Truancy City

by Isamu Fukui

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Have you ever stopped to think about what a school is at its heart, Cross?” Iris drummed her fingers. “It plucks children from their homes during the critical years of their development—then it crams them together into a box, enabling whatever twisted social dynamic that pleases them. They are never shown the responsibilities of adulthood. Any real attempt to act like an adult is deemed uppity and met with punishment.

  “Meanwhile, a small handful of teachers are set in place at the top as absolute rulers. Rather than encouraging maturity by exposing children to a mature environment, rather than have them work alongside adults, schools instead create this bizarre and unnatural scenario. They are festering cauldrons of social malaise for students to stew in until the system finally deigns to release them, forever altered by their unhealthy ordeal.”

  Iris paused. Then she shook her head, realizing how far from the original question she had strayed.

  “To make a long story short, the Mayor understood all of this, and like an engineer, knew best how to manipulate it to achieve his ends,” Iris said. “He intended to reach his ideal system one step at a time. I, however, can now skip straight to the end and prove that this Education City is not beyond salvaging.”

  Cross shook his head. “The Student Militia has suffered a lot. It would be unfair to lump them in with—”

  “I never believed much in the idea of fairness,” Iris said thoughtfully. “I believe in results. Ends don’t justify the means; they make them irrelevant. There is no other way to ensure that the City will remain safe after I leave.”

  “How do you expect me to explain this to the others?” Cross demanded. “What am I supposed to tell them?”

  “You need to tell them nothing,” Iris said. “They already know. Are you aware of how long you’ve been here, Cross?”

  Cross blinked. “No.”

  “You’ve been lying there for four days now,” Iris said. “I’m here to tell you that I appreciate your help thus far, and why I will need your help going forward. As their leader, your assistance will be invaluable to make sure that the other students accept the transition.”

  Cross turned to face the General. Iris raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t look so glum, Cross,” she said. “I know you must be feeling a little disoriented by the sudden end to the fighting. I’ve been there. This doesn’t have to be the end, you know—if you do this last job right, I will see about inducting you into the military. I’m sure that you can have a long and distinguished career in our ranks.”

  Cross nearly scoffed at that, but managed to restrain himself. He merely nodded. Her mind already elsewhere, Iris gave a curt salute and left the room, her face impassive.

  Cross creased his brow. The great General wasn’t as astute as she thought she was. Iris believed that he still wanted to fight, and perhaps a week ago he would have been delighted by her offer. Now he couldn’t even imagine accepting it. After what his last reckless rampage had wrought, Cross didn’t care to hold a weapon ever again.

  Cross sighed and plunked back down onto his cot. If only he could figure out what he did care about. Everything was so pointless.

  * * *

  Takan walked cautiously through the familiar corridor, as though afraid of waking sleeping ghosts. It was mostly dark now—the power was still out in this section of District 20—but a little morning light crept in through a window at the end of the hall. The paint was peeling from the rough wooden doors to either side, more so than he remembered. But as he walked, drawn by an invisible force, the only door that retained his attention was at the end of the hall.

  Takan stopped in front of the door. It had not been an easy trip from District 15, especially with soldiers swarming all over the nearby District 19. It had taken him three days on foot, but he was finally here. He reached out and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. That was unusual. Takan pushed the door open silently, and then stepped into his past.

  For a moment Takan wondered if he had the wrong place after all. The apartment as he remembered it was neat, orderly, almost boring and unremarkable. Now it was a mess. Dishes were piled in the sink, filthy carpets rolled up and shoved in a corner. Papers, pens, and clothes were strewn everywhere. His father’s shoes were by the door, but of his mother’s things he saw nothing.

  As though in a dream, Takan stepped deeper into the apartment. He picked up a document lying on the dining table, and felt his heart skip a beat as he read it.

  Agent 207549627,

  The emergency message you sent months ago has been received. There was some difficulty verifying its authenticity, as we had not heard from you in quite awhile. Both your claims and your identity have since been confirmed through investigation.

  The situation you described is being given our utmost attention, and already there is a discussion about possible military action. Until a decision is made, we urge you to keep a low profile so as not to arouse the suspicions of the Mayor. Your continued correspondence may yet prove useful as most of our other contacts have fallen silent.

  You have our sincere condolences concerning the deaths of your children. We appreciate that you were willing to risk contacting us in a time of personal difficulty. Should you wish it, your children will be entered into our records with full honors as Government citizens.

  Regards,

  XXXX

  Takan stared, confused, not understanding. It was a message from the Government to one of its spies. What was it doing here? Had his family moved out, and a Government spy moved in? But it was his father’s shoes at the door, his father’s pants draped over the sofa. And yet, impossibly, this note was here. Could it mean—

  Takan ducked. A golf club whooshed over his head, skimming his hair. Takan had sensed the other presence just in time. He’d allowed himself to get distracted by the note, not paying attention to his surroundings. And his attacker was very quiet.

  Takan spun around and caught the man in the face with a left hook. The man staggered backwards and tried to swing the golf club again. Takan caught the handle of the club, punched its owner in the chest, and then wrested the club from his grasp. The man was already off-balance, and now Takan swung the club at his legs. The man fell to the ground and Takan was on him in an instant, pinning him there. He had questions that needed answers.

  The man had stopped fighting now, and seemed to be talking madly to himself.

  “Miserable Truants! Killed my kids, and now you’ll kill me too? Is that it?” The man laughed. “Go ahead! The Government will have you all in the end, just watch!”

  Takan froze. He knew that voice. He reexamined the man’s face, almost afraid of what he’d find. The beard was new, but under all that facial hair … The man finally seemed to notice Takan’s hesitation. He looked up, and recognition flickered in his amber eyes.

  “Tack?” he whispered. “Is that you? Is it—is it really you?”

  Takan felt a lump grow in his throat. He was suddenly very conscious about how he must look—grim, tired, clothed in a ragged trenchcoat with his hair a complete mess. His father had always said his hair was too messy.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” he said.

  The man pulled Takan into a tight embrace.

  “My son, oh, my son, my son.”

  Takan tried so hard to bring the word “father” to his lips, but it wouldn’t come. It stuck in his throat, feeling fake and forced. The letter he had discovered had been addressed to a person Takan had never known. Was it the same person who now embraced him?

  Then for the first time in Takan’s memory, the man began crying. The word came easily to Takan’s lips now. This was not the father that he had known. But it was one he was willing to get to know.

  * * *

  “So, what do you think about the camps?”

  Floe sighed at the question. The mood at Student Militia headquarters was somber. The battle had been won, but at too great a cost to celebrate. It seemed that everyone had lost a friend or
had watched one turn on them. Then the mourning had been interrupted by news of the reintegration program, and suddenly it seemed as if people were talking about nothing else.

  Floe and Sepp met up in front of the door to the classroom their unit used for meetings. In the aftermath of the mass betrayal, even Sepp was unusually businesslike. Being hit on the head had diminished his sense of humor, Floe decided as she glanced at his bandages. She’d have to remember that.

  “I don’t like it,” Floe said bluntly. “It sounds to me like they’re trying to force us all into school or worse all over again. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” Sepp shrugged. “I guess it seems reasonable. Just spend a year or so in there and then everything can go back to normal.”

  “You’re just going to take their word for that?” Floe raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think it’s a little unfair that we’re being treated like criminals after what we just sacrificed?”

  “The timing is a little insensitive, sure,” Sepp allowed. “I just don’t know if it’s worth getting upset over.”

  “You’re pretty much the only one who’s so calm about it,” Floe countered. “We were promised graduation by the Mayor when we first joined—we were supposed to be treated like heroes! If the Government won’t honor that promise, how can you trust them to honor any others?”

  “Okay, you have a point there. But what else can we do?”

  Floe frowned. “Organize a formal protest?”

  “That’d be up to Cross, if he were here.” Sepp shrugged again. “I wonder if they’ve broken the news to him yet. Speaking of which, you saw him last, didn’t you? How was he doing?”

  Floe winced.

  “Not good,” she said. “He was like a corpse when they took him.”

  Sepp frowned. “Were his injuries that bad?”

  “No, I got to him before that, thank goodness. But there is something wrong in his head.” Floe bit her lip hesitantly. “When the confusion started … I think he was shooting everyone in sight. He wasn’t himself. I think he hurt a lot of our own people.”

  “Harsh,” Sepp observed. “Good thing you went after him.”

  “Sorry to leave without telling you,” Floe said. “I heard you had some trouble back here too.”

  “It could’ve been a lot worse than it was,” Sepp said. “We were lucky. We had our guardian angel around.”

  Sepp nodded to the side. Floe turned and looked. At the end of the hallway, the nameless albino was sitting on a bench, reading a book to her son by the window. Floe could see where Sepp’s analogy had come from—under the pale light from the window, the girl did appear almost otherworldly.

  “She’s something else, isn’t she?” Floe whispered.

  “Tell me about it. Floored that Truant like it was nothing. Mind you, we’re talking about the guy who gave me this.” Sepp gestured at his head wound. “From what he said, I think she’s got a bit of a reputation with some of the Truants.”

  “I wish I knew who she was.” Floe shook her head. “She’s friendly enough, but she’s kind of … odd.”

  Sepp shrugged. “Seems obvious to me. She doesn’t have a bar code.” Sepp twisted his arm to display the tattoo on his forearm. “That means she was never a student. And that means she was probably a vagrant.”

  Floe glanced at the albino again. The girl didn’t look like any vagrant Floe had ever heard of, most of whom had gone on to join the Truancy. “Do you think it’d be rude to just ask her?”

  “Point-blank?” Sepp scratched the back of his neck. “Probably.”

  Floe sighed. “Well, at least the war is over now,” she said. “You know, I can barely remember what things were like before all of this happened.”

  “Boring, I think.” Sepp chuckled. “Oh well, at least I’m looking forward to seeing all my family. There’ll be time for at least that before the camps, I’m sure. What about you?”

  Floe shifted uncomfortably. “I was a Truant, remember? I’m not exactly on speaking terms with my parents.” She looked away. “The way things are going, I guess I’ll be heading straight for the camps.”

  “Well, if you want, you’re welcome to visit at my place first.”

  Floe turned to Sepp and raised an eyebrow.

  Sepp laughed. “Hey, it was worth a try.”

  Floe shook her head in annoyance. Before she could come up with a retort, she suddenly became aware of another person approaching. Sepp and Floe looked down the other end of the hallway and saw Cross walking mechanically towards the door, as though unaware of their presence. Floe’s greeting stuck in her throat as she saw the blank expression on his face.

  Cross passed by without even sparing them a glance. As he reached for the doorknob, Floe put her hand on his shoulder. He grimaced, and she quickly withdrew. Cross pushed the door open, stepped inside, and then shut it behind him.

  A few uncomfortable moments followed as Sepp and Floe stared at the closed door.

  “You were right,” Sepp said at last. “Heck, he even creeps me out a bit. Think we should talk to him?”

  “No.” Floe shook her head. “Give him some space. He needs some time alone.”

  Floe believed that. Cross would heal, she was sure. Things would work out. She had a brief vision of a peaceful City a few years from now, rebuilt to its former glory as all of them made new lives for themselves. With that hope in her mind, she turned and followed Sepp away from the room.

  Meanwhile, at the end of the hall, the nameless albino finished reading the book. She closed it, handed it to Zen, and then turned to look thoughtfully at the door that Cross had vanished into.

  * * *

  As he shut the door behind him, Cross didn’t even bother to turn the lights on. He sat down at a desk, his head swirling. He was tired. In the darkness he was free to imagine a phantom classroom with students just as faceless and purposeless as he. All that was missing was for Edward to step out of the shadows.

  Cross thought about Floe and Sepp, talking with each other out in the hallway, probably about him, behind his back. He clenched his fists.

  He knew he should say something to them, to everyone, that it was his responsibility to do so. But Cross now dreaded facing the Militia more than anything his father had ever done to him. He had asked them to follow him on his mad whim and they had come, only to die.

  He was tired. A little light seeped in through a tiny square window cut into the door. He could make out a paint splotch on the desk—Cross didn’t like paint, it brought back bad memories. He was so tired. He shut his eyes.

  * * *

  “Hey, you! What are you doing in here? Wake up!”

  Cross groaned and opened his eyes. He had been sleeping on the floor in a classroom at school. His nights fighting with Edward left him exhausted, and he was always trying to catch up on sleep during his free periods.

  Today he had taken refuge in a room on the fourth floor, trying his best to go unnoticed. Evidently, it hadn’t worked. A pair of roaming female security guards had spotted him.

  The school guards were technically Enforcers, though they were the very lowest in the ranks. Underpaid and unskilled, they were ironically drawn from the dregs of the Educators’ own system, unsuited for anything more difficult than bullying already downtrodden students. Most of the ones in the District 18 School consisted of ugly, short women. The students quietly called them the hallway hags.

  The two guards stepped forward into the room, angry at Cross’ lack of a response.

  “I said, what are you doing in here, kid?” the first guard screeched, like nails on a chalkboard. “Students aren’t allowed to be unsupervised in rooms!”

  Cross blinked sleep from his eyes.

  “Mr. Gregory said I could be here,” he mumbled. “He said he didn’t want to see kids sleeping in the hallways.”

  The guards glowered, somehow managing to twist their faces into even more hideous shapes. These women reveled in the power they had on school grounds, eager to wield it at an
y petty excuse or none. Cross had given them such an excuse.

  “You are not allowed to be unsupervised,” the first guard repeated. “There is no teacher here. You are not allowed to be here.”

  “But Mr. Gregory said—”

  “Show us your arm!”

  Cross hesitated. “But—”

  “NOW!”

  Cross rolled up his sleeve and presented his arm upon which his student bar code had been tattooed. The guard held up a scanner and swept it over the number.

  “A Disciplinary Officer will be seeing you later today,” the second guard said. “Now, get out of this room.”

  Fuming, Cross allowed himself to be pulled from the room and shoved into the hallway. The guards locked the classroom behind them.

  With nothing else to do, Cross sighed and sat down on the floor again, leaning against the wall. He still felt very groggy, and was nearly asleep again when he heard footsteps coming down the hall.

  “What are you doing out here again, Cross?”

  Cross’ eyes snapped open.

  “Mr. Gregory, sir, I—”

  “I thought I told you I didn’t want to see kids sleeping out in the hallways!”

  “Some of the security guards came here and—”

  “I was nice enough to let you use my room!” Mr. Gregory shouted. “I didn’t write you up before when I saw you lying around, but I’m going to be writing you up now!”

  “Sir, please, the guards—”

  “Out of my sight! I’m writing you up! A Disciplinary Officer will set you straight!”

  Cross felt a surge of anger, and for a moment he thought about shouting at the man. But that would have been suicidal. Instead, Cross turned and stormed off.

  Cross made it to the stairwell and stumbled down some steps, not really sure where he was going. He felt exhausted, wronged, and angry. He paid little attention to his surroundings. It came as a surprise when he found himself abruptly cornered by three older boys.