by Isamu Fukui
Iris nodded.
“I agree. His unexpected rebellion proved that he’s not to be underestimated again.” She tapped the folder on her desk. “But you needn’t worry about that, Umasi. I’ve been doing some research on this very subject, and I believe I know how to deal with him.”
* * *
A familiar hissing filled the air. Acting on instinct, Cross raised his knife to deflect the chain, successfully knocking it aside. Even as the chain fell, it began to slide back towards its master. But Cross was already moving. He lunged at his pale opponent, only to have her twist out of the way like a wraith. The next thing he knew, his knife arm had been tangled up in the chain. The albino looked at him, and then calmly slammed her elbow into his forehead.
Cross saw stars and tried to stumble backwards, but his arm was still trapped and the movement sent him crashing to the ground instead. It was a familiar position for him.
“Your speed isn’t the problem, Cross. You alternate between hesitation and recklessness.”
The albino looked down at Cross, offering her hand. The sunset had reached its apex, and the girl looked otherworldly in the red light that bled through the dirty windows. Remembering how Edward would punish him after helping him up, Cross tensed as the albino pulled him to his feet. No punishment came.
They had a couple of hours before it would be dark enough for them to travel. Having slept through the day, they’d decided to start his training while they waited. So far it hadn’t gone well.
“I didn’t think I was hesitating at all,” Cross said. “You’re just too fast.”
“You were hesitating, but not for my sake, I think,” she replied. “It was like you were trying to reign in your own power. You need to trust yourself to be in control of every movement.”
Remembering his unthinking rampage through District 15, Cross grimaced. The albino had a point.
“Do you think that’s my only problem?”
“No.” Her eyes were red in the setting sun. “Your technique is all wrong. Your moves rely too much on power.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Who taught you to use a knife?”
Cross frowned. “Edward.”
In fact, it was because of his tutelage under Edward that Cross had initially been skeptical that training would help. Neither Rothenberg nor Edward had been particularly constructive in their guidance.
Despite her unsettling appearance, however, the albino had been different. She proved to be no softer than she should, and no harsher than was necessary.
“Edward probably meant to handicap you, then,” she said. “Your knife lacks the range and length of a sword, and it is less practical for blocking. The advantage is that once you get close enough you have more options, and you can move faster with it.”
Cross nodded, trying to absorb what she was saying while at the same time tuning out the unpleasant memories their training had evoked.
“Flexibility and accuracy should be your priorities, Cross, not power, which you have plenty of.” She glanced at him. “Are you all right? You look a little distracted.”
“I’m fine,” Cross said. “Maybe we should take a break.”
The albino nodded. “Sure. I’ll go see what Zen is up to.”
With that, she carefully wrapped her chain around her arm again and headed towards the kitchen. Cross remained where he was for a few more minutes, brooding. Irritated by the red light from the windows, Cross finally slunk off down a hallway he hadn’t explored before, searching for somewhere darker and more private.
Coming across a wooden door, Cross turned the handle and pushed lightly. The door creaked as it swung open. Cross was disappointed to find that there were windows here too. He was about to leave when his eyes fell upon something resting against the wall. It was a child’s easel and a set of paint.
All at once Cross felt like he was six again, entering a nursery, discovering paint for the first time. He would smear the colors on his fingertips, delighted, and then press them to the paper, watching forms and shapes come to life beneath his touch. Those moments would be bliss, and he would be happy until he brought his creation home to show his father.
His father, who would call it disgusting and tear it up as Cross cried. His father, who would crush it beneath his feet and laugh.
Cross did not realize at first that he was screaming, or that the hot rivulets on his face were tears. Then a door slammed open and the next thing Cross knew was cold, cold and wet. The shock made Cross gasp and open his eyes. The pale girl stood above him, holding an empty water bottle.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I…” Cross swallowed, trying to focus on the present. “Bad memories.”
The albino sat down beside him and hugged her knees to her chest. “Why don’t you tell me about them?”
For a moment Cross considered refusing—he knew that she would accept that. But the girl radiated such a sense of calm that he relented. He’d gone so long without talking to anyone that he’d forgotten how much he wanted to.
“I used to like painting.” Cross gestured towards the easel without looking at it. “The Mayor himself once complimented me when he visited our school.”
“That must have been quite an honor.”
“It was but…” Cross shook his head. “My father didn’t think much of it. He made me hate it. He would tell me it looked like crap.”
The girl frowned. “Why would he do that?”
Cross laughed.
“How should I know?” he demanded. “I always wondered why, why, why? For a lot of things. I never got any answers. You wouldn’t ask if you knew Rothenberg. You don’t know him, you don’t know what it was like!”
Cross was ranting now, wildly talking half to himself and half to his companion.
“I wanted to paint!” Cross let out something between a roar and a moan. “I wanted to create! Not destroy, not destroy!”
The albino laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not a destroyer, Cross. You’re a protector.”
“No I’m not!” Cross laughed again. “Look at everything I’ve done! And why? I don’t know why! Takan was right—I didn’t even have a reason to do what I was doing. The only reason I ever did anything was because … because…”
“Someone told you to?”
“Yes!” Cross shouted. “That was all the reason I needed to kill! I was doing what I was told to do! And enjoying it! Isn’t that funny?”
The albino didn’t laugh. She looked at Cross with pity.
“I think I understand now,” she said slowly. “You needed your father. No matter how bad he was, you needed guidance, and Rothenberg was all you had. Then he was gone … and Edward was there to fill the void.” The girl stopped, seemingly unsettled.
Cross could tell what was bothering her, and his hysterics quickly faded.
“You’re not like them,” he said.
“Aren’t I?” she asked, tilting her head. “I’m just one more person trying to impose my will upon you.”
“No.” Cross shook his head. “They … the others … they all wanted to break me. You’re the only one who ever tried to fix me.”
The sun had now fully set, and the windows were dark now, only faint streetlight pooling on the floors. The albino turned to look at Cross with blue eyes, and suddenly, in a move as swift as it was unexpected, enveloped him in a warm hug. Cross froze for a moment, then relaxed.
Was this what it was like to have a mother? Cross had no way of knowing, but he could only imagine that it felt something like this. He envied Zen, who had always had a mother, and no father to terrorize him.
“Why don’t you have a name?” Cross asked.
The albino shifted. “I had one once, a long time ago,” she replied. “It became part of a past that lost its meaning. I neither need nor want one now.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes we’re better off forgetting our history, Cross,” she said. “Do you think you can try that? To disarm your nightmares?”
Cross nodde
d. The albino smiled at that. She stood up again as though nothing had happened, dusted herself off, and then offered Cross her hand. This time he felt no apprehension as he took it.
“You need to let the past go, Cross. Otherwise it can consume you,” the albino warned as they left the room. “Agonizing over what’s done can only lead to suffering—for everyone around you, and especially for yourself.”
* * *
Iris frowned as she walked through the hospital hallway, tapping her staff against the linoleum-tiled floor. It had been four days now since the end of major combat operations, and still the facility was overloaded with the injured. The place was a flurry of activity, with medics from both the City and the military rushing through the halls. Most of them knew who she was, but so urgent were their tasks that they paid her little attention. As was proper.
The one exception was the annoyingly cowed hospital chief whose business it was to escort her through the halls. The squat man panted as he tried to keep up with her brisk pace, lecturing as he dodged doctors and trolleys.
“The thing you have to understand, ma’am, is that we had strict orders never to discharge him,” he said. “He’s very dangerous, and one of our psychologists told me that if he were ever let loose—”
“I read his profile, and I know what your orders were,” Iris said. “I am now countermanding those orders. That would be his room at the end of the hall, correct?”
The man looked at the door she was pointing at. It was large and metallic with no handle and only a small square window cut into it. A number pad beside the door provided the only access. The room, Iris knew, was both prison and infirmary, designed to hold patients who were threats to themselves and others.
The hospital chief fidgeted. “Yes, ma’am, but we don’t like letting people go in there alone. You see, he’s very irritable. He still goes into fits every now and then and he’s, uh, injured a few of the orderlies that way.”
“I think you’ll find that I’m a bit harder to injure than your orderlies,” Iris said, glancing back at him. “But you may remain outside if you wish. Open the door.”
The chief hesitated, then pressed a combination on the keypad. The door slid open. As Iris entered the room, the man ducked away out of sight. A moment later, the door slid shut behind her.
Unconcerned, Iris looked around. The fluorescent lighting was a bit dim, and the tiled walls were a sterile green. To one side there was a large mirror, behind which Iris knew a soldier was watching, just in case. On the other side there was a set of weights. And on the far side of the room, directly opposite Iris, there rested a lone hospital bed and a wheelchair.
A lump on the bed stirred. Iris waited as it yawned. Then the sheets shifted to reveal a truly large man with graying red hair and a thick mustache.
Iris smiled.
“Wake up, Mr. Rothenberg.”
The man opened his eyes and sat up. Iris noted that while his upper body and arms were muscled and powerful, his legs remained unnaturally still beneath the covers.
“Who are you, the new nurse?” Rothenberg demanded as he regarded Iris. “Dinner isn’t supposed to be for another two hours.”
Iris hid her distaste as Rothenberg stretched his arms. The Mayor had been a fool to ever place faith in the man’s abilities. Fortunately, for Iris’ purposes, Rothenberg did not require any extraordinary talent. If she was right, then merely setting him loose would be enough.
“I am not your nurse, Mr. Rothenberg,” Iris said. “You might not have heard, but there’s been a change of leadership in the City. I am General Iris, and if you play your cards right, I am your ticket out of this prison.”
Rothenberg stared at her. Seeing that she was serious, his entire demeanor changed in an instant.
“Well then, General Iris, what can I do for you?” he asked.
Iris inclined her head. “You can tell me what you know about your son Cross.”
“Cross?” he repeated. “What don’t I know about him?”
Iris narrowed her eyes but said nothing. Taking the hint, Rothenberg elaborated.
“As far as I’m concerned I raised that boy right—or would’ve if they hadn’t locked me up in here,” Rothenberg said. “I can’t say how he’s grown up since, but when I had him I taught him to be independent. I let him do things for himself, and I never let him slack off. No matter what I did he never grew a spine though. I never could cure him of that.”
Iris tilted her head. “It may surprise you then to know that he ascended to the leadership of the Student Militia and subsequently plotted a mutiny against me. His behavior indicates recklessness, not cowardice,” she said pointedly. “Perhaps you are allowing personal bias to cloud your objectivity?”
“Of course not,” Rothenberg said. “If he rebelled against anything you can bet it was someone else’s idea. Cross doesn’t know how to say ‘no.’ I must’ve tested him a thousand times and he never so much as batted an eye.”
“And how, exactly, did you test him?”
“I’m sure you’ve read my record.” Rothenberg looked Iris in the eye. “You’ve heard what they say about me. Well, it’s all true. People these days don’t understand that sometimes the only solution is to use force—beat them into proper shape or you end up with a useless lump. I was trying to make him strong, and the ignorant bastards condemned me for it. I can’t say Cross was ever properly thankful either.”
The man really believed what he was saying, Iris realized. He had convinced himself that he was a perfect father, casting himself as a victim. Iris looked around the sterile green room once again. The years had clearly left him with plenty of time to twist his memories to suit himself. The man was truly unhinged.
“If you were to be released from this hospital,” Iris said, “do you believe that you could locate and apprehend Cross?”
Rothenberg gestured at his legs. “Not without these I can’t.”
“That is not a problem,” Iris said. “The Mayor could have had your legs fixed, but chose not to. My surgeons are better than his. I can have you walking again within days. I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime, Rothenberg—a second chance.”
“In return for what, exactly?” Rothenberg demanded.
“Finding your son, and delivering him to our custody.”
“What, are you planning to execute him?” Rothenberg snorted. “It’s not my fault he’s done whatever he did. Do your own dirty work.”
“You may bring him in alive,” Iris said. “If you wish, you may even take charge of his captivity. My only requirement is that he no longer pose a threat to the security of this City.”
Rothenberg considered that, his expression dark. Iris saw him glance at his useless legs. A few more moments passed, and his attention seemed drawn somewhere far off. Then a slow smile spread across his face. With only a few visible teeth framed by his unkempt mustache, the grin seemed disturbingly ratlike.
“You have yourself a deal,” Rothenberg said briskly. “Fix my legs and I’ll find my boy. I’m interested in seeing how he’s grown up without me—I’ll probably have my work cut out for me setting him straight again.”
Rothenberg offered his hand, but Iris did not shake it. She crossed her hands over her chest and looked down at him sternly.
“I understand that the Mayor once gave you a similar assignment regarding his own children,” she said. “I do not intend to repeat his mistakes, Rothenberg, so be sure you do not repeat yours. I believe you may enjoy greater success with Cross, so long as you do not underestimate him.”
Rothenberg laughed at that. “Girl, with Cross there is nothing to underestimate.”
Iris moved, and suddenly Rothenberg felt an intense pain shoot through his body. He screamed as though every nerve in his body were on fire. Then it was over. Panting, he glared as Iris withdrew her staff and reattached it to her back.
“I am not the Mayor, Mr. Rothenberg,” Iris said. “I have no patience for disrespect or incompetence. Should you demonstrate either
again, I will dispose of you and move on to other options. Do remember that.”
Iris nodded curtly at the mirror, and the door to the room slid open. Iris turned and left the room as medics entered to sedate him.
“You’d do well not to hinder them, Rothenberg,” Iris called over her shoulder. “If something goes wrong with the anesthesia you might wake up during your surgery. Or perhaps not at all.”
The door slid close again and Iris was gone from sight. Rothenberg twitched, but did not struggle as a needle was inserted into his forearm. He had no reason to believe that Iris was lying. He swore to repay her for this humiliation, but for now he was content to cooperate long enough to earn his freedom.
Rothenberg licked his lips as the chemical drowsiness took hold. For years he’d been an animal inside a cage, cut off from the outside world, with only the barest rumors of war reaching his ears. He’d heard of the Student Militia, but not that his son was part of it. So many things must have changed.
What was the world like now, beyond the confines of this wretched ward? Was it still ripe with opportunity, waiting for a determined individual like himself to make his mark? And had his son grown strong as the Iris woman had claimed—or was he still the meek and sniveling brat that Rothenberg remembered?
For four long years Rothenberg had yearned to walk the streets again, to know the answer to those questions. As unconsciousness took him, Rothenberg’s last waking thought was that he would finally be able to see the truth for himself.
19
ROTHENBERG
Were it not for the barbed wire, Umasi thought that the facility would look rather unremarkable. There was a courtyard and a large brick building for classes. A dormitory was also located on the grounds. Of course the windows had bars over them, but so had many of the City’s schools. Walls, too, were nothing new—though the concrete bulwark that separated the camp from the rest of the City was larger than any the Mayor had built.
And, of course, there was the barbed wire.
“It’s mostly to deter escape attempts rather than to stop them,” Iris explained, pointing with her staff. “The walls are tall and sheer enough to defeat any climber, but the wire looks intimidating. This way they’ll give up before they begin.”