn and nine to five job. That was fine; and I fitted in better with them than with those who were grateful for a touch of normality. It takes all sorts, and I owned the rubble, so I could cater to all sorts.
And draw on them at need for particularly loyal staff.
I was getting news on the kids who were being rescued. Some of them were being used sexually but it turned out that the vast majority of them were receiving experimental biomods to upgrade performance, brain enhancing drugs, and a few of the poor sods being put in sensory deprivation to see if it improved gurfing abilities. Only in closed systems, so they had no chance to get out of the experiment and raise the alarm. Those that survived were basically given the offer they could not refuse, become bodyguards for their masters or die. The brain enhancers worked short term but caused headaches and seizures.
The idea was that these expendable children would be guinea pigs to the eventual enhancement of the Bratpack to ensure that their rule was unstoppable.
I was nauseated.
And I no longer had any qualms about killing any of the bastards who were involved with this. The rescued children, and any adults who had been children who managed to surrender, would have long years of therapy ahead of them, especially the involuntary otaku in their sensory deprivation tanks, who cried in pain at the lightest touch of anything but the goo they were kept in.
I heard the marines continued some of the experiments on the scientists running them.
It might prove useful for military developments, after all.
And extraterritoriality?
Rescinded.
Child abduction, omae. Trumps any other agreement, and just try to argue with a company of pissed marines.
I was going to have to do something about nine fathers who were the remaining parents of the Bratpack. Ideally, I wanted to get them together so I could do something about them.
Then I considered.
What was the likelihood that they would attempt to intimidate me when they came to bring their offspring back to school? Probably quite high.
They had no idea where the faculty had gone, or who the new teachers were, and were probably used to intimidating those who were not a part of it into compliance.
Well, that would be easy enough; I could see them in my office.
And re-install the sleep gas.
I have a tank with ten minutes of air; it’s saved my life a few times. It’s not a standard piece of kit, but I knew a guy who was disposed of in Puget Sound with concrete overshoes, and the thought of drowning scared me so badly I went for the internal tank. Even if I had to cut my feet off, I’d have a chance. Though not in the deeper parts of the sound, but getting it was a panic reaction.
I have never regretted it, even if it was got for the wrong reasons.
And obviously, my sleep gas would be breathable, not contact. Otherwise I’d be out for the count too.
Yes, that was the way to handle it.
And I spoke to my staff, and my trained band of kids about how to handle the bullies. Ruth and co sniggered.
I was not surprised when a delegation of parents came to my office, not drifting in ones and twos, but as a solid phalanx. A dozen of them. Well, well.
“Gentlemen, this is quite a deputation,” I said, triggering the recording facility I have.
“We came to tell you how it’s going to be,” said one of them. “I don’t know what happened here, and what organisation you think you represent, but we are greater than you, and greater than any piddling organisation.”
“Am I supposed to be trembling in my boots at this demonstration of force?” I said, with an amused sneer.
He lowered over my desk.
“You would be, if you were wise,” he said.
I beckoned him closer, to turn his ear for me to whisper. He did so.
I blew in his ear.
He jumped back.
“What the fuck?”
“Well, it works for horses,” I said. “And I was granting you the benefit of the doubt of being almost as clever as a horse.”
“Now look here!” said another of them.
“I’d rather not; you aren’t a very prepossessing sight,” I said.
“Enough!” the first one slammed his fist on my desk. “The way it is going to be is that our sons are natural leaders, and will not be stopped from displaying their pre-eminence.”
“Surely if they can be stopped, it displays that they are not pre-eminent at all?” I said, innocently.
“They should be allowed to show the other students who’s boss!”
“Oh, I would hope that all the students know who is boss. I am,” I said.
“We can break your career, and your body,” he said.
“I think you overestimate your chances,” I said.
“You’ll never work again by the time we finish with you, if you don’t co-operate!”
I yawned.
“I’m only here as a favour. I would care why?”
I wasn’t sticking to the script of scared headmaster intimidated by big men. He grabbed me by the front of the shirt. I put my hand over his, and squeezed. He started panting, then crying out, and then the noises of breaking bones vied with his screams. I have very strong hands; there are techniques that you can learn. I let go and he fell back.
One of them produced a gun.
I leaped my desk and took it from him. I leaned him over my desk and gave him several swipes on his backside with a ruler, and they all stood and stared.
This was not in the script at all.
“You will be sorry!” said one of them.
“I am,” I said. “Sorry for your kids you have abused in bringing them up to be criminal thugs.” I activated the gas. I had done playing with them. “I am going to break your nasty little group and if I have to kill every one of you to do so, then so be it. I am not going to permit some half-baked quasi-Masonic order with delusions of adequacy spoil my country.”
It was fast acting and they started passing out at this point.
They became Tarquin’s problem from hereon. Once the Director had died and those of his inner organisation had been taken down, Tarquin revealed what he knew of the Wolf Pack and how the FBI had nearly been controlled by it.
He had said, quite firmly, that the director died of natural causes.
This convinced everyone that Tarquin had killed him for reasons of national security, and as he had ferreted out what nobody else had managed to do, they made him director. Which both put a crimp in his style, and gave him more ability to mop up the problem, with G-men able to swoop on those I might have found challenging.
These ones would be disappearing into the vast underground prison for those whose treason was too terrible to be given public trial. And no, that’s not especially democratic either, but if the populace knew how deeply infiltrated these buggers were, and their plans to use bioware to become supermen, there would have been an uprising. It was all laid out in the instructions the former headmaster had, how to choose subjects for experimentation towards the day when every chosen alumnus would be brought on to be faster, smarter, more able, the other pupils given limited modification as those chosen to be their servants under the rule of the fittest, those already born to greatness and raised even higher. It was damned chilling reading. ‘The glory of the empire of Overmankind’ was a chilling phrase. At least, it was to anyone who reads history. They were to be literally above their fellows by being taller, as well as stronger, faster, and smarter. They were to have the mods I’ve given to my children and then more, and partly that was in the cosmetic of being built on ‘noble’ lines, so they stood out, with modifications starting from puberty after a childhood of genetic tweaks and scientific nutrition. Now, there’s nothing wrong with feeding kids well, but the odd bit of junk food is good for the soul. We had modified the school cuisine to add the odd treat.
And I don’t give my kids mods until they’ve gone through puberty. It’s still uncertain how much the growing body can be broken by inserting too much genetic and cyber modification too soon. I wouldn’t have jazzed them up yet, if it hadn’t been needed for their survival.
I called for security, once the gas had cleared, and had the sleeping non-beauties carted away to be collected later. I had converted part of the boiler room into holding cells. The janitor was a decent chap who needed the job, who spat, and agreed it was about time something was done about the young hoodlums and their stuck-up parents too; so I had no problem from him about a number of small cubicles in his domain. We just slung up some metal divisions along one wall with a barred gate at the front, installed drains for a toilet in one corner, a bunk style bed welded onto the metal side wall, and a small basin for washing hands and with potable water. And yes, I could drop knockout drops into the water supply. A thin mattress, pillow, and blanket provided all their home comforts and the light was daylight quality for their good health. The doors had slots for trays of food. Each cell was monitored with a camera and bug.
I might need to use them on some of the oldest pupils as well.
I was glad we had the parents stowed when two of my teachers brought Ruth and half a dozen large boys to my study.
The boys were somewhat the worse for wear.
“They attacked me, Horace,” said Ruth, using my official name.
“I’m not your brother here, Ruth, I’m Mr. Tiber,” I said. I regarded the bloodied and bruised boys rather after the manner of a scientist regarding a rather nasty mould. “Perhaps the young gentlemen would like to give their names, and their side of the story.”
They exchanged shifty looks.
One of them spoke up.
“I’m Peter Coulter; I’m sorry, sir, I had no idea she was your sister. It’s normal to shake down new kids. I thought she was one of the scholarship girls. I didn’t know she was one of us.”
“If by ‘one of us’ you mean the now disbanded Bratpack, she isn’t,” I said. “The rules have changed. Your fathers are in custody. I suggest you all quickly learn the new normal. But Ruth! I’ve spoken to you before about causing excessive harm to those too feeble to stand up for themselves.”
“They’re losers,” said Ruth.
“Then pity them, because they will never amount to anything much,” I said. “You boys, go about your business, and try to stay out of trouble. There’s never an excuse for trying to settle things with violence. Ruth, no further punishment as you did not start it, but return a measured response another time.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ruth. Her eyes were dancing; we had discussed this approach beforehand.
I took the names of the boys.
“I recognise that you are too cowardly to try to assert yourselves without a gang, but I suggest you would do better to show any prowess you have in schoolwork,” I said. “I have no time for cowards. If you come to my notice again, you will regret it. And please spread the word.”
Of course they tried it again.
This time with Marie.
Marie may not be quite as good as Ruth, but she made a good showing.
“Dear me, Marie, you do seem to have been busy,” I said. “Now, I know that one, that one, and that one; and I did tell them to warn the others. I think you managed to be more restrained than your sister, Marie, so I’ll let you off with a warning. You cowards will be wearing signs round your necks declaring your cowardice, and you will sit at a separate table for meals.”
“We will not!” cried one. “Wait til our fathers hear about this!”
“Your father is in the Federal pen,” I said. “He already heard about the new rules.”
Three of them accepted wearing signs. The others had to have the signs put back frequently and were herded to the separate table by the security staff.
Six of them were stupid enough to invade my private quarters and point guns at Quin and Willow to use as hostages.
The two who survived would be in the federal holding facilities hospital for a very long time. I had footage and neither Willow nor I mess about where armed threats to our family is concerned.
But as far as the rest of the Bratpack was concerned, they just disappeared.
And perhaps that scared them more than anything else; because they lay low for a while.
I don’t like killing kids any more than I like killing women, but a seventeen year old with a gun has declared himself adult, and a threat.
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