Truancy Origins

by Isamu Fukui

  Jack nodded slowly. He knew that the Mayor never made idle threats, and he also knew a good deal when he saw one. Turning around, he flicked the monitor on and deleted his partially written message. The Mayor gave a nod of approval when he was done.

  “I’ll see to it that you get a generous severance package,” the Mayor said, turning to leave. “Go home to your family, Jack, and give young Tack my regards. I hope that your children lead happier lives than mine.”

  With that, the Mayor strode out of the clerk’s office and over to the elevator that would return him to his own. Once there he sat down at his desk with a heavy sigh, and after a moment’s indecision opened a drawer where a single sheet of paper was stowed. The letter had arrived in a plain envelope by normal post, and though he had already memorized every word, the Mayor unfolded it to read again.

  Mr. Mayor,

  Zen is dead. I killed him. The Truancy he created lives on, but I will not fight it, or you, any longer. My part in this has already been played, and I intend to retire in peace to District 19. I do not want to see you, but you have nothing to fear from me so long as you refrain from invading my new home. Don’t think too badly of me—I did what had to be done, so that you would not have to.

  Sincerely,

  Umasi

  As the Mayor slid the note back into the drawer, he reflected on how strange he felt. He had spent months in slow agony, waiting for bad news, but now that it had come it hurt less than he’d expected. The Mayor thought that he should be wallowing in grief and despair, but instead the emptiness within him had very quickly been filled with rage.

  Zen had died because of the Truancy. The Mayor let that thought float at the front of his mind like a buoy, keeping him from sinking into despair. Had his heart not been broken, it would have told him that the thought was a lie, but for now he relished having a scapegoat. Rather than grieve, the Mayor needed to blame someone for his loss. He needed a focus for his anger.

  And in the City, it was so much easier to blame children than to blame yourself.

  “I will wipe them out,” the Mayor swore, “even if I have to kill every last student in this City!”

  The Mayor laughed as he flicked his lighter open. Things had become very simple now. There was no need for restraint or mercy anymore. A problem had arisen in his City, and he would solve it, any way he had to.

  Zyid shut his eyes, gripped the solid piece of wood, and yelled as he lunged. The fake sword struck the mannequin, but he heard neither the crack of the impact nor the crash after the mannequin’s head flew across the room and against a wall. All he felt was the recoil in his hands, the jolt that traveled up his arm and shook him to his very core.

  Damn.

  Zyid knew that he was still fast and that his blows were still powerful. He could muster up what looked like, to all others, genuine ferocity. Only he knew that it wasn’t. His fire had burnt out. His defeat had been more than frustrating—it was devastating. Every time Zyid tried to summon up his will to fight, all he saw were Umasi’s cold eyes staring into his, in that moment when he had felt true fear, that moment when he had faced death.

  You’re killing, and if you don’t love your work, how can you ever succeed at your job?

  That was it, he realized. The joy had gone out of battle. Never again would Zyid be able to fight like he once had. He felt diminished, weakened, a shadow of his former self. Umasi had not killed him, but Zyid knew he had been crippled for life. Would anyone notice? Perhaps not. Zyid was still so far ahead of most of them that they might not be able to tell the difference. But all it would take, Zyid knew, was one extraordinary person determined to kill him, and he would fall.

  Ever since his defeat, Zyid had become acutely aware that someone would eventually finish what his brother would not. Umasi, Zyid realized, had not done him a favor by sparing his life. It wasn’t just his fighting spirit that had been affected; he had begun doubting his actions, his motives, even himself and the Truancy he had started.

  Lately, this doubt had begun to turn into regret, and regret into guilt, which he already had plenty of. After going for so long without it, Zyid was finally learning that no emotion was more self-destructive than remorse.

  Zyid balefully picked up the mannequin’s head and placed it back onto its body. It was far too late to go back, but he now knew that he couldn’t continue all the way forward. His conviction had been shattered. He was no longer even sure that what he was doing was right . . . and how could he see it through when he was no longer certain?

  Zyid looked out the window of the flower shop. Gabriel and Alex were having a mock fight in the street as other Truants gathered around as spectators. They laughed and cheered, oblivious of their leader’s inner conflict. They were certain of their cause. They placed absolute faith in the Truancy, and in him.

  Zyid’s eyes locked on to a dark figure leaning against a wall in the shadows. Noni was there, watching the fight like the rest of them, probably sizing up the combatants. Zyid had noticed that she had changed, subtly, since the destruction of the District 1 School. She wore her ponytail in a braid now, and no longer questioned him about anything, nor did she try to protect him. Zyid wasn’t sure what had brought about the change, but he wasn’t fooled; he could tell that beneath the scarf and the icy barrier, Noni depended on him more than any of the others.

  Zyid turned away from the window with a sigh. He knew that he could never abandon them, and so with a heavy heart he stood up to join them, resolved to play his part.

  At least until one of them could take his place.

  Cross stood and stared blankly around him, dazed. Just hours ago he had been at home cleaning the bathroom, alone as usual. Then came the knock on the door, and the next thing he knew he was standing in the entrance hall of the local orphanage with nothing but a small suitcase of his belongings. His father, he’d been told on the way, had been permanently crippled in the line of duty and wouldn’t be able to take care of him anymore.

  Cross had almost smiled at that last part.

  At any rate, after a couple months, someone at Enforcer Headquarters had apparently remembered that Cross existed. They were nice enough to send an Enforcer to bring him to the orphanage, but not quite nice enough to warn him that they were coming. It was a lot to take in all at once, and Cross didn’t yet know quite what to think or how to feel about any of it. The woman in charge of the orphanage had been nice enough when he arrived, though she seemed flustered at the prospect of finding somewhere to put him.

  “We’re completely full in all the other dorms, Mary,” a janitor informed her. “Barely enough room to bring the vacuum cleaner through as it is.”

  Mary sighed theatrically.

  “Thank you, Maxwell,” she said, and then turned to Cross. “Well, nothing else we can do then, dear. We’ll just have to put you in Edward’s room.”

  Before Cross could ask who or what Edward was, Mary had seized his hand and began to lead him down a dimly lit side hallway. He was half-expecting to be put into a kennel with a dog, but when they came to a stop and opened a door he was instead greeted with a nearly empty dormitory that could have accommodated six. The lights were off, but the figure sitting alone on one of the bunks was clearly not a dog, but a perfectly normal-looking boy.

  “Usually we let him have the whole space to himself,” Mary whispered in Cross’ ear. “I daresay after all he’s been through the poor boy deserves some privacy. But you seem nice enough, I do hope that you two get along.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cross mumbled.

  “Is this the boy you were talking about earlier, madam?” Edward said, turning sideways to plant his feet on the floor.

  “Yes, dear, I told you that we might have to put him in your room,” she said anxiously. “Is that all right?”

  “Of course. I know how much trouble it is for you, with all the other rooms stuffed full,” Edward said. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any more than I already do.”

  “Oh not at a
ll dear, not at all!” Mary said. “Cross here seems like a quiet child, I’m sure you’ll get along well. Cross, this is Edward, you’re going to be rooming with him from now on.”

  “Hello,” Cross said quietly.

  Edward got up and walked over to Cross, his hand outstretched. As Cross hesitantly shook it, he got a good look at Edward’s face for the first time. In an instant he realized that they had met before, when he had been lying facedown on the street after being attacked by miscreants.

  “Hi,” Edward said warmly, reaching down to take Cross’ luggage. “Nice to meet you. Please come in.”

  “Thanks,” Cross muttered. He’d seen enough to know that Edward was the one calling the shots around here, and life under Rothenberg had taught him that it was smart to please the one calling the shots.

  Mary, who had been watching carefully, beamed at them both.

  “Well,” she said, “I’ll let you two get to know each other a little better. I’ve got some things to take care of now, but if there’s anything you need just let me know.”

  “Thank you very much, madam,” Edward called.

  Mary smiled even wider, and then the door shut, leaving them both in relative darkness. Edward paused for a moment, and then turned to face Cross, his expression shrewd.

  “Well, now that she’s gone, we can speak frankly,” Edward said. “You’re that kid that got roughed up a while back, aren’t you? That makes you one of the few around here who know the real me. It would be best to stay out of my way—but you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not stupid, I can see that much.” Edward narrowed his emerald eyes. “And you’re not afraid of me either.”

  “No,” Cross agreed.

  “You think you’ve seen worse. I like that,” Edward announced, walking over to deposit Cross’ luggage onto an unused bunk. “Just don’t let it get to your head.”

  “I won’t,” Cross promised.

  “And I believe it,” Edward said, plunking down onto his bunk again. “Sit down, won’t you?”

  Cross obediently moved to sit on the bunk that Edward had chosen for him.

  “I heard from the staff earlier that your father got hurt,” Edward said. “What did he do anyway?”

  “He is . . . was an Enforcer,” Cross answered. “His name is Rothenberg. That’s all I know, really. They didn’t tell me anything.”

  At the name Rothenberg, Edward suddenly sat up, keen interest glinting in his venomous eyes.

  “Rothenberg?” he repeated. “I don’t believe in destiny . . . but this is quite the coincidence.”

  Cross blinked. “You knew my father?”

  “We met. Twice.” Edward smiled in a way that made most people shiver, though Cross seemed unaffected. “You interest me, Cross. Something tells me that we are going to get along a lot better than I did with your father.”

  “You know what happened to him.”

  “His time ran out,” Edward said, leaning forward. “But that’s not what’s important, is it? Let me tell you what’s going on in this City right now, Cross. And after that, I’ll explain how our time is fast approaching.”

  The first warm rays of spring sunlight cascaded down onto District 19. Snow and ice that had until long clung stubbornly to rooftops and scaffolding finally bowed out to the light, melting gradually to form small waterfalls and brilliant sprays that glittered in the sun as they crashed down onto the streets below. The winter had passed, spring was here, and light had earned its place alongside the shadow.

  Finally at peace, Umasi paused, allowing himself to admire the warmth of the sun and the sound of the water. For this day, at least, there would be no shadows over his stand—perhaps none even over the entire district. Having finally disposed of the last of his responsibilities, he felt truly free now, a wonderful sensation that seemed to bubble from the inside out.

  Umasi wasn’t exactly sure why he had delayed so long in writing the letter to the Mayor, but now that he had made his neutrality known, the last of his worries had faded. He could safely isolate himself from the rest of the world now, until the day he died, or until the coming war reached his doorstep. The Mayor would know better than to test him, and as for the boy who now called himself Zyid . . .

  Leaning back in his chair, Umasi closed his eyes and thought back to the night it had all ended, and the words that had been exchanged after he had struck the last blow.

  The world seemed a swirl of lights to the two brothers as they stared at each other on the icy ground. Zen’s eyes were wide with shock, and seemed almost accusatory as they bored into Umasi’s own. Umasi could see that Zen felt cheated, and why wouldn’t he? Not once in Zen’s life had his abilities ever failed him. Never had he been so completely defeated, or come up against an enemy that was stronger than he. But now, even though he had fought dirty and with every ounce of his might, Zen had still lost.

  “How does it feel to be the victim, Zyid?” Umasi whispered. “I’ve always known what it feels like. But you, you never have. Is that why you lack a conscience?”

  Umasi tightened his grip on Zen’s throat, and watched as Zen’s eyes went glassy as he choked and sputtered, clawing feebly at Umasi’s hand. Then Umasi released him, and Zen was dragging deep breaths into his lungs, his chest heaving pitifully.

  “I’m going to let you live, Zyid,” Umasi said as he stood. “But I want you to remember this moment. I want you to remember it every time you take a life. I want you to remember what it is to be helpless, humiliated, and dying. Maybe then you’ll understand why I chose not to go to war.”

  Umasi stooped to swipe his sunglasses from the ground and put them back on. The scarf tied around his waist had come loose, and he retrieved that as well before looping it around his neck. Then he faced Zen again, and Zen looked up in awe.

  Umasi stood triumphant, indomitable, the ends of his scarf fluttering in the chill wind. His body was framed by the glittering lights all around him, which were reflected in his dark, enigmatic sunglasses. Though his clothes were torn in some places and stained red in others, Umasi only seemed stronger for all that he had endured.

  In that moment, Zen thought that it was the most impressive thing that he had ever seen in his life.

  “I will return to District 19. Stay out of my business, and I’ll stay out of yours,” Umasi said, snapping Zen out of his reverie. “I will tell the Mayor that my brother is dead. It’s not so far from the truth anyway.”

  With that Umasi turned his back on Zen and began walking away. As Zen watched him go, his conscience finally kicked in, and the sudden pain nearly overwhelmed him with its intensity. As he began to relive every sin he had ever committed, something cut through the haze of guilt. It was anger, and Zen latched on to it in desperation.

  “You’re no brother of mine!” Zen screamed. “You never were!”

  Umasi didn’t so much as pause, but instead raised his hand to wave backwards in farewell. Infuriated, guilty, and eager for death, Zen painfully propped himself up with one elbow, shouting at the receding figure with all the menace he could muster.

  “If you won’t kill me, then no one can!”

  At that, Umasi glanced back at Zen from over his shoulder.

  “No,” Umasi called. “Someday, another who can will rise.”

  Umasi kept walking, out of sight and into the glittering night. Meanwhile Zen lay alone, defeated on the cold ground, knowing that he had truly been left behind. Then the memories returned, and for the first time in his life, he cried.

  You were right in the end, Brother.

  Only now I wish that I were wrong.

  Read on for a preview of Isamu Fukui’s next book

  Truancy City

  tobe published by Tor Books in 2010

  PROLOGUE . . . NEWFOUND FREEDOM

  The tent was sweltering as the young woman opened the flap and ducked inside. It had been particularly humid in this region, and her gray combat uniform was woven out of nylon cotton,
a fabric that didn’t perfectly insulate against the summer heat. Her troops liked to joke about the clothing getting hot enough to bake potatoes, but the woman herself gave no sign of discomfort as she sat down at her desk and thumbed on one of a series of monitors around her.

  As the monitor flickered to life, a gaunt and disheveled man appeared onscreen. Recognizing the woman, the man scowled and squeezed a chrome lighter with one hand.

  “You. I should have known.”

  “It’s been awhile since we last spoke like this, Mr. Mayor,” the woman said. “That was nearly four years ago, correct?”

  “Not long enough. I would have preferred never to see you again.”

  The young woman smiled faintly at the monitor, her stormy gray eyes glinting.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t been expecting a visit from us, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Actually I’m wondering what took you so long,” the Mayor said, flicking his lighter open. “Nearly a year since the rebellion went public? You’re much slower than I’d heard . . . Iris.”

  If the young woman was rankled by the mocking use of her name, she hid it well. Unperturbed, she leaned back in her chair and ran her fingers all the way through her dark, wavy hair, ending at the nape of her neck.

  “If the decision were mine alone I would have come four years ago, at the first sign of trouble,” Iris said. “Things are a bit different now. I had to make sure I was bringing the military with me.”

  “I heard you’re a Lieutenant General now,” the Mayor said. “Shouldn’t you have that military in your back pocket?”

  “If only.” Iris sighed. “Sometimes I feel like it’s the other way around.”

  The Mayor frowned and clicked his lighter shut.

  “Why are you calling?” he demanded. “Why now?”

  Matching the Mayor’s shift in demeanor, Iris sat up straight. Her voice, once politely neutral, now turned cold and hard.