“Alex!” Emily protested. “That’s mean!”
“Our parents are Ukrainian, actually, but my brother and I were both born in Portland. Grigori’s mother is Romanian, though he was, I believe, born in Moscow to a Russian father. Anastasia’s grandmother is Chinese, and she was born in Scotland, and then raised in Oregon. I’m not sure about how that fits in,” Katya said sternly, piling books on her desk. “But don’t let me interrupt your whole racist generalization.”
“It’s not racist,” Alex insisted. “I liked Red Dawn. Red Dawn was awesome.”
“I’m not sure how to respond to that,” Katya said, taking a bite from her pastry. “Except to point out that you are an idiot.”
“Or a really big Patrick Swayze fan,” Vivik offered nervously, taking the seat next to Emily. “Besides, Russian is a nationality. If Alex wanted to be racist, he’d have to know that you were Slavic in the first place.”
Alex couldn’t help but notice that the look Katya gave Vivik was a lot friendlier than any look she had given him thus far. However, he was feeling a sort of generalized good will toward everyone at that particular moment, and Katya seemed more sympathetic than normal. Maybe, he thought, she wasn’t a total bitch — maybe, Katya was only a bitch to him. That meant there was room for improvement in their relationship. Alex smiled over at her, but all that earned him was a puzzled, dismissive glance. Baby steps, he thought optimistically, watching Mr. Windsor make his way to the front of the classroom, baby steps.
Then something Katya had said belated clicked in his mind. He leaned forward, across the empty row of chairs in front of him.
“Hey, Anastasia. You’re Chinese?”
“Alex!” Emily scolded, shocked. He looked back at her innocently; he genuinely hadn’t meant anything by it.
Anastasia answered without turning her head, sounding bored, but not offended.
“In part. My grandmother’s maiden name was Teng. Honestly, Alex. Does the phrase ‘Black Sun’ sound at all Russian to you? Cartels change over time, like living things — they join, split, and evolve. The Black Sun was originally a humble Triad from Macau mainly involved in smuggling cigarettes. After World War II, they aligned a number of their businesses ventures with a Russian political dynasty dating back to the Czars, culminating in an arranged marriage.” Anastasia shook her head slightly, as if she pitied him. “Nationalities don’t mean a great deal in Central.”
“You replace countries with cartels, and then you want to act like I’m stupid for not getting it?” Alex demanded, pulling his arm away when he felt Emily tugging at his sleeve.
“Is there something you’d like to share with the class, Alex?” Mr. Windsor asked, looking as amused and benevolent as he always did. “What I could hear of your discussion sounded surprisingly political, given your avowed disinterest in all such things. Care to elaborate further on your thoughts?”
Alex sat down hard, making stinging contact with the molded plastic of his chair. He tried to think of an answer that wouldn’t leave him in deeper trouble than he had already managed to get himself into this morning. Then, with a self-satisfied grin, Anastasia saved him. Again.
“Alex was trying to understand the rationale for the existence of the cartels,” Anastasia said smoothly.
“Ah! An excellent topic. Tell me, Miss Martynova, how would you have answered him, had I not interrupted you?”
Anastasia folded her hands neatly on her desk, her eyes turned demurely down at the notebook in front of her. Emily snuck her hand back onto Alex’s knee, and he let it stay there. He felt that he needed all the reassurance he could get.
“Two reasons. The most obvious, and pressing, is money. Central needs food, fuel, machinery and everything else that it cannot make itself, enough for a small city, every day. A single cartel’s operations can involve hundreds or even thousands of people, who need to be housed, fed, and compensated. A presence must be maintained wherever cartel interests are based, as well as maintaining some form of representation in Central. A Field office, transportation, personnel, equipment… all of this has to be paid for. The cartels do the business that pays for everything, the entirety of this quiet war; every bite of food, every comfort, every necessity.”
“What is it that they do?” Alex demanded, interrupting. “Where does all of this money come from?” The class turned to face him in a sort of group slow motion that made him sweat and his face stiffen. “What, I’m not supposed to ask?”
“Alex!” Emily said, grabbing his arm. “Please stop!”
“Now, there is no need…” Mr. Windsor began in a consolatory tone.
Alex sat back, torn by rapidly shifting impulses; a sort of uneasy guilt that suddenly that blunted the anger that had been white-hot a moment before. Neither emotion prevailed, so he simply sat there with his mouth hanging open.
“Finance, transportation and security are primary cartel revenue sources, though that is hardly the extent of it. We make funds available that otherwise would not be, to people who might have trouble borrowing through more established channels. We move things from place to place, cargo that would be impossible to move otherwise. Naturally, some of these things are illegal. Sometimes, these things are people,” Anastasia said, looking calmly back at Alex, her eyes clear and unclouded, her tone chilly and academic. “The security work is more nebulous and varied. But in virtually constant and universal demand.”
“Smugglers and mercenaries, then, right?” Alex asked in disbelief. “That’s what the cartels are?”
“No. We are soldiers fighting a war, a war for our survival, for all of us. The industries I discussed, that is how the bills are paid. This is what you wanted to know, correct?” Anastasia asked, sounding unimpressed. “Or are you more comfortable not knowing the hard truths about where your dinner comes from?”
“You mentioned another reason that cartels are necessary, Anastasia?” Mr. Windsor prompted, the only person in the classroom that seemed wholeheartedly pleased by the scene.
Anastasia turned away from Alex and assumed her previous pose before continuing, her eyes downcast. Alex could hear the resentment in her voice; he marveled at it.
“Self-protection. There are at least two people in this class capable of killing everyone else here, simply by thinking about it. Does that scare you? It should. It is a terrifying reality to live in. Think about it — there are people sitting next to you right now, fully able to kill you with their brain because they were turned down for a date, or did poorly on a test. How long do you think the human race would survive under circumstances such as these? Our threshold for destructiveness far exceeds our threshold for defense.” Anastasia shrugged sadly. “If not for the cartels, the strong would be able to prey on the weak freely. That becomes a serious problem when some of the strong are telepaths or empaths who can quite literally control minds. The cartels allow the weak leverage, Alex. Unity and numbers balance out individual power. The cartels are not an imposition. They are a means of survival when our very nature conspires against it.”
Alex wanted to respond, but he knew that he would only embarrass himself further, so he sat there and fumed while Mr. Windsor prodded the class into a discussion of the issues that had been raised, in a more organized manner. Emily patted his arm soothingly while he raged impotently against the back of Anastasia’s head.
Then he saw Eerie sitting on the other side of the room, an alarmingly green lollypop in one hand, and no expression whatsoever on her face. She noticed him and looked away before he could pull his hand from Emily’s grasp. Despite Alex’s best efforts to catch her eye, Eerie stared up at the bullet points that Mr. Windsor had projected on the hanging screen, never again looking in his direction for the duration of the class.
“I have a feeling we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, Alexander. Would you mind if we join you for lunch?”